Louder than fear

In addition to beauty contests in Shenzhen, I had a chance to experience a completely different kind of stage — Chinese language competitions for foreigners. These weren’t prestigious events like “汉语桥,” but they were my first steps into the world of competitive language performance. And in the back of my mind, one voice kept echoing — the words of my Russian university teacher who once told me,“You have no talent for Chinese. It’s not your language.”That memory clung to me like a shadow, adding fear and doubt to everything I did.

I first learned about the competition during my very first semester at the university in Shenzhen. Our teachers made an announcement and looked straight at me:
“珍妮，你肯定可以的，绝对没问题！”

They believed in me with such warmth that I didn’t know how to respond. Because how do you agree to something like that when the person who trusts you the least is… yourself?

To their credit, the teachers didn’t pressure me.
“你可以考虑考虑,” they said.
And so, I did.

For a whole month.
Then another one.

I was torn. Besides language skills, the competition would include questions about Chinese history, geography, and general cultural knowledge. I felt so unprepared. I wavered — yes, no, maybe. Back and forth, unsure if I was capable.

Then, one afternoon, I had a 30-minute chat with a classmate — someone I had studied with back in St. Petersburg. She told me something simple yet powerful:
“Even if you don’t win, it’s still a valuable experience. There’s no way to lose here.”

I don’t remember everything she said, but her words lit a fire inside me. That same evening, I filled out the registration form and submitted my application. There were 30 days left until the competition.

I bought a book on Chinese culture and dove into preparation, though honestly, I had no idea what exactly I needed to study. There was no question list, no syllabus — you just had to know everything.

A beauty contest in 2018.

And since I had been on stage since childhood, I didn’t forget about visuals. I rented a qipao, booked a makeup artist, and on the day of the competition, I was ready — not just with my outfit, but with my heart.

The preliminary round had about 300 participants from across the city — students, families, business professionals, people from all walks of life.

The first task was an “introduction” — a short speech about yourself. Since this part could be memorized in advance, I focused on making it as expressive and elegant as possible. Performing on stage has always been my natural element, a space where I feel most alive.

The second task was tougher — answering questions from the judges. One judge asked me,
“Do you know what the most famous alcohol in China is?”

I froze. I don’t drink alcohol — not in China, not in Russia, not at all — so I had never taken interest in that topic. I replied honestly:
“我不喝酒。”

Unfortunately, the judge interpreted it as a lack of knowledge and gave me a low score. Inside, I was quietly fuming — how could you ask such a question to a sweet girl like me? But I stayed composed.

The third part was a talent performance. I had a dance prepared — the same Indian choreography I’d used in beauty pageants back home. I rented a costume, practiced, and performed it with energy and grace.

After several hours of waiting, they began announcing the finalist numbers.
I heard mine.

Out of around 300 participants, I had made it into the Top 10.

I, who once couldn’t hear tones, who used to mix up characters and study until midnight — was a finalist.

Finalists had about a month to prepare. We filmed video invitations for the event, which were shown on buses and in the metro. It was surreal to see myself on screens around the city.

Contestants came from all over the world — Russia (me), Ukraine (my classmate), Germany, South Africa, Israel, Korea… it was truly international.

The first round of the finals was called 你说我猜 ("You say it, I guess it"). Each contestant was paired with a school-aged child who stood facing away from the screen. A word would appear, and we had to describe it in Chinese so the child could guess. If they got it right, we earned a point. I advanced to the next round.

The next stage involved multiple-choice questions. We stood on stage holding cards labeled A, B, and C. As the host read each question aloud, we raised the card we thought was correct. One by one, contestants were eliminated based on scores. My hands were sweaty and cold. My heart was racing.

But somehow, I advanced again — into the Top 6.

The next round was a PK face-off, meaning contestants were paired up and competed one-on-one. The person with the higher score got to choose whether to go first or second. I was paired with my Ukrainian classmate. She had more points and chose to go second.

The host asked the question — and to my amazement, I knew the answer.
I responded, and just like that — I moved on to the final stage.

The last task was to deliver a speech called“My Shenzhen Story.” It had to be written and memorized in advance. The lights, the cameras, the elegant stage — it all reminded me of my childhood dreams.

That day, I earned 4th place in the entire city.

It may not have been a podium spot, but to me, it was a triumph. I didn’t beat the others. I beat my fear.

A year later, a new competition was announced — this time organized by Shenzhen Daily.

This time, I didn’t hesitate. I applied immediately.

The rules were stricter now. The talent segment had to be connected to Chinese culture. I found a Chinese dance teacher and began one-on-one lessons. I learned Han-Tang style dance, rich in elegance and history. I also added a second performance just for fun — a bachata duet, simply because I couldn’t resist another chance to dance on stage.

But then… things took a turn.

A week before the final, I came down with a fever of 40°C. I could barely get out of bed. My rehearsals stopped. I hadn’t finished my speech. I was exhausted and falling behind.

One night, I sat on the edge of my bed crying, thinking: The contest is tomorrow. My dance isn’t polished. My speech isn’t written. I’m going to embarrass myself on stage.

That’s when my boyfriend at the time stepped in. He knew a lot about Chinese culture and had experience performing on Chinese television. He sat with me, helped shape my ideas, helped me write my story. Within a few hours, I had a finished script. All I had to do was memorize it.

And I did.

The next day, I stepped on stage — tired, a little shaky, but prepared.

And I gave it everything I had.

That second competition left me with unforgettable memories, a sense of challenge, and valuable knowledge I gained along the way. And best of all?

I won 2nd place.

I win 2nd place of Chinese language competitions organized by Shenzhen Daily.

These competitions gave me more than awards. They gave me confidence.

They reminded me that fear is loud — but passion, perseverance, and love for the process can be louder.

They taught me to raise my voice — even when it trembled.

Because the girl who once hid Google Translate behind her phone, who froze on stage, who doubted every step — she now speaks, dances, and lives in Chinese.

And she’s just getting started.