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Of two related things, most Chinese have likely heard of the first, while some Americans might be familiar with the second.

The first is the idiom 破釜沉舟 (pò fǔ chén zhōu)—"Smashing the Cauldrons and Sinking the Boats." It originates from the story of Xiang Yu, the King of Western Chu, during the Battle of Julu. After crossing the Zhang River, Xiang Yu ordered his soldiers to sink their boats and destroy their cooking tools, leaving only three days of provisions. With no retreat, his troops fought with all they had, ultimately winning a decisive victory. This idiom has since evolved to symbolize unwavering determination and the resolve to move forward without looking back.

The second one is the book Burn the Boats: Toss Plan B Overboard and Unleash Your Full Potential by Matt Higgins (2023). The title is inspired by the very same story. Higgins, an American entrepreneur, resonated with the tale, believing it captured the essence of his own success: forging ahead with no backup plan. In this way, he named his book after the philosophy that had guided his life.

Higgins’ story offers valuable lessons to those seeking lifelong growth, particularly those feeling stuck, anxious, or unsure of their next steps.

The Two Layers of “Burning the Boats”

The first meaning is to abandon your backup plan. Higgins emphasizes that having too many options can hinder success. To achieve greatness, you can’t prepare for yourself an easy exit. People often say "don’t put all your eggs in one basket," but Higgins believes while this might work in fund management, life requires the courage to commit fully. This approach stems from his personal experience.

At 16, Higgins dropped out of high school—not because he was struggling academically, but because he was determined to rise beyond the limitations of his grades. He could only attend a mediocre college, so he opted to drop out, attend night school, and earn a professional diploma earlier. Many advised him to play it safe by completing high school, but Higgins believed cutting off his safety net would push him to succeed. Ultimately, his gamble paid off as he earned his diploma and, starting as a contract worker, forged his own successful path.

The second meaning of "burning your boats" is to let go of things that seem safe but won’t help you reach your goals. Sometimes, the so-called safe path can be the riskiest. Higgins argues that what seems secure could be like a frog slowly boiling in water. When we realistically evaluate how far we are from our goals, we might realize that the slow route is the most dangerous one.

For instance, after dropping out, Higgins worked hard to enter law school at night, eventually landing an internship at a law firm. To many, it seemed like he had taken a significant step in his career. But after working in the field, he realized that climbing the ranks in a law firm required not just seizing every promotion opportunity but also several years of patient effort. This slow, secure route was difficult and not guaranteed, so Higgins decided to switch careers, abandoning the years he had invested in law.

Reassessing the Path to Success

Most people assume climbing the career ladder is a gradual process, progressing from supervisor to manager to CEO, that only after gaining CEO experience can we start our own ventures. But Higgins argues that success happens in leaps. You need to jump into a space with greater room for growth before making steady progress. This leap is essential. If you have higher aspirations in life, consider whether the current path is moving too slowly. If so, a bold, decisive move may be what’s needed.

In Higgins’ view, burning the boats is a strategy that applies to everyone aiming for success. Conquerors don’t have a Plan B because the mere existence of one weakens resolve and dampens our efforts. Many fail because they hold on to backup plans, never fully committing to their dreams. 

Ultimately, "burning the boats" is about making the bold, fearless choices necessary to create real breakthroughs in life and drive ourselves to victory with no option but success.

During a recent conversation with one of my Korean students, we discussed the challenges of returning to school after summer break, particularly the anxiety of meeting new teachers. This led to a deeper conversation about the different teacher assignment systems in Korea, China, and America. Each system has its strengths and drawbacks, offering a unique perspective on the educational experience.

Having worked as a primary school teacher in Korea for ten years before moving to the U.S., my student was well-versed in the Korean system. In Korea, there is a rotating grade system where the school's principal assigns teachers to different grades each year. One year you may teach third grade, and the next, you might be assigned to first grade.

The advantage of this rotating system is that it fosters versatility among teachers, allowing them to develop expertise across various grades and better adapt to changing circumstances. This system also makes it easier for teachers to cover for each other in emergencies. However, the constant need to prepare for new subjects and age groups can be overwhelming, as it demands significant time and energy.

In contrast, the American system is much more specialized. From my own experience with my children, I’ve observed that teachers in the U.S. often stay with the same grade level for their entire careers. A first-grade teacher will teach first grade year after year, becoming an expert in that specific stage of childhood development. 

This specialization offers greater efficiency, as teachers become so familiar with the material that they can focus on refining their teaching methods rather than constantly learning new content. However, the downside is that the system can feel somewhat impersonal. Both teachers and students must start fresh each year, with teachers needing to build relationships from scratch and students adjusting to new teaching styles. By the time the teacher truly knows her students, it’s already time to say goodbye. This assembly-line approach, while efficient, can sometimes lead to a more transactional, mechanical experience for both parties. A teacher holds one position on the assembly line, a fixed part of the system churning out graduates year after year, but often missing deeper, lasting connections with students.

China's system offers a different approach, one that emphasizes continuity. From my own experience growing up in China, one teacher is assigned to a class from first grade through sixth grade, accompanying the same group of students throughout their elementary years. This creates a deep bond between the teacher and students, allowing for a thorough understanding of each child’s strengths and weaknesses. The teacher can guide students through their formative years with a strong sense of stability. However, this system also has its drawbacks. If a teacher forms a biased view of a student early on, it can be hard for that student to shake the perception, even if they change or grow. The lack of a fresh start each year can hinder personal growth, especially for students who need the opportunity to redefine themselves.

The Chinese saying “亲其师，信其道” (qīn qí shī, xìn qí dào), meaning "If you are close to your teacher, you trust their teachings," captures the essence of the Chinese system. It highlights the value of deep, personal connections between students and teachers, leading to trust and understanding over time.

These three systems reveal the balancing act between efficiency and human connection in education. Korea's rotating system fosters adaptability, America’s fixed system maximizes specialization and efficiency, and China’s long-term teacher-student relationships offer stability and continuity. Each system reflects the values and priorities of its society, offering lessons for educators worldwide. The challenge is to strike a balance between these factors to create an educational environment that is both efficient and nurturing. After all, students are not just the products on an assembly line; education is first and foremost the education of the soul.

After moving to the New York area, we’ve had two successive neighbors, both Hispanic. As I’ve mentioned before, they excel at preserving their language and culture, even among their second generation.

For many other ethnic minorities, especially second-generation Chinese immigrants, whom I’m most familiar with, the process is quite different. They tend to become Americanized in both language and culture. This, however, doesn’t seem to apply to second-generation Mexican immigrants.

Recently, I’ve come to realize that perhaps Mexicans don’t quite fit the traditional concept of immigrants, given their homeland’s proximity to the U.S. and the ease with which they move between the two countries.

Traditional immigrants—those from Asia, Europe, or Africa—leave behind distant homelands, often separated by vast oceans for life. Due to the distance and financial challenges of travel, many rarely return to their homeland or see their families. For instance, I didn’t go back to Beijing for three years after arriving in the U.S. A friend of mine told me her last trip home was in 2019. My sister’s only son, a first-generation immigrant, visits his parents in China only during business trips, at most once a year. As for my daughter, a second-generation immigrant, her last trip to China was in 2013. I can see how family ties loosen with each generation.

In contrast, for many Mexicans, moving to the U.S. is akin to relocating from one city to another. Visiting their homeland is more like a day trip, and they often return home even during short holidays like Labor Day weekend. These frequent visits maintain strong family ties, cultural roots, and language skills. Their proximity to Mexico helps explain why their culture and language persist so strongly in the U.S., particularly in regions close to the border. This continuous movement reinforces their ethnic identity, allowing them to resist the assimilation pressures that others face.

The Chinese saying, 近水楼台先得月 (jìn shuǐ lóu tái xiān dé yuè), meaning “The pavilion closest to the water enjoys the moonlight first,” perfectly captures this dynamic. Mexicans benefit from their homeland’s closeness, which enables them to maintain frequent contact with their families and culture—something much harder for immigrants separated by oceans.

It’s fascinating to see how geography shapes the immigrant experience, influencing cultural and language retention, racial identity, and integration in ways that challenge the traditional model of assimilation. For Mexican immigrants, the border isn’t just a dividing line; it’s a bridge that keeps them anchored and connected to both sides, allowing them to preserve the family ties and the essence of their cultural heritage—something other immigrant groups could only dream of.

As promised in my previous writing, today I will conclude Wang Lining’s story.

After her daughter’s hurtful words, Wang dragged herself back to her room and cried uncontrollably. Living on the 17th floor, she opened the window, threw one leg outside, and was ready to jump. At that moment, a question pierced her mind: "What will happen to my daughter if I die?" This made her pull her leg back.

She locked herself in her room for several days while her daughter sang outside, celebrating her newfound freedom. By the fourth day, Wang began asking herself a crucial question: "What’s wrong with me?" For the first time, she questioned her own actions. In the past, she always believed others were at fault. Now, she thought, "There must be something wrong with me; otherwise, how could I have raised a child like this?" With this realization, a strong desire to understand herself emerged. She reached out to friends, asking them to find courses on parenting, child psychology, and counseling.

Wang attended a five-day course, during which she realized she had committed every mistake the instructor warned against. Deeply regretful, she knew what she had to do immediately: apologize to her daughter, something she had never done before.

When Wang returned home, her daughter remarked, "How come you don't look as annoying as before?" Wang immediately knelt down before her and said, "I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. I know I’ve been wrong." She recounted each incident where she had failed as a mother. "Can you forgive me and give me another chance to learn how to be a better mom?"

Hearing this, her daughter admitted that she had felt terrible over the past few days, feeling like a truly bad person. But she continued, "I couldn’t admit defeat. If I did, you’d completely control me, and I’d have to obey you for the rest of my life."

Wang gently replied, "Let’s forget the past and forgive each other. Let’s start it all over again, as if you were just born today." Her 16-year-old daughter smiled, a childish grin that hadn’t been seen for ages.

It took both of them four years to play catchup work. Her daughter eventually caught up academically and was accepted into the prestigious Beijing Film Academy (北京电影学院), one of the top film institutes in China.

The most touching part of their journey is this: Wang changed so completely that her daughter began to doubt whether this woman was truly her mother. She often asks, "Tell me some stories from my childhood or what one of my birthday events," just to confirm her identity. "If you’re not my real mom, I’ll find her. I want my real mom back, no matter how flawed she is."

A Chinese saying "浪子回头金不换" (Làng zǐ huí tóu jīn bù huàn) means "A prodigal son returning home is worth more than gold." It captures the essence of transformation and redemption, emphasizing that the value of reconciliation and personal growth is beyond material wealth.

Wang Lining’s journey with her daughter shows that if you want to change your child, you must first change yourself. What started as a painful, zero-sum conflict between them transformed into a win-win bond, built on mutual understanding and growth.

Ultimately, their story reminds us that the ties of family, especially between mother and child, are unbreakable. No matter the conflict, nothing can sever this bond. Wang’s transformation wasn’t just about her career or her role as a mother—it was about rediscovering the love that had always been there, waiting to heal.

In the end, children have the remarkable ability to change their parents’ lives for the better—if the parents are willing to embrace that change.

I had a busy post-holiday day yesterday, shopping, doing chores and meeting one of my Korean students. Yesterday, I heard Wang Lining (王立宁) share the tough time story she had with her daughter, the challenges that eventually led her to become a psychological counselor.

Before this career shift, Wang was a very successful businesswoman. While she excelled in managing her company, she felt like a total loser at home: her marriage fell apart, and her daughter became increasingly rebellious, leaving Wang unsure of how to connect with her family.

She said, "When I realized I had trouble expressing emotions, I began studying parenting and developed an interest in psychology. Seeking 'self-healing,' I chose to study practical psychology out of all the branches available."

At that time, her daughter was 14 and refused to attend school, saying, "Why do I need to study? You’ll support me for the rest of my life." 

These words struck a chord with Wang, reminding her of what she often said to her daughter: "I don’t have time for you because I need to earn more money to support you." The unintended message to her daughter was clear—the purpose of her mother’s hard work was to ensure she wouldn’t have to work hard herself. She can always rely on her mother.

Her daughter was labeled a "100-score youth," meaning her combined test scores in Chinese, Math, and English totaled just 100, averaging 33 out of 100 in each subject.

"I'm the laughingstock of my class. Do you think I should still go to school?" her daughter challenged. She insisted she would only return to school if her mother stayed home full-time, just like her grandmother.

In response, Wang outsourced all her company’s work and informed her employees that she would be dedicating herself fully to her daughter. Despite spending two years at home, the situation didn’t improve.

Even though Wang tried to fulfill every one of her daughter’s needs and wishes, the girl remained unhappy. What she truly needed was proof that her mother loved her, as Wang’s frequent absence during her childhood left her daughter doubting her mother's love.

Wang recalled, "As a successful businesswoman and mother, I was tormented by my 14-year-old for two years. In frustration, I asked her, 'How did I give birth to someone like you?' She replied, 'You can shove me back into your belly.' Hearing this, my head spun, and I fainted. I vaguely remember my daughter walking past me without doing anything and returning to her room without a word." She was completely heartbroken.

Wang Lining's story is a long one, and it underscores my belief that children can influence or even change their parents in ways beyond imagination. Her experience is a testament to how life’s unexpected challenges, especially those involving her daughter, can lead to profound personal transformations and even a career change. I'll share the rest of her story tomorrow.