Yanwen’s blog

7/30/2026

Yesterday I was talking with another grandparent about our newborn grandson and the future of higher education.

With the rapid development of artificial intelligence, it's difficult to imagine what education will look like twenty years from now. AI is becoming increasingly capable while it costs only a fraction of human labor. Some people even wonder whether AI will eventually replace many human teachers.

As I looked at my tiny grandson, however, another thought touched me.

No matter how advanced AI becomes, what a baby needs most during the first years of his life is still human attachment—the warmth and feeling of being held, spoken to, comforted, encouraged, protected and loved.

That thought reminded me of a new expression that has become popular on Chinese social media: 活人感 (huórén gǎn).

Literally, 活人 means "a living person," and 感 means a feeling or sense.

It describes someone who feels genuinely human—authentic, emotional, unpretentious, and refreshingly real. Such a person doesn't sound scripted or mechanically polite. They have quirks, imperfections, spontaneous reactions, and genuine emotions.

Interestingly, calling someone "very有活人感" has become one of the highest compliments on the Chinese internet.

The expression says something about our times.

Many people feel that AI-generated writing is impeccably organized, endlessly polite, grammatically correct, and highly predictable. Social media has also encouraged carefully curated online personas. Against this backdrop, someone who simply feels like authentic human stands out.

What intrigues me most is the irony.

For centuries, people admired perfection. Today, one of the highest compliments is to say that someone simply feels human who is not perfect.

Is it because the perfection of AI makes us appreciate the imperfections of human beings even more?

Or is it because, in the age of AI, authenticity has become increasingly rare? People naturally value what is rare, just as they treasure pandas.

Or perhaps the answer is even simpler. Unlike AI, we are emotional beings. However much we strive for perfection, we still want to remain authentically ourselves.

Our occasional hesitation, spontaneous laughter, genuine curiosity, emotional warmth, human attachments and even our flaws remind others that there is a real person behind the words.

And perhaps that is the enduring lesson for my grandson.

No matter how intelligent and error-free AI becomes, the qualities that shape a meaningful life—and meaningful relationships—will still be profoundly human.

7/29/2026

On July 23, I was surprised to hear the news of the passing of Keigo Higashino (東野圭吾), the renowned Japanese mystery novelist.

Born in Osaka in 1958, Keigo Higashino majored in electrical engineering and worked as an engineer before turning to writing. He wrote in his spare time, won a literary prize in 1985, and eventually resigned from his engineering job to become a full-time author.

His road to success was anything but easy. It took years before he established himself as one of Japan's leading novelists. Over a four-decade writing career, he published more than one hundred books and received numerous literary honors, including Japan's Medal with Purple Ribbon.

One aspect of Higashino's writing that I have found especially fascinating is his mastery of leaving narrative blank space.

Instead of explaining everything, he intentionally leaves certain details unsaid, allowing readers to infer, imagine, and reach their own conclusions.

These carefully arranged gaps are one reason his novels stay with readers long after the final page. Even after closing the book, you find yourself replaying the story, filling in the missing pieces, and discovering new meanings.

I have tried to learn from this technique in my own writing, particularly in my essays about Liu Kaixin and about the phenomenon of "read but unreplied" (已读不回).

Rather than stating every lesson explicitly, I have learned that it is often more powerful to stop just before the final conclusion. Readers tend to remember the insights they discover for themselves more vividly than those simply handed to them.

Lately, it has occurred to me that this principle extends far beyond writing.

Sometimes, less is more. The same idea applies to parenting.

There is a popular Chinese saying:

懒妈妈养勤快孩子，勤快妈妈养懒孩子。
Lǎn māma yǎng qínkuài háizi, qínkuài māma yǎng lǎn háizi.

Literally, it means, "A 'lazy' mother raises a hardworking child, while a hardworking mother raises a lazy child."

Of course, it does not mean to encourage parents to be lazy. Rather, it reminds us that parents should not do everything for them when the child can do it himself. 

A child who is given opportunities to solve problems, make decisions, and shoulder responsibilities gradually develops ability, independence and confidence. 

A child whose path is constantly cleared by parents may instead become dependent on them.

Perhaps writing and parenting are not so different after all.

A skilled writer leaves space for readers to think. A wise parent leaves space for children to grow.

Both understand that growth often comes not from being given every answer, but from discovering some answers for ourselves.

7/28/2026

This year, a new expression has become popular on the Chinese internet: "奥德赛时期" (Àodésài shíqī), or "the Odyssey Years."

It refers to the period from the early twenties to the early or mid-thirties, when many young adults have left school but have not yet settled into a stable career, family life, or even a clear sense of identity. It is a time of uncertainty, exploration, trial and error, and self-discovery.

The popularity of the term reflects the reality in China that many young people face today. They spend nearly twenty years moving from one classroom to another, acquiring knowledge and preparing for examinations, having no time for self-discovery and exploration. Yet after graduation they suddenly enter a world where there are no standard answers. Traditional paths to success seem less certain, new opportunities emerge constantly, and the future feels increasingly unpredictable.

One reason the idea resonates is that many young people are trying to discover not only the world but also themselves—what genuinely interests them, where their strengths lie, and what kind of life they want to build.

More than two thousand years ago, Laozi wrote:

知人者智，自知者明。
Zhī rén zhě zhì, zì zhī zhě míng.
Knowing others is intelligence; knowing yourself is true wisdom.

Perhaps education should aim at both. It should help students understand the world while also helping them understand themselves.

The term "Odyssey Years" comes from Homer's epic The Odyssey. After the Trojan War, the Greek hero Odysseus spent ten years wandering before finally returning home. His long journey became a metaphor for exploration, uncertainty, and personal growth.

The concept made me think of two questions.

The first concerns when the odyssey begins.

The popular definition suggests that self-discovery starts after college. No!

The journey should begin much earlier, during adolescence. Those years should already be a time for exploring interests, discovering strengths and weaknesses, trying different sports, music, art, volunteering, and developing values. 

If students graduate without knowing much about themselves, perhaps education has accomplished only part of its mission.

The second question is when the odyssey ends.

The popular definition suggests that it ends sometime in our thirties. No!

Today's world changes too quickly for self-discovery ever to be complete. New technologies emerge. Industries rise and disappear. Careers change. Our priorities evolve with age. The person we are at twenty-five is not the same person we become at forty-five or sixty-five.

Charles Darwin continued refining his ideas throughout his life. Millions of immigrants began entirely new lives after their thirties. Many retirees discover new passions by learning a language, painting, writing, or volunteering.

Each is still on an odyssey on its own.

Perhaps the real value of the concept lies not in its age range but in its mindset.

Life itself is an odyssey.

Some stages involve more exploration than others, but exploration never truly ends. The more we learn about ourselves and the world, the more we realize how much remains to be discovered.

The Odyssey is not a decade of life. It is a way of living.

7/27/2026

During the past two days, I've written about perfectionism, especially its unhealthy form—maladaptive perfectionism.

Fortunately, modern psychology doesn't just identify the problem. It also offers practical, evidence-based strategies for overcoming it. Here are three that I find especially helpful.

First, cultivate a growth mindset.

Research by psychologist Carol Dweck suggests that people who view mistakes as opportunities to learn and grow tend to be more resilient and achieve better long-term outcomes. Instead of fearing mistakes and seeing them as evidence of failure, they see them as feedback and opportunities for improvement.

Second, focus on the process rather than the outcome.

This is my favorite strategy.

Suppose your goal is to publish a bestselling book. That outcome is determined by many factors, some are beyond your control. A better process goal might be: write 500 words every morning.

We have far more control over our daily actions and habits than over the final results. Focusing on the process not only reduces anxiety but also makes consistent progress more likely.

Third, practice self-compassion.

Self-compassion means treating yourself with the same kindness and understanding that you would offer a friend. Imagine what you would say to a friend who made a mistake. You probably wouldn't tell them they were a failure. Why speak to yourself that way?

Research by psychologist Kristin Neff consistently demonstrates that self-compassion is associated with lower levels of anxiety and depression, greater resilience, and better emotional well-being.

In conclusion, there is no shortage of advice on overcoming perfectionism. Most of it points to the same underlying truth: unhealthy perfectionism is rooted in fear—fear of failure, of mistakes, of other's negative judgment, etc.

Ironically, what we should fear most is not making mistakes but wasting time. People procrastinate, overthink, postpone decisions, and avoid challenges. In the end, they accomplish less. Time passes and wastes while opportunities quietly slip away.

There is an old Chinese saying: 不怕慢，就怕站 (Bù pà màn, jiù pà zhàn) —"Fear not slow progress; fear only standing still." In other words, Fear not if you are imperfect; Fear only you stand still while time moves on.

Perhaps the saddest part of perfectionism is this: in searching for the perfect job, the perfect spouse, the perfect house, or the perfect life, we may end up with none of them. Because perfection itself never exists. Perfection might be just an illusion.

I'd like to end this discussion with something I shared with my son on July 24, 2023:

Never dwell on the past.
Never worry too much about what others think.
Never lose yourself in social media.
Never doubt yourself before you even begin.
Never complain more than you act.
Never pin your future entirely on someone else.
Never be so greedy that you want everything.
Never pursue perfection at the expense of progress.
Never be afraid of losing.

In the end, the greatest risk is never daring to begin.

7/26/2026

Great news for me and my family: My grandson was born yesterday, and I am officially a grandparent!

Yesterday I wrote about a new psychological study showing that perfectionism among college students has continued to rise over the past 35 years. Today I'd like to explore an important distinction that psychologists make.

We are all familiar with sayings such as, "Good, better, best. Never let it rest, till your good is better and your better is best," and "Practice makes perfect." These reflect what psychologists call adaptive perfectionism—setting high standards and striving for excellence. This kind of perfectionism is generally healthy because it is driven by the desire to improve and win.

The problem lies with another form: maladaptive perfectionism.

Maladaptive perfectionism is driven not by the pursuit of excellence but by the fear of failure. 

It is fueled by fear of making mistakes, fear of losing, fear of other people's judgment, fear of disappointing others, fear of not being good enough, and fear of uncertain consequences. People set high standards and interpret anything less than perfection as a personal failure.

When fear becomes the driving force, people often avoid situations where they might fail. Instead of taking action, they procrastinate. They wait for the perfect moment.

As the saying goes, "A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for." A perfectionist can become like a ship that never leaves the harbor, waiting for completely risk-free conditions. But that perfect condition may never come and the journey never starts.

The recent study found that one of the fastest-growing dimensions of perfectionism is precisely this fear—fear of mistakes, fear of negative evaluation, and fear of not measuring up. In other words, unhealthy perfectionism is not chasing perfection but avoiding imperfection.

That reminds me of a Chinese saying:

摸着石头过河 (Mōzhe shítou guò hé) — Cross the river by feeling for the stones.

The proverb accepts that we do not know everything in advance. Still, we precede, step by step, and make adjustments along the way, and learn from doing. Uncertainty is just part of the journey.

A perfectionist says, "Don't step into the river until you're certain there's no risk or mistakes ahead." The proverb says, "Step into the river carefully, learn from each step, and keep moving."

Perhaps this is especially true when we are young. Mistakes made early in life are often less costly and provide valuable lessons. If we let fear take the helm, we may remain like a ship in the harbor—safe, but never discovering what we are capable of achieving or seeing the grand views that lie beyond the horizon.

Perfectionism grows in the shadow of fear. Growth begins the moment we become willing to make imperfect progress. 

Instead of asking, "How can I avoid mistakes?" perhaps we should ask, "What can I learn from my next mistake?"