Yanwen’s blog

I recently picked up The 5 Types of Wealth by Sahil Bloom at the library. The book opens with what might seem like a trite message: money and happiness are not the same thing. The assumption that money alone leads to a fulfilling life is flawed, and chasing material things will never bring true happiness. Instead, other areas—like time with loved ones—matter just as much, if not more.

You might ask: If there's nothing new in his message, why bother reading or writing about it?

First, many of the stories and examples were new to me. Second, we need to be reminded again and again things that are important in life. Third, the author offers a valuable lens: he makes the intangible measurable. As the management guru Peter Drucker famously said, “What gets measured gets managed.” And that’s where Bloom’s framework becomes practical.

Sahil Bloom, now age 34, writes:

“I was born of an unlikely collision of two worlds. My mother, born and raised in Bangalore, India, and my father, an American born and raised in the Bronx, New York. The impact of growing up with a mix of cultures, religions, and beliefs was profound. My parents, sister, and family mean the world to me.”

I found this background revealing. While reading, I sensed a thread of Eastern wisdom in his ideas—such as his advice to seek guidance not from the richest people, but from the wisest. After learning more about his roots, I understood where that depth of perspective might come from.

In his conversations with others, Bloom invites people to try a simple exercise:
Close your eyes and imagine your ideal day at age 80.
What are you doing?
Who are you with?
Where are you?
How do you feel?

The responses he gathered were striking. Across all ages, professions, and economic backgrounds, people described almost exactly the same things. Their ideal day typically included: spending time with loved ones, doing meaningful work that contributes to their growth, and feeling physically and mentally well.

From these conversations, Bloom discovers four recurring values:
Time, Relationships, Purpose, and Health.
These, he says, make up four of the five types of wealth in life.

And the fifth? Financial wealth? But here’s the most surprising part: Not a single person mentioned money when imagining their ideal day.

The Five Types of Wealth

1. Time Wealth  how you spend your time, who you spend it with, and where you spend it.

2. Social Wealth your connections to others.

3. Mental Wealth this provides purpose and meaning and determines your decisions.

4. Physical Wealth your health, fitness, and vitality.

5. Financial Wealth your net worth.

Bloom’s core message is that we need to look at life as a whole, not chasing one at the cost of others. After all, you can chase money for decades and never feel wealthy. But if you wake up one morning and see meanings in what you are doing, surrounded by people you love, with energy in your body and peace in your mind—that’s a true wealth.

To be continued...

This is how I wasted over two hours today trying to resolve an issue that should have taken 5 minutes.

I had renewed my car registration online on July 3rd. But then I realized the DMV still had my old mailing address on file. I needed to update it so the new registration card would be sent to the right place. I thought it was a simple task. But not even close.

When I tried to update my address, the DMV system told me I needed to create an account at my.dmv.ny.gov. That I did. But within my account, under the “My Vehicles” tab, it said:

“You do not have any registered vehicles to display... If you have questions or feel that you have a registered vehicle that is not being shown, contact us.”

So I clicked the “contact us” link, which took me to a page that told me—again—to do everything online. I clicked on “Change Address” again, and it sent me back to my DMV account page. I was stuck in a digital loop, no escape, no solution. A perfect bureaucratic ouroboros.

I searched for a phone number and called. I waited 40 minutes... and was cut off by them. I called again. More time lost, more nothing. It honestly felt like the system was designed to discourage human contact.

I tried the chatbot. To its credit, when it couldn't resolve my issue, it suggested Live Chat. I tried. No luck. "All agents are currently busy."

I refreshed and retried—over and over—until finally, someone named Michelle came online.

I explained the problem: I had a DMV account, and I had a registered vehicle, but the two weren’t linked. That’s why I couldn’t change my address. She submitted a request to link my vehicle to my account. Once that’s done, I’ll be able to update my address online.

But since the new registration card was already mailed to the old address on July 7, I’ll now have to request—and pay for—a replacement.

What I Learned

This experience revealed two systemic problems:

1. The online system is broken.
It promises self-service but can’t deliver. It sends users in circles, provides no meaningful support, and fails to connect obvious information—like your car and your name.

2. There’s no fallback when the system fails.
Phone support is nonfunctional. You wait endlessly, and often there’s no one on the other end.  We all know hiring actual humans is prohibitively expensive. That’s why government agencies rely so heavily on automation. But when that fails and there’s no one behind the screen to help, the cost is shifted to us: in wasted time, frustration, and more.

The Bigger Picture

We hear a lot about "automating” public services in order to save money. But that shouldn’t mean totally replacing people with digital iron walls. A well-functioning public system needs both: efficient technology and real human beings when things go wrong.

I got my issue resolved only because it's me who refused to give up and who's determined to try and try. But it shouldn’t take that much determination just to change an address. And not everyone has the time or patience to navigate these broken systems.

The real cost is measured in how many people simply give up and rush to the office in order to meet a live human!

Tuesday, July 8, 2025, I had a preventive colonoscopy done today. All went well in the end—but only after nearly canceling it the day before.

It all started early in the morning—2 a.m. on July 7th, the day I should start preparation for the procedure. I woke up with an unexplained sense of unease. Something told me to double-check the estimated cost of the procedure. I remembered seeing a past email suggesting it would be a little over $200, which is okay. Still, the feeling nagged at me: What if I missed something huge?

First thing that morning, I searched my inbox. Strangely, I couldn’t find the email I remembered. But then I stumbled on another one—one I hadn’t seen before. This one listed the estimate not as $200, but as $1,240. My stomach dropped.

How could the price jump so drastically? I called and found out: the $200 was the estimate from the doctor’s office. The $1,240 came from the LEC, the facility performing the procedure.

The woman on the line explained that the procedure had been coded as diagnostic, not preventive. That meant I’d owe the full deductible and 20% of the rest—adding up to $1,240. 

I told her that I’d already confirmed with my insurance company that preventive colonoscopies are fully covered. I'm not sick. There’s no condition being diagnosed. It’s routine screening. Could the procedure code be changed?

To her credit, the woman contacted the doctor’s office right away. Within the hour, the code was corrected. The billing reclassified as preventive. My financial responsibility? Zero.

I breathed a long breath. I almost paid more than $1,240 out of pocket—for a preventive procedure that should’ve been entirely free.

What This Experience Taught Me

This shows how easily a procedure can get misclassified, how opaque the healthcare system still is, and how even the most responsible patients like me can get trapped by their mistakes—unless we speak up.

What saved me wasn’t luck—it was listening to that 2 a.m. unease. When in doubt, call.

No matter where, self-advocacy is essential.

Friday, July 11, 2025, Thirty-eight years ago today, my father left us. He was only 57.

Just a few days ago, a Chinese saying came to mind:
司马昭之心，路人皆知 (Sīmǎ Zhāo zhī xīn, lùrén jiē zhī)— “Sima Zhao’s ambition is known to all, even to passersby.” In other words: it’s an open secret, or his motives are plain as day.

That phrase stirred a wave of memories.

I first learned it as a teenager in Tianjin during the Cultural Revolution. In our modest home, there was a large locked bookshelf—my father’s treasure chest. Inside were the books he loved most: ancient Chinese classics, history, and political theory. We didn’t have much money, and to this day I don’t know where he got those books. I remember he enjoyed reading and talking about history stories, especially those from the Three Kingdoms.

司马昭之心，路人皆知, this saying came from one of those stories. I probably didn’t fully understand it back then, but the moment he shared it has stayed with me all these years.

Now, on the 38th anniversary of his passing, I find comfort in knowing that his love of reading and teaching still lives on—in me. I can’t think of a more meaningful way to honor his memory and to reflect on the ways he still lives in me today.

As a parent of a daughter, reading The Lying Life of Adults by Elena Ferrante was an emotionally difficult experience.

Giovanna, the novel’s teenage protagonist, is every parent’s worst nightmare—angry, unpredictable, and determined to dismantle the moral authority of the adults around her. Ferrante has always excelled at portraying the frailties and contradictions of adult life, but this novel struck closer to the bone: What happens when your own child begins to see you as the enemy?

Giovanna is rebellious, cruel in moments, and cold in others. Her descent into adolescent fury begins with a single overheard insult, but it quickly spirals into distrust, self-sabotage, and alienation.

As a parent, it’s hard not to think: Her parents weren’t saints, but they didn’t deserve this. They didn’t deserve to become targets of such harsh judgment from their daughter.

And then there’s Vittoria—the aunt. Mysterious, venomous. She becomes a symbol of the chaotic adulthood Giovanna longs to explore, precisely because it seems so brutally honest, in contrast to her parents’ guarded world. But Vittoria’s world isn’t freer or kinder—it’s just more raw, more wounded.

What terrified me wasn’t that adults were exposed as flawed—this we all know—but that the generational bridge between parent and child could collapse so easily and completely. That parental love was so fragile. That a child could decide, seemingly overnight, that love had been a lie all along. And that parents, no matter how earnest or well-meaning, are so vulnerable to rejection.

Postscript: What Ferrante Taught Us About Parenting

Reading The Lying Life of Adults felt like watching a slow-motion car crash—inescapable and devastating. Giovanna’s sudden transformation—her defiance, her bitterness, her urge to unravel everything her parents stood for—felt more like a cautionary tale than fiction. I kept asking myself: Is there a way to avoid raising a daughter like Giovanna? To not become the kind of parent a child fights against?

I’ve come to believe that, instead of offering moral lectures or pretending to be perfect, perhaps honesty really is the best policy. We need to allow our children to question us without fear, see us as what we truly are, and we need to be willing to listen—even when it’s uncomfortable.

Ultimately we can’t choose our children’s paths. But we can walk beside them as loved ones, long enough—and openly enough—so that when they need, they’ll know where home is—and that it’s a place where truth, love, and forgiveness live.