Yanwen’s blog

6/30/2026

Today marks the last day of the first half of the year—a good time to reflect on our New Year's resolutions.

Yesterday I wrote about why I hope my grandson will learn Chinese. As I worked on that piece, several stories came back to me.

A friend immigrated to the United States with her ten-year-old son. A decade later, she told me he could barely express himself in Chinese. Ten years of living entirely in English had almost erased the first ten years of his native language!

Another friend came to America with her twelve-year-old daughter. Today the daughter is forty-one with two children of her own. She still can speak Chinese, but not to her children who were never taught to. Their grandmother can no longer communicate with them in Chinese, and the grandchildren know almost nothing about the culture they inherited.

These stories remind me that language is much more than a tool for communication. It is also the bridge between generations and the key to a culture.

After reading my article, one reader asked me: How does learning another language teach intellectual humility?

I don't think the connection is automatic. Simply memorizing vocabulary or grammar does not make someone more humble. But learning another language—and the culture behind it—often does.

Psychologists define intellectual humility as recognizing the limits of our own knowledge and accepting that our beliefs may be incomplete or even mistaken.

When we grow up speaking only one language within one culture, we naturally assume that our way of describing the world is simply "normal." We rarely notice the assumptions built into our language because we have never experienced an alternative.

Learning another language changes that.

Suddenly we discover that another culture organizes ideas differently, values different things, and even expresses emotions in different ways. Many things we once assumed were universal turn out to be simply cultural choices.

That realization is the beginning of intellectual humility.

Comparison gives us a reference point. Without another language and culture, we have nothing to compare and to evaluate our own assumptions. We accept them not because we have examined them, but because we have never encountered another way of seeing the world. With second perspective, we begin asking better questions.

That is why the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein wrote, "The limits of my language mean the limits of my world."

A second language expands those limits, gives us a second perspective, enabling comparison. Comparison produces intellectual humility.

6/29/2026

Today an old classmate in Tianjin shared a video story about the Chinese language. I looked it up and found that it was true.

For many years, the United Nations has observed that Chinese versions of its official documents are generally much shorter than their equivalents in many alphabetic languages, especially English and French. A report of about 5,000 words in English may require only about 3,000 to 3,500 Chinese characters. The reason is Chinese often expresses the same ideas more compactly.

That story reminded me of a conversation I had with my family in China earlier this year.

When I told them that I planned to teach our new grandson Chinese, they responded, "China is becoming stronger. Knowing Chinese will be useful in the future."

I understand that way of thinking, but I see language not just a tool for future jobs. In fact, I think this mindset partly explains why so many American-born Chinese cannot speak Chinese. Their parents often ask a practical question: Will my child actually need it? If the answer appears to be no, they don't speak Chinese to their children. And Chinese language disappears within a generation.

My own reason is much simpler. Chinese is the only language I can speak as a native speaker. It is the language in which I can express myself naturally. If I spoke Spanish or Russian as naturally as I speak Chinese, I would gladly teach those languages as well.

For me, teaching Chinese is not about preparing my grandson for job in China. It is about giving him another window through which to see the world.

Language is the key to a culture. Only by learning a language can we begin to understand the people who speak it—their history, literature, stories, values, and ways of thinking. Every language carries assumptions and perspectives that cannot always be translated.

Learning another language and culture also changes the way we understand ourselves.

Once we see another culture from the inside, we naturally begin comparing it with our own. We notice differences we had never questioned before. We become more aware and critical of our own assumptions instead of accepting them simply because we grew up with them.

That is one of the greatest gifts of learning another language: it teaches intellectual humility. It reminds us that our own way is not the only way.

People who understand more than one language are often better equipped to see and appreciate differences, communicate across cultures, and remain open-minded when encountering different ideas and cultures.

If my grandson grows up speaking Chinese, I hope it will certainly be useful someday. But even if it never helps him get a job or make more money, I will still consider it one of the greatest gifts I could have given him.

Because I am not simply teaching him another language. I am giving him a tool to understand the world.

Recently, I wrote about Liu Kaixin, Li Xiaohua, and now language, hoping to leave something meaningful for my children and grandson.

A recent news story introduced me to Li Xiaohua (李晓华), one of the legendary entrepreneurs of China’s Reform and Opening-up era. Li hosted a celebration for the Chinese Football Little Generals after their victory in the SIGISMONDI Cup. Even more symbolic, he drove his famous red Ferrari—the first Ferrari officially owned in mainland China—to pick up their coach, Dong Lu.

More than thirty years after he first bought it, his Ferrari still makes headlines. Curious about the man behind the car, I began reading about Li Xiaohua’s life. What I discovered was far more than the story of a wealthy businessman. It was the story of a man who came to embody the spirit of an extraordinary era in modern China—a story I feel compelled to share with my children.

Entrepreneurship

Li Xiaohua was born in Beijing in 1951 into an ordinary working-class family. He was sent to the countryside during the Cultural Revolution, spending several years working in the rural areas of Heilongjiang in northeast China. After returning to Beijing, he worked as a boiler operator and held a series of temporary jobs. He had neither wealth nor connections.

When China began its economic reforms in the early 1980s, Li recognized the emerging opportunities. He started with small businesses—selling beverages and running a video arcade—before traveling to Japan to pursue business opportunities. There, he secured overseas distribution rights for the Chinese hair-restoration product “101 Hair Regrowth Formula,” which brought him his first substantial fortune.

He later founded Huada International Investment Group in Hong Kong. When Hong Kong’s property market slumped in the late 1980s, most investors were selling in fear. Li did the opposite: he bought aggressively. When the market recovered, those investments made him one of China’s earliest billionaires.

What distinguished Li Xiaohua was his entrepreneurial instinct: the ability to make bold decisions when others hesitated.

First Ferrari

In 1992, Ferrari company brought a Ferrari 348 to Beijing for exhibition. At the time, the company did not expect anyone in mainland China to be able to afford one. The car was intended primarily as a showcase before being shipped back to Europe.

To Ferrari’s surprise, Li Xiaohua purchased the car on the spot for approximately US$139,000, becoming the first person in mainland China to officially own a Ferrari.

The red Ferrari was later registered with the famous license plate “Jing A00001.” Photographs of Li standing beside the car were widely published both in China and abroad, becoming one of the defining images of China’s early Reform and Opening-up era.

The Ferrari symbolized a generation of Chinese entrepreneurs who were beginning to look outward, embrace the world, and pursue ambitions that had once seemed unimaginable just a decade earlier.

That is why, more than thirty years later, when Li Xiaohua drove that same legendary Ferrari to pick up football coach Dong Lu after the Chinese Football Little Generals won the SIGISMONDI Cup, many people saw more than a luxury car. They saw a symbolic meeting of generations: a pioneer of China’s economic reform honoring young athletes striving to shape the future of Chinese football against the backdrop of the broader challenges facing the sport in China.

Enduring Respect

Among many wealthy businessmen in China, Li Xiaohua continues to enjoy widespread respect—not simply because of his wealth.

First, he built his fortune from nothing. Coming from an ordinary family without political connections or inherited wealth, he achieved everything through his own vision, courage, and effort. To many who lived through the reform era, he represents the pioneering spirit of that generation.

Second, he was willing to take risks when others were afraid. His investments in Hong Kong real estate during a downturn demonstrated a rare ability to see opportunity in uncertainty.

Third, he has given back to society. Over the years, Li Xiaohua has donated to charitable causes and served as an honorary leader of the China Charity Federation. In recognition of his philanthropic contributions, asteroid 3556 was named “Li Xiaohua” by the International Astronomical Union’s Minor Planet Center.

Finally, he continues to invest emotionally in the next generation. After the Chinese Football Little Generals’ victory, Li not only hosted a celebration but personally drove his historic Ferrari to pick up Dong Lu, encouraging the younger generation to pursue their own dreams.

To me, the most admirable thing about Li Xiaohua is not his wealth or his Ferrari. It is that he represents the spirit of an entire generation—people who embraced opportunity, built something from nothing, gave back after succeeding, and never lost faith in the next generation.

That is the memory of an era—and the enduring spirit that helped shape modern China.

6/28/2026

6/27/2026

Last week I came across the story of Liu Kaixin—a writer, artist, and advocate for people living with rare diseases. Ever since reading about her, I wanted to write something but kept putting it off.

This morning, during my usual run, I found myself thinking about her again. Without realizing it, I picked up the pace and ran much faster than usual, yet I didn't feel tired. Perhaps I was inspired by her story.

So I decided to write about her—not only to share her remarkable journey, but also the thoughts it has inspired in me.

What impresses me most was not merely the unimaginable suffering she has endured, but the extraordinary life she has built despite it.

Those of us blessed with good health often take for granted ordinary activities like breathing comfortably, sleeping through the night, or simply enjoying a good meal.

For Liu Kaixin, none of these are ordinary.

For more than a decade, she has been unable to eat normally. She survives through a feeding tube through her nose, with liquid nutrition slowly entering her body for twenty hours each day. She sleeps only about four hours a night. Her heart depends on a pacemaker. When she lies down to sleep, she requires a ventilator to help her breathe. Years of her illness has reduced her weight to as low as 29 kilograms.

A person in such circumstances could easily allow illness to define her. She refused.

Instead, here is what she's accomplished. She graduated from the Central Academy of Fine Arts in Beijing and later spent three years studying in the United States, earning a master's degree in Visual Arts Administration at New York University. It was during her time in America that genetic testing finally confirmed her diagnosis of Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (EDS). Throughout those years, she faced repeated hospitalizations and life-threatening medical crises entirely on her own.

After graduation, she joined a publicly listed AI company as the CEO's assistant, maintaining a demanding full-time job for more than seven years while undergoing continuous medical treatment and frequent hospital stays.

She later held her own art exhibition, To Be Continued, published two books—May You Live Freely and Boldly and May We Grow with Serenity—and has continued to paint, write, and speak publicly on behalf of people living with rare diseases.

Many of her paintings and much of her writing were completed in hospital rooms and intensive care units.

As I read her story, I couldn't help asking myself: Have we been wasting the ordinary life that she longs so desperately to have?

Good health is a blessing. But so many of us take this blessing for granted and failed to live a fulfilled life like her.

We Cannot Choose Our Circumstances, But We Can Choose Our Response

This is what moved me most about Liu Kaixin's story: her response to her circumstances. She wasn't able to choose the body she was born with, the rare disease she inherited. But she could choose how to respond. Instead of surrendering to despair and pessimism, she chose to live like a normal person: study, create, read, write, work, and contribute as fully as she could.

She once said: "The strength people see in me already exists within themselves. I am only a mirror."

"My greatest wish is not to become an inspirational figure. It's simply to be an ordinary person who doesn't have to live with severe pain every day."

She refuses to portray herself as a hero who conquered illness. She refuses to romanticize suffering.

Most of Us Have Been Dealt Better Cards

Life deals each of us a different hand. What ultimately determines the course of our lives is not the hand we are dealt, but how we choose to play it.

Many people enjoy good health yet slowly let the time slip away. We keep telling ourselves there will always be tomorrow. Another year passes. Then another.

Liu Kaixin has never had the luxury of assuming there will always be a tomorrow. She experiences everyday the fragility of life. That is precisely why she uses each day so preciously.

What She Taught Me

She reminded me that I still have lungs that breathe freely, legs that can run, and a body far healthier than hers. If she can create such a meaningful life despite her limitations, I have even less excuse to waste the gifts I have been given.

Life deals us the cards. Our choices determine how we play the hand.

她32岁，只有29公斤，却活出了许多人一辈子都达不到的高度。

上个星期，我读到了作家、艺术家、罕见病患者刘开心的故事。读完之后，一直想写点什么，却迟迟没有动笔。

今天早上慢跑时，我又想起了她。不知不觉中，脚步越来越快，每公里竟然比平时快了三分钟，却一点也不觉得累。也许因为我感到了一种无形的鼓励。我决定把她的故事写下来，也写下她带给我的思考。

让我难忘的不只是她经历了怎样的疾病折磨，而是她在这样的身体条件下，竟然活出了如此的灿烂辉煌。

我们这些拥有"正常身体"的人，常常把顺畅的呼吸、安稳的睡眠、一顿美食，当作理所当然。而刘开心已经十多年无法正常进食，只能依靠鼻饲营养管维持生命。每天二十多个小时，营养液缓慢滴入她的肠道；她一天只能睡四个小时；心脏依靠起搏器维持；躺下睡觉还需要呼吸机辅助。长期营养不良，她的体重低到二十九公斤。

这样的人，最容易被疾病定义。可是，她拒绝如此定义。

相反，她毕业于中央美术学院；后来独自赴美留学三年，在纽约大学攻读硕士；在美国通过基因检测确诊EDS，独自完成留学、学业、海外工作，全程独自应对频繁病危住院。毕业后入职上市AI企业，担任CEO助理，拥有稳定高薪全职工作，一边长期住院治疗一边坚持全职工作7年半。

她举办了个人画展《待叙》；出版了《愿你可以自在张扬》和《我们可以坦然生长》两本书；长期坚持绘画、写作和公开演讲，为罕见病患者发声。

她的不少作品，甚至是在病房和ICU里完成的。

读到这里，我忍不住想到：我们是不是一直在挥霍那些她求之不得的"平常生活"？

拥有健康的身体，是一种幸运。然而，仅有幸运，并不意味着一定能活出精彩的人生。

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命运无法选择，但人生可以选择

刘开心的故事，最打动我的并不是疾病，而是选择。

她无法选择自己的身体，无法选择是否患上罕见病，无法选择每天都要面对各种疼痛。

但是，她可以选择如何面对这一切。她没有让疾病束缚自己，没有抱怨命运。她选择像正常人那样学习、创作、阅读、写作，工作、爱这个世界。

她曾说："别人从我身上看到的力量，本就是他们自己拥有的，我只是一面镜子。"

"我最大的愿望，不是成为励志人物，而是做一个不用每天忍受剧痛的普通人。"

她拒绝把自己塑造成"战胜病魔"的英雄，拒绝歌颂苦难。

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我们手里的牌，其实比她好得多

命运给每个人发了一副牌。刘开心拿到的，也许是许多人都不愿接受的一副牌。而我们大多数人，拿到的牌显然比她好得多。

可是，真正决定人生的，不是拿到什么牌，而是如何打这副牌。

很多人拥有健康，却把时间一点一点消磨掉。总觉得来日方长。结果一年又一年过去。

刘开心却没有这样的"以后"。她知道生命有限，所以更加认真地使用每一天。

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她真正教会我的

她让我重新理解了生命。生命的价值，并不完全取决于拥有怎样的身体，而更多取决于我们如何使用已经拥有的一切。

真正决定一个人能走多远的，往往不是命运，而是每天不断做出的选择。

今天早上，我为什么会跑得比平时快？我想，并不是因为刘开心给了我力量。

也许，她只是让我重新看见了自己，让我意识到，自己还有可以自由呼吸的肺，可以奔跑的双腿，可以思考的大脑，还有远比她幸运得多的身体。既然如此，就更没有理由虚度光阴。

命运决定了我们拿到什么牌，而选择决定了我们把这副牌打成什么样的人生。