It is 7 o’clock in the morning, as usual. On my desk, piles of books and notepads are scattered around the spot where my breakfast—a cup of coffee and a piece of toast topped with a sunny-side-up egg—sits. I’m reading a page from Haruki Murakami’s story “The Wind Cave” in The New Yorker, while Taiwanese pop songs play softly on the computer.

I pass my eyes over a passage describing the narrator’s wish that his late sister not be confined to a dark coffin and buried underground but instead lie in a meadow where green grass is her bed and the blue sky her roof. At that moment, tears erupt unexpectedly. My nose starts to run; my forehead tightens. I reach for tissues, and suddenly, I can’t even swallow my food.

These days, I find myself becoming a “crybaby”—a shock, considering that in my previous sixty-five years I rarely shed tears. Why now? I’m curious, so I’ve decided to take some time to analyze this strange transformation within myself.

After consulting Google, I ruled out the two natural causes of tearing. First, the volume of my tears far exceeds the minimal moisture that lubricates dry eyes. Second, it isn’t the result of irritating onions or harsh smoke. Undoubtedly, I’m experiencing “emotional tears.”

People cry when their emotions become overwhelming. Sadness, anger, physical pain—even happiness—can well up as tears. Yet, for as long as I can remember, my own well has been dry. Reflecting on my life, the few tearful moments I recall are the passing of my parents and their funerals. I can’t even remember crying in my childhood. My mother once recounted an incident—one I don’t even remember—when I defied my father’s wish that I attend a local teacher-training junior college (it was free and guaranteed a teaching career) in favor of trying for a top-tier university. I also have a faint memory of quiet sobbing after disputes with my husband over our business. It seemed that only the loss of beloved family members and overwhelming frustration could summon my tears.

Not long ago, my husband, our two daughters, and I recollected our early days as immigrants striving to make a living in this new land. We recounted the hardships we endured—running a stressful family business under constant financial pressure and the injustice our daughters suffered at the hands of my husband’s jealous, mean, and manipulative mother. Our conversation led my husband to apologize to our daughters for being too harsh and frequently absent. It ended with all of us crying; besides my tears, it marked the first time in decades that I had seen my husband cry. The tears were cathartic—we released years of hidden pain and found a profound, renewed connection.

Lately, I’ve shed more tears than ever before. They come too swiftly to resist. At a cheerful party, while recounting a memoir about a father and son’s difficult relationship to strangers, I found myself embarrassed by an uncontrollable tight throat and flowing tears. When I casually told my daughter about a teenager who walked twenty-three miles overnight to a job interview, a sudden flow of tears choked me up.

Ordinary topics in conversation have now become dangerous triggers. The moment my daughters described a killer whale that clung to her dead baby for seventeen days, we all began to cry—and then laugh—feeling awkward about our sentimentality. When I recounted to friends my first visit to my father’s hometown in China, I was struck by another wave of tears, leaving me with a red face and runny nose.

Other catalysts include movies I watched—Fences, which depicts the struggles of a Black family; Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again, a romantic musical comedy; my writing about a dish my parents made in my childhood; and even a flashback of riding the train to visit relatives decades ago. Even as I write this paragraph, tears flow freely—too many unexpected sources!

What happened? I had always been someone who endured considerable hardship: more than two decades running an after-school program with twelve-hour days, constant financial stress, relentless business competition, a hostile mother-in-law, and persistent disagreements with my husband.

Although my children have always been outstanding students, they lacked the love and care from us when they needed it most. From the beginning, I convinced myself that they would eventually understand that their parents were not neglectful but merely trying to survive—and that they would forgive us. This regret, once the smallest of my troubles, had always hovered over me but didn’t bring me to tears.

I realized that I had been performing the role of the tough, resilient person by regarding tears as a sign of weakness and despair. After all, when problem after problem awaited resolution, who dared waste time crying?

Finally, I retired. After transferring my business to a new owner, I was freed from twelve-hour workdays, financial stress, endless schedules, and the responsibilities of students’ homework and safety. Although I miss the moments of watching kids happily devour the fried rice I made for them after they’d pleaded, “Principal Marie, I’m hungry!”

Today, I’m also free from the duties of caring for aging family members. My parents and parents-in-law passed away in their eighties and nineties. My two grown daughters have achieved their career goals and built their own wonderful families. My husband retired from his computer business years ago. I no longer need a wake-up alarm. Every day feels like a weekend.

My life has entered a new era! While I feel content and peaceful most days, tears now come easily and unbidden. I have formulated a theory: the human body has a finite capacity. When our once strong bodies are burdened with responsibilities that require the vigor of a warrior, our emotions go into retreat. As we age and decades of hard work take their toll—our flesh and bones wear out, our hands grow feeble, our arms weaken, and our legs grow rusty—our emotions rise anew and triumph.

Moreover, medical research suggests that shedding emotional tears releases oxytocin and endorphins, which ease physical and emotional pain and make us feel better. This theory resonates with me; I often experience a sense of joy and revelation after crying.

Charles Dickens wrote about tears in Great Expectations (1861), famously stating, “Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts.” I was better after I had cried, than before—more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle.”

Yes, Charles Dickens! I now say, “Come, tears!” I no longer mind salty water running down my cheeks and igniting my emotions. I won’t hide my feelings any longer. With my tears, I announce that I am capable of deep emotion—love, appreciation, happiness, sadness, anger, even hatred; that I understand the tears of others and we share a common humanity; that I have empathy and the ability to walk in other peoples’ shoes. With tears, we speak a universal language.

So, why not? Let them come, tears!