I’ve previously mentioned that I use the method of “protecting myself within risk,” which means gradually expanding my comfort zone while making appropriate retreats to recover, and then expanding again. This method suits me very well, because not only does it align with my personality, it also allows my plans to move forward in a practical way. The concrete implementation of re-defining failure is also part of this approach. Although it’s relatively slow, I can clearly feel my comfort zone expanding, and I am indeed on the path of growth and change. I now look forward more to expanding my comfort zone, always wanting to see what might happen if I try something new. The retreat and recovery period is a time for adjustment, reflection, and energy restoration, and it also leads to learning and growth. Gradually, the recovery cycle has also shortened (some exceptions apply and will be discussed later), and I’ve become more willing to try again and face challenges.

However, I’ve also noticed the shortcomings of this method.

The first is that it heavily relies on feedback. Feedback plays a role similar to a flashlight in your hand while walking down a dark path—you can tell whether the road ahead is passable. Without relying on feedback, you have no idea what lies ahead. Walking blindly could lead to a hard fall, or if it’s too dark ahead, you might back out early due to fear. If one relies solely on willpower and courage, I’m not sure if this method can remain sustainable.

There are many kinds of feedback and many types of people or even things who give it. The ideal feedback is based on objective facts and provides clear direction, allowing for quick adjustment. But some feedback can be vague, thin, or even misleading. When vague and misleading feedback appears frequently, I fall into confusion, making it hard to decide whether to persist, change direction, or even stop. I might even make the wrong adjustments and end up taking many detours. In an ideal scenario, feedback should lead to “learning,” enabling better adjustment after receiving feedback, and then trying again, forming a continuous loop. More directly, this should be a cycle of “testing – getting information – learning and adjusting – testing again”. But vague or misleading feedback breaks this loop and turns feedback into “consumption”—I must consume my own energy just to find that broken loop again.

Another shortcoming of the “protecting myself within risk” method is that it’s slow. In fact, slowness is at the core of this method, but this also makes it unsuitable in certain situations. Sometimes what’s needed is a rapid, “point-to-point linear” method—like I mentioned before in cases of “fleeting opportunities.” You need to seize the opportunity and go all out. Sure, the slower method can still work, but only if the opportunity comes repeatedly, and if I keep receiving positive feedback, which keeps the loop intact and allows me to continue investing energy. Otherwise, if there is some vague and misleading feedback, I might end up depleting my energy before I can even take another step. So in such cases, its limitations become more obvious. However, the “point-to-point linear” approach doesn’t suit my personality—it’s like pulling a thin thread with great force, which can easily cause it to snap. Only by pulling it gently can I ensure it stays intact. Therefore, implementing a “point-to-point linear” method in such special situations requires some safety mechanisms. For example, if I’ve received positive feedback several times in a row, it’s like walking in the dark and shining a flashlight every meter—if I’ve confirmed the first 10 meters are safe, then I’ll be more confident that the next 10 meters are probably safe too. And even if they’re not, that’s okay—I might then try sprinting the next 10 meters in darkness without using the flashlight.

But no matter what, I need to think carefully: in those special situations, how can I flexibly switch methods without going against my own rhythm, so that I can maintain a sense of safety while still seizing key opportunities?

Long, long ago, I used to play an MMO called World of Warcraft (WoW). There are basically two ways to play the game: one is PVE, where you cooperate with others to take down bosses in dungeons; the other is PVP, where you fight against actual players instead of computer-controlled characters.

I was a casual player, so I’d dabble in both. In PVE, you start with 5-man dungeons and move up to 10-man or 25-man raids. There were even 40-man raids in the early days, but those were phased out as the game updated. As for PVP, the entry-level is “Battlegrounds.” The game has two factions—Alliance and Horde—and players are split into these sides to compete for victory based on the map’s rules. High-level PVP is “Arena,” which is much smaller, usually 2v2 or 3v3. Because the scale is so small, the combat is way more intense and requires a lot more skill.

I usually just stuck to 5-man dungeons and Battlegrounds. But then, I joined a new guild. When I signed up, I made it very clear to the recruiter: I’m a casual player, and I won’t necessarily be active in guild events. To be honest, I didn’t know anyone in that guild. Even though WoW is an online game, I’ve never been keen on “socializing” with other players—you know, the whole “calling each other brothers” thing. Since it’s the internet, you’re not face-to-face, and you have no idea who is on the other side. This often leads to people acting without restraint, showing zero morals or integrity because they think there are no consequences. I ran into people like that sometimes—raid leaders who would “ninja” loot or gold. Essentially, instead of sharing the gold or letting people roll for gear, they’d just see a good item and take it for themselves. I looked down on people like that.

While I know not everyone was like that, I had a built-in prejudice that some of WoW players—or online gamers in general—were that type. It’s kind of strange, right? I was a WoW player myself, yet I was biased against other players. Back then, the environment was full of dropouts or people with nothing better to do spending all their time in net cafes. Gaming is the cheapest form of entertainment; anyone can do it. And MMOs are especially good at sucking people in, acting as an escape from reality. So, a lot of these “drifters” were the most active ones in the game. Many of them were immature and lacked a moral compass, and under the cover of the internet, they felt even less restricted. So yeah, I had a bit of an edge against the super-active players. It was definitely a prejudice, but that’s how I felt at the time.

Initially, I didn’t do much in the guild. But one day, they were one person short for a 25-man raid. They were looking for someone in guild chat, and they ended up picking me. I figured I had the time, so helping out wouldn’t hurt. Once we were in, they gave me a quick rundown on the boss mechanics, and we cleared everything. I thought, Hey, this isn’t bad, so I started raiding with them every week at a fixed time. Honestly, if you ask me if it was “fun,” it wasn’t that fun. It felt like punching a clock at work—you had to show up at a specific time and play for three or four hours straight. Plus, listening to them on voice chat, I could tell these were the kind of people you’d probably look down on in real life. But I wanted the good gears, so I didn’t overthink it.

That was until one day, a really nice piece of gear dropped. Since I had been raiding consistently, I had accumulated “points.” The guild used these points to bid on and exchange for gear. This item was exactly what I needed, so I put in a bid. As it turned out, a so-called “Vice President” of the guild started bidding against me. I kept matching him. Then, he just started acting like a total brat, saying he was “set on having it” regardless. Even though he didn’t even really need the item that much, he just wanted it for fun. He completely ignored the point system. Then, the guild “high-ups” started a private discussion, leaving me out in the cold. The guild sycophants started chiming in, throwing jabs at me one after another. A few minutes later, they ignored the points entirely and just handed the gear to the Vice President, using some lame excuse to blame me. The whole guild felt like a den of thieves, and since I was just one person, I couldn’t fight back. A couple of members sent me private messages saying, “Don’t stoop to their level,” but I quit the guild that very night.

I already felt like these “guild activities” were just a bunch of people playing house—treating a game like a corporation with “management” run by a mob of real-life nobodies, actually even worse, run by people way below average in terms of ability and morality. You had to show up on time like a job, only for the gear to go to “management” first while a bunch of suckers kissed their asses. In reality, it was just idle people with no jobs or school playing make-believe. And of course, I had to run into this nonsense. I already looked down on them, so I just walked away. I didn’t join a guild after that. Just the thought of playing with people like that makes me feel disgusted.

But that’s not to say there aren’t normal people in World of Warcraft. In fact, there are plenty. I met many normal, friendly people while doing quests or teaming up. After that, I mostly stuck to Battlegrounds. I was a casual player anyway, and that play any time I want and offline any time I want, and fighting other real players instead of no brain BOSS suited me better. Then one day, someone from another guild messaged me, asking if I wanted to join. I told them I don’t do guild events; I’m just a casual player who does Battlegrounds. They said that was perfect—they were missing someone for their “Arena” team, and since I did Battlegrounds, I could fill the spot. Arena requires great gear and skill, so I was expecting these guys were probably the type who spent 10 hours a day in-game with nothing else to do. But I really wanted the gear you can only get through Arena, since that’s the top-tier PVP stuff. So, I decided to give it a shot. After all, Arena points are tracked by the system, not people. And you buy the gear from a system vendor—no one can “ninja” it. Still, it meant I had to be online at a specific time.

I joined as a healer for a 3v3 team. Besides me, there were two others. At first, the pace was too fast for me; I couldn’t keep up. Especially as a healer, the enemy team would usually “focus fire” on me first. While trying to run away, I had to watch my teammates’ health bars and heal both them and myself at the same time. I was totally overwhelmed. As a result, I was usually the first to go down, followed shortly by my teammates. After this happened a few times, one of my teammates told me: “When they’re all focusing you, don’t worry about us. We’ll find a way to stay alive. You have to prioritize healing yourself. If you go down, you can’t do anything. No matter what happens, survive first—that’s the only way you have a chance at a comeback.”

“No matter what happens, survive first—that’s the only way you have a chance at a comeback?” Wow—that made so much sense. I didn’t expect to hear something so profound from people like them. From then on, I kept those words in my heart whenever I played Arena. I made sure I survived first. My skills improved a bit, though I was never a “pro.” After a while, the team naturally drifted apart, and everyone went back to doing their own thing.

All of this happened a long time ago. I vaguely remember it being the period between high school graduation and moving to Canada for school. It’s been many, many years. But I still remember exactly what that teammate said. It was just so right. And I often apply that same logic to my life: “Survive first.” It’s funny—those words came out of the mouth of a “WoW player” I used to be prejudiced against 😂

Of course, words like that—even famous quotes—depend on the context. Like “hard work pays off”—it’s true in some cases, but misleading in others. Not everything gives a return just because you work hard; it depends on what it is. And “No matter what, survive first” obviously has its limits too. For instance, if a child is in danger and the parents have to risk their lives to save them, “survive first” doesn’t apply. Most parents would choose to trade their lives for their child’s chance to live. But outside of those “worth it, even if the cost is life” situations, it’s a pretty solid rule. I eventually learned to survive first in life, because that’s the only way you get a shot at a comeback.

Earlier, I talked about three side effects brought about by caution:
missing fleeting opportunities; avoiding attempts at things with a low probability of success but also a low cost, thereby losing opportunities for learning and growth; and over-analysis, which leads to paralysis in action.

As for seizing fleeting opportunities, I’ve improved a lot compared to before. I’ll talk about that in another chapter, since it fits better there.

Regarding over-analysis, I’ve come to realize that what it really produces are difficulties imagined by myself. The key to overcoming these imagined obstacles is action. I also feel that my ability to act has improved quite a bit, and I’ll discuss this part separately as well. Once I recognized that over-analysis creates illusions, which isn’t real situations, I also realized its low value, and as a result, I’ve gradually stopped engaging in it—because it simply doesn’t help much.
What replaces it is more measured and reasonable analysis: identifying problems, identifying possible solutions, and then acting. I can’t say that I do this 100% of the time now, and I don’t even dare to say that I do it most of the time. But it has become the direction I’m more willing to choose.

As for not attempting things with a low chance of success but also a low cost, this essentially comes down to a choice between “not experiencing failure” and “facing opportunities for learning and growth.” It’s not that I’m no longer afraid of failure. If possible, of course I would prefer not to fail. But under the premise that the cost of failure is low, experiencing failure is insignificant compared to the value of learning and growth. So I’m more willing to give it a try and treat it as an opportunity.

However, over time I discovered something else: even when the cost of failure is low, there is still a hidden cost—emotional cost. Even if failing doesn’t result in losing anything tangible, it can still bring feelings of frustration, and even damage to self-esteem. Repeatedly experiencing this kind of psychological setback causes the cost to accumulate, eventually making it harder to continue choosing “opportunities for growth.” At that point, recovery may be needed. I may talk about this in a future chapter.

Gradually, I discovered another side effect of caution that has been affecting me: I tend to analyze situations based on the worst-case scenario—I habitually think in a negative direction.

This is not quite the same as over-analysis. Over-analysis involves excessive thinking that eventually constructs an extremely difficult imagined situation, leading to paralysis in action. It is more about thinking too much.
Analyzing from the worst-case perspective, on the other hand, involves amplifying negative signals or evidence while minimizing positive ones. I still take action, but this causes my actions to head in the wrong direction, or significantly obstructs my ability to act. I noticed this problem when I realized that my ability to act had dropped sharply.

Since then, whenever I notice my ability to act being affected by negative thoughts, I analyze whether I’m amplifying those negative thoughts, or whether there is sufficient evidence to truly support them. I then look for positive evidence to evaluate the reliability of the negative assumptions. At the same time, I also have to prevent myself from deliberately favoring the positive and becoming blindly optimistic. The tendency toward negative thinking itself is actually a signal—it reminds me to be more alerted. If the negative evidence is far less critical than the positive evidence, then there is no reason for negative assumptions to override the positive ones.

However, as I continue to receive new information, when the actual situation is unknown and I am merely speculating, I still tend to classify it as “negative evidence.” Simply because it could be negative, I place it in that category first. This, in turn, pushes my actions toward the negative side—namely, complete avoidance and withdrawal, which is also a form of “avoiding failure.”
When the true situation is not yet clear, I shouldn’t simply classify it as negative evidence. I need to consider possible positive interpretations of the evidence. At the same time, I will never ignore its potential to be negative, and may analyze the probability of it being negative. The main purpose is to prevent my actions from deviating entirely from the appropriate direction when certainty is not absolute, and to prevent a sharp decline in my ability to act. I need to preserve my ability to act—because only action can move the story forward.

Another approach is to clearly understand the true nature of the evidence. As mentioned above, classifying unclear evidence as negative is precisely because it is unclear. If I fully understood the evidence, it would be difficult to misjudge it. If it is negative evidence, then it is negative; if it is positive, then it is positive, and I can make a clear and correct judgment. The problem is that sometimes I have no way of knowing its true nature. In some cases, clear evidence or signals must come from other people. But others may not be willing to provide such clarity, and in some situations, the probability of others providing clear evidence or signals may even approach zero. As a result, this method can only be used when conditions allow.

For now, these are the methods I’m using to counter another side effect of caution. I don’t know whether they are fully effective, but they do seem to help to some extent. At the very least, I’ve become aware of the issue and begun to question my own judgments.

As I said in the previous article, I learned something from World of Warcraft players—a group I was “prejudiced” against—that I still remember and practice to this day. This reminded me that there are actually things to learn or draw from many people, even from people I dislike. Of course, this does not mean I start to like them or agree with them. No, I just separate the individual from the issue. I will not blindly deny everything about them just because I dislike a person. I will distinguish a person’s merits and flaws according to my own principles and values.

Speaking of this, I remember someone from the past. He liked to brag very much; basically, 9 out of 10 things he said were bragging. And he also particularly liked to attract others’ attention. I myself would not intentionally try to get attention, but I would try to understand those who very much like to be the focus. But bragging and acting affectatiously just to attract attention and become the focus—that was a bit much for me. So I just avoid him; I really couldn’t stand listening to him, as almost nothing was true or useful; it was purely to get attention.

Later, I met him in a place I frequently go. I really didn’t want to have any interaction with him, so I didn’t go over and say hello (in my current job, I put most of my energy into the work and save my remaining energy; if I don’t, I feel like I won’t make it to the end of the day 😅, so I give people a little bit of a serious impression, but in my personal life, I still proactively greet people). As it turned out, he took the initiative to come to me and started talking about something. I really didn’t want to deal with him, so I avoided eye contact the whole time and just answered in a flat voice like “Yes,” “Mm-hmm,” waiting for him to leave.

Later I found he appeared there frequently, and often came over to say something to me. I originally still treated him very coldly, but after about three times, I felt embarrassed to continue like this. Thinking about it, although his constant bragging to get attention indeed made me unable to stand it, that doesn’t mean he is a bad person. Should I really treat him this way? I even started to doubt myself 😂. Later, when I saw him there, I had no choice but to take the initiative to give a simple greeting; I was also embarrassed to keep a stiff face all the time.

Through this, I realized that although he has traits I find hard to accept—using bragging to get attention—he still has merits in socializing. Especially if someone misunderstood me and had a bad impression of me, I might feel that I actually didn’t do anything wrong, and if there was no special reason, I might not do anything to clear up the misunderstanding. But what if the person who misunderstood me is exactly the person I want to get close to? Doesn’t his approach actually make up for one of my blind spots? This way, I can have an opportunity to clear up the misunderstanding, instead of just leaving the misunderstanding and having difficulty getting close to that person. Mentioning the person I want to get close to here does not mean this person is useful to me and I approach the person to exploit him/her; I am not good at that kind of thing. Rather, it means I respect this person and sincerely want to get to know them.

So I will not completely deny a person just because I dislike them; I can also see their merits. If the merit is something I can learn and use, I may learn it depending on the situation. If the logic is right but I cannot agree with the execution, I will transform it into a version I can accept, rather than copying it 100%.

I was just talking about learning things from people I dislike. But learning things from people toward whom I don’t have a subjective dislike is even more common. Many people have experienced this, down to learning how to do specific tasks. For example, if you originally didn’t know how to do something or didn’t know what to do in a situation, you go through it once with that person and see how they do it, and then you will likely learn it.

There is one thing I have a particularly deep impression of. Once at the workplace, I suddenly heard a huge bang outside. We hurried out to look, and it turned out that a truck driver, while reversing, had hit and broken a natural gas pipe.

The natural gas was gushing out crazily, making a massive noise. There happened to be a gas station right next to it. That broken pipe was right outside the door where I work. I was standing next to it at the time, listening to the ear-splitting noise of the natural gas spraying out; the level of shock was beyond words. I had never encountered this kind of situation; I felt the danger but didn’t know what should be done. I only knew that I shouldn’t open any flames and should immediately call 911. But what should be done about that gushing pipe? It would take a while for professionals to arrive; in the meantime, should the natural gas just be allowed to gush out?

I was standing there dazed with the truck driver who caused the trouble. At this time, my boss went in, took a towel and a large wrench, and walked out. He wrapped the towel around a piece like a large screw cap underneath the damaged part and used the wrench to turn it. At that time, the sound of the natural gas was as huge and piercing as a jet engine. This is not an exaggeration; it was truly so. Standing next to it, I couldn’t hear what people nearby were saying at all.

Thinking that it was natural gas and that there was a gas station nearby sent chills down my spine. I really couldn’t stand it, so I went back inside to wait. After a while, the noise was gone. I went out and saw that the boss had tightened that bolt, which closed the natural gas pipe. That piece was actually a valve. Later, firefighters and maintenance personnel arrived.

Afterward, the boss told me he used the towel to prevent the wrench and the bolt from accidentally creating sparks. I really admired him—he could even handle this kind of situation. Because of my reserved personality, I didn’t give him a literal thumbs-up on the spot, but internally, I was applauding him. Also, I learned how to handle it if I ever encounter a similar situation again.

If that example seems uncommon, there are more common ones. For example, when I do things, I tend to be very logic-driven, which sometimes makes it difficult for me to bridge the distance with others socially. I gradually discovered one of my colleagues; although she is usually a bit naughty and sometimes gives others extra “workload” (but she is very reliable when busy), she is very good at building rapport. I even feel she has an extraordinary talent for this. This might be due to her personality, but I truly learned some tips from her. Because she does it so well, I had to observe her to see how she does it 😂. This is not only due to personality; this behavioral pattern is traceable and can be learned. It is something accumulated bit by bit in small matters and doesn’t necessarily need any major favors.

For another example, when I don’t know how to selflessly take care of others, as soon as I think of how my parents did it, I know how to do it. Whether it is between them or toward me.

In the past, I also learned one thing that I want to discuss separately. I will continue in the next part.

I learned something from certain people. This didn’t just touch my heart; it made me really want to spread it to others.

In middle school, I was in a Math Olympiad class. It wasn’t a traditional class, but a group of students from different classes who were good at math. We would meet in one classroom during the last period of the day. Because there were national competitions, students with outstanding results would be fast-tracked into top high schools. That was everyone’s ultimate goal at the time. Most of the students were from Class 1 and Class 10; they made up more than half of the group. From my class, it was basically just me.

In the beginning, students from different classes didn’t know each other well. Since I hadn’t attended the Math Olympiad sessions during the summer break before middle school started, it was basically my first time meeting them. When the class ended and school was over, students from the same class usually went home together. I would walk back by myself, and it was winter then, so the weather was quite cold.

After I had walked home alone a few times, one day, I was preparing to head home by myself as usual. Just as I was about to walk out of the school gate, a student from Class 10 who was also in the class chased after me. He said, “I noticed before that we’re headed in the same direction. A few of us each chip in a dollar to take a taxi back together. Since it’s winter, why don’t you come with us? You don’t need to pay, just get in.” I was very surprised. I was already at the school gate, and he had chased me all the way from the classroom. Although it was winter, his invitation made me feel warm inside instantly. It really left a strong impression on me. I went back with them that day.

The next day, I still planned to walk back by myself; after all, it didn’t feel right to keep getting a free ride. When I reached the school gate, he chased after me again, this time bringing one of his classmates with him. He grabbed my wrist, laughed, and joked, “Why are you walking alone? Are you doing this just to see how we’ll react?” His classmate chimed in, “Yeah, exactly!” Then the two of them pulled me into the taxi. They didn’t let me pay, either.

This happened back in middle school, many years ago. I might not even remember the names of some of my own classmates from that time, but I still remember this incident very clearly. The feeling was powerful—a kind of warmth that was truly moving.

What happened next? It was probably my pride. After riding with them a few times, I decided to go back to walking home alone. I wasn’t very mature back then—I felt like I was putting myself in a position of weakness. Looking back now, I can understand why I felt that way, but it wasn’t actually necessary. I could have just found an opportunity to pay for the whole taxi once myself, especially since I had plenty of pocket money then. But that’s just how it was at the time.

There is one thing that hasn’t changed—neither back then nor even now, many years later: the way I see that classmate. He was truly remarkable. Even after all these years, whenever I think back on it, I can’t help but feel amazed—he was just incredible. I almost feel like giving him a thumbs-up even now. And it was through that moment that I truly realized how something as simple as caring for others can have such a powerful and lasting impact.

Another experience took place during my university years in Canada, also many years ago. At the time, I joined a volunteer activity where we made sandwiches for people experiencing homelessness. We weren’t responsible for handing them out—we simply prepared the sandwiches at one location, and other volunteers would distribute them the next day.

I was living in a university residence back then, and my campus was located near the southern edge of the city, while the volunteer site was in the north. I didn’t have a car, so I had to take the bus. Because of the distance, it required two buses and took about an hour and fifteen minutes to get there. The trip back took about the same amount of time.

While making sandwiches, people sitting at the same table would usually chat. My English back then wasn’t as effortless as it is now, so speaking still came with a bit of pressure. I could communicate, but I wasn’t very inclined to start conversations. On top of that, I wasn’t very good at chatting in general—even in my native language—so I mostly just listened. But the volunteers were very friendly; they would include me in the conversation and ask me questions. However, each time I went, the people at my table were usually different. Occasionally I would see someone I had met before, but that didn’t happen often.

One time, I sat at the same table with a middle-aged lady whom I had never met before. As everyone started chatting, she asked me where I was from. I told her I was from China. Then she began asking questions about Chinese food. I found her questions difficult to answer—not because I couldn’t express myself in English, but because I simply didn’t know the answers. At that time, I didn’t know how to cook at all. I had never even handled raw meat, and I couldn’t name some of vegetables. I genuinely didn’t know how to answer her questions 😅 Seeing me hesitate, she might have thought she had offended me. She explained that she used to work in a restaurant and was very interested in food. Since I was from China, she wanted to learn more about Chinese cuisine. I also explained that I really didn’t know how to cook, so I couldn’t answer some of her questions, but what she mentioned were indeed Chinese dishes. She and the others at the table also asked whether it snowed where I came from. I said yes, and that we actually had quite a lot of snow. They nodded to each other. She also asked where I lived. I told her I was staying in a university residence and that it took me over an hour by bus to get there. She seemed a bit surprised and told the others that I had to travel across almost half the city to get there.

That time, the conversation came to an end naturally. It was close to Christmas, and since it was winter, it got dark very early. As usual, I prepared to take the bus back. At that moment, the middle-aged lady who had been sitting at the same table called out to me and said she could drive me home. I wasn’t sure whether she was heading in the same direction. If not, it would be too much trouble for her to go such a long distance. So I asked whether it was on her way. She didn’t give a direct answer, which made it clear that it wasn’t. I didn’t want to trouble her, so I tried to politely decline. But she said, “For me, this might just be 15 minutes, but for you, you have to take two buses for over an hour in this cold winter night. Come on, I’ll drive you.” And just like that, she drove me home that day.

I still remember this very clearly. We had only met once, and since the volunteers were often different each time, it was very likely that we would never see each other again. At that time, I was just a quiet and rather unnoticeable international student who didn’t actively talk to others. I couldn’t offer her anything in return, not even in the future. Yet she still chose to drive me home, simply because she knew I would otherwise have to spend a long time on the bus on a cold winter night. And that sentence she said—that it would only take her 15 minutes, but would take me over an hour on the bus on a winter night—has stayed with me ever since.

It was through this that I came to understand how powerful helping others can be. It can fill someone with warmth, and beyond that, it can inspire them to share that warmth with others. I hope to learn from people like them and bring warmth to others. I want to become someone like them.

Did I later go on to spread that same warmth, like they did? I wouldn’t say I fully achieved that, because I truly think they did something exceptional—I don’t feel I’ve reached their level. But whenever others need help, I do offer it. For example, when some people first arrive in Canada, they are unfamiliar with many things and don’t have a car. I would sincerely help them—buy daily necessities, take care of various documents, and so on. At work, during winter, if someone doesn’t have a car after their shift, I would also give them a ride home. Especially if they come to me and ask, I would never refuse. In other situations as well, whenever people ask me for help, I try to be very serious and responsible in helping them. Some people have even wanted to give me something in return, but I usually decline. Because I’m not doing it for any kind of repayment—not material, and I’m not even looking for any kind of favor in return. If you want my help, you don’t need to try to please me. To be honest, that would actually make me feel a bit uncomfortable. You just need to sincerely explain your situation. I’ll offer help based on the situation. After all, I was once helped by others in the same way, and I simply want to help others and give back to society.

But I also don’t let my kindness become something cheap or taken for granted. For example, some people may say they are asking for help, but in reality they are trying to shift their responsibilities or avoid their own tasks.

Another thing I gradually realized while helping others is that not everyone is able to understand or appreciate kindness. For instance, some people are quite selfish. They ask for help, and normally, if you ask someone for help, you should at least take that person into consideration. But in their eyes, the person helping them is merely a tool—as long as their problem is solved, it doesn’t matter what consequences the helper might face. What’s more, they even think this behavior is clever, as if it shows their own capability. That was when I realized that there are people who are both selfish and not actually smart, yet believe themselves to be.

There are also some people who are not inherently bad, but may have grown up or lived for a long time in an environment filled with negativity or hostility. In order to survive and adapt, they developed a way of thinking that matches that environment. Can you call them bad people? Not entirely. But the mindset they formed in that environment also makes them part of it. When you help them, they may gladly accept your help, while at the same time harboring a kind of resentment toward you. Yet they will still come to you for help.

To be honest, when I think back on helping the kinds of people mentioned above, I do feel some regret. What does that regret mean? Does it mean I shouldn’t have helped them at the time? I think if I were put back into those same situations, without knowing that such people existed, I would still choose to help them. Because I help others out of my own inner belief that it is meaningful and worthwhile—I don’t need anything in return. But after realizing that such people exist, I feel that I shouldn’t help them, because helping them makes something that I value and find meaningful become, in a way, cheapened. Still, these experiences have allowed me to see more and learn more.

What I talked about earlier was learning from the strengths or positive qualities of others. But there is another situation—learning from the negative sides of others, correcting oneself through them. I’ll talk about that in the next part. Before ending, I have to once again express my admiration for that classmate from Class 10 in middle school. He was only in his first year of middle school back then, yet he was already able to do something like that. Even now, I still admire him greatly 👍

There’s another way I’ve found that helps me learn or correct myself. Sometimes I don’t even realize that I’ve actually been influenced and corrected myself—and that is through seeing negative things.

When I was in elementary school, I used to go with my school classmates to a Math Olympiad teacher’s home to study math. He wasn’t our school’s regular Olympiad teacher, but another one outside of school. So at the beginning, we weren’t very familiar with the teacher—we had only just started learning from him not long before. I usually went there with classmates from my own regular class, as well as students from other classes. Even though those students weren’t in my regular class, we had spent many years together in Math Olympiad classes, so we all knew each other very well.

When it was time to go home, each of us would take out one yuan and share a taxi. Sometimes we just felt like walking a bit more and chatting together, so we’d walk a long distance home instead.

One time, we went to this teacher’s home for class. Like I said, he hadn’t known us for very long, but it wasn’t our first time meeting him—we had already gone several times. During a break, the teacher pointed at me and said to the others, “Do you know what impression I have of him? I feel like he never uses swear words.”

When I heard that, I felt both surprised and not surprised at the same time. What do I mean by that?

There’s something a bit strange about me. In front of adults, I always come across as a well-behaved, “good kid.” It’s not something I deliberately try to present or fake. In fact, I didn’t even notice that I gave off that impression in front of adults. It might also have something to do with Korean-Chinese culture, where respecting elders is emphasized. But among kids my own age—especially classmates I was very familiar with—I was a completely different kid.

Back in elementary school, I was physically stronger than most of my classmates, and my academic performance was also very good. My pocket money wasn’t a lot, but it wasn’t little either. I would often use that money to “order” other classmates around.

What do I mean by that? I often saw some students pick on classmates who had physical or mental disabilities, or those from very difficult family backgrounds. I never bullied those students—not even once. I wouldn’t say I was especially righteous; I just felt that bullying those kinds of classmates was despicable, low-level behavior—the kind of thing only weak people do.

But I would often use money to make other classmates do things for me. For example, I might give someone two yuan and ask them to buy something for me: “Use 1.5 yuan to get something I like, and you can keep the remaining 0.5 yuan for yourself.” Since I was physically strong, and because I did well in school and had teachers backing me up, most classmates couldn’t really do anything about me. Because of that, I would sometimes act without restraint and be less than polite to others.

Along with that, I also often used swear words. At the time, I was very young and immature—I thought swearing was fun. And since other classmates couldn’t really challenge me, I ended up using swear words quite often in front of some of them.

If I were to evaluate my younger self now, I would definitely say that this behavior was wrong—whether it was being disrespectful to others or using swear words. But that was how things were back then, and later in life I paid the price for it as I grew up. I probably won’t write about that part.

So when the Olympiad teacher said that I seemed like someone who never used swear words, the classmates who knew me well all laughed—as if they were saying, “Teacher, are you serious?”

Later, when I got to middle school, I was still the same as in elementary school at first. If a classmate asked me to pass a book to him, I would just throw it at his face. I still used swear words in front of my classmates.

Later, gradually, when I moved into 8th and 9th grade, something started to change. It felt like when I used swear words, it was basically just the same two phrases over and over again.

Then one time, I saw a few students sitting in the back row who often skipped class talking to each other. They were full of swear words, and they thought it was fun to swear like that. I don’t know why, but at that time I had a feeling—this is so ugly. Yes, I felt that speaking so recklessly with swear words, treating it as something fun, something entertaining, felt really ugly and childish. I don’t know why I had that feeling. I clearly used to think swearing was fun myself. I think maybe I had grown up a bit, and my way of thinking had changed slightly. But after that, I still often felt that treating swearing as something fun or “cool” was ugly behavior. Although I still occasionally used swear words, it was no longer because I thought it was fun.

Later, when I got to high school. I can’t remember the exact time, probably around 11th grade. I was playing basketball with my classmates, and I told them about how my Olympiad math teacher in elementary school once said that I seemed like someone who never used swear words. I told it as a joke. My classmates laughed at first, but one of them said to me: “You really don’t swear much.”

After hearing that, I thought about it and realized that by high school, I really had already started to use swear words very rarely. And I also realized why, in middle school, I basically only used the same two swear words over and over again. It was because I had already started unconsciously “cutting out” swear words. I didn’t deliberately control it. It wasn’t like I would tell myself, “I can’t swear, swearing is bad,” whenever I was about to say something. I didn’t do that. It was just that I kept feeling that speaking recklessly with swear words, or habitually using swear words, felt kind of ugly. Maybe that feeling made me gradually stop using them without realizing it.

After that, I became less and less willing to use swear words. Around the university, I almost didn’t use them anymore. Even at that time, I still felt that swearing was really ugly. I didn’t want to become that kind of person. That also led to me to almost completely get rid of the habit of swearing.

It has been many years since then. I can’t say I never swear at all. Sometimes when I get startled, I might instinctively say a swear word. When I’m angry, I might also occasionally say some simple swear words. But in most cases, you won’t see me using any swear words. I might speak in a more formal way, and my wording might even be a bit softer. You would almost never associate me with the kind of person who “used to swear a lot” when I was a child.

And even though I now still try to be mindful of my language—not just out of habit, but also a bit consciously—I don’t force other adults to avoid swearing. Because I’ve slowly come to understand that life has all kinds of difficulties, and everyone’s situation is different. But I have to say, it really was after seeing how people behave when they swear that I found it ugly, and that’s what made me completely change my “swearing habit.”

Just like that, you can also learn or correct yourself from negative things. Things like this actually happen quite often in life. And I also think that when teaching someone something, you can try letting them see negative examples. It feels like a feasible and good method.

Originally, this “learning” section was supposed to end here. But since I’ve already brought up my middle school days, I’d like to add one more story from that time—also as a way of sharing something I learned back then.

Speaking of the Math Olympiad class in middle school—how did things go for me there later on? During the summer break when I transitioned from elementary to middle school, the Olympiad class at my new school was already running. My parents didn’t insist that I attend it. After all, it was a rare graduation summer vacation, and they thought I should have a proper break. As a result, none of the students in the Olympiad class knew me at all. After school started, all students who wanted to join the class had to take a unified entrance test. When the class officially began, seating was arranged based on the test results. I remember I ranked sixth. Since none of my Olympiad classmates had seen me in the summer sessions, and I suddenly showed up with a strong score, it felt like I had “parachuted in” out of nowhere. Some of them even thought I might be a relative of some school administrator who had been specially placed there.

However, because I hadn’t attended the summer classes, I had never learned about absolute value in math. After the semester began, the Olympiad class simply continued from where the summer course had left off. At first, I didn’t realize this. Since everyone had entered through the same test, I assumed we would all start from the beginning—after all, it was the first official lesson. But then I saw vertical bars around numbers everywhere and couldn’t understand anything. That’s when I realized the class had picked up directly from the summer progress.

This didn’t make much sense. Middle school is a fresh start—students come from different elementary schools, even from other cities or towns. There’s no guarantee that everyone could attend a summer class at a school they hadn’t even enrolled in yet. Logically, the official class after enrollment should start from a common baseline. But in reality, it just continued from the summer content.

Because I had never learned absolute value, I struggled to understand a lot of the material that relied on it. And Olympiad Math is essentially about learning advanced topics ahead of time. Given our limited background at the time, it relied heavily on techniques. But a technique-heavy approach isn’t very stable—once you fall behind, it’s easy to keep falling behind. And that’s exactly what happened to me. I gradually started to lag behind in the class. Although I still managed to win some competition awards, I personally felt that I didn’t truly understand how to solve those problems. One of the Olympiad teachers once commented about the competition awards like this: “The one who should have won didn’t, and the one who shouldn’t have won did.” Honestly, can someone who says something like that even be called a teacher?

As I mentioned before, more than half of the students came from Class 1 and Class 10, and the Olympiad teachers were also from those classes. This made them more familiar with those students and more attentive to them. To be frank, the character and professionalism of those teachers left a lot to be desired. Over time, I also became someone they saw as “falling behind.” My homeroom teacher was a math teacher, though she didn’t teach Olympiad Math. She cared about me a lot and strongly recommended me to the Olympiad teachers. By the way, she’s the teacher I respect the most out of all I’ve ever had. While other teachers charged fees for tutoring, she helped students completely for free, and she genuinely cared about her class. But as for me, I had basically become someone who was just coasting in the Olympiad class. As I said earlier article, the biggest purpose of the Olympiad class was to achieve high rankings in national competitions and get directly admitted into top high schools. But to me, that always felt like a distant possibility. I felt like I was just “coasting” in class.

Then one day, my homeroom teacher said in front of everyone that if I was only coasting in the Olympiad class, I might as well quit—if I was going to do something, I should do it seriously. I knew she didn’t actually mean for me to quit. From her tone, I could tell she was trying to motivate me through the reverse psychology. But do you know what I did? I took her words and turned them back on her—I quit the Olympiad class without hesitation.

On the end of the day, I was supposed to go to the Olympiad class, but I didn’t. When the teacher asked why I hadn’t gone, I said I had decided to quit. She looked at me but didn’t say anything—no blame, no criticism. My classmates were all surprised, since I was the only student from our class in the Olympiad program. When I got home, I told my parents about it. They didn’t say much either—if I quit, then so be it. That actually surprised me. I had studied Olympiad Math for so many years, and yet when I decided to quit, not a single person blamed me for it.

But you know what? This turned out to be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

Why do I say it was a good decision? That has to do with getting into a top high school. Back in middle school, my academic performance was always very strong. I would basically get full marks in math, and my other subjects were solid too. There was one time I took a history exam—I finished first and was about to leave the classroom to go play on the playground when I ran into the homeroom teacher. Seeing me hand in my paper so early, she thought I wasn’t taking the exam seriously and looked at me disapprovingly, I didn’t say anything. However, I ended up scoring 99 out of 100 on that exam. Even so, although my grades were good, my overall rank hovered within the top 50 in my grade—sometimes around 30th, sometimes around 40th. The reason was one subject: from the beginning of Grade 7 to the end of Grade 8, I never once passed it—not even reaching 60 out of 100. What subject was it? English—the very language I’m using right now.

Yes, my English was terrible in middle school. I never passed a single exam. That’s because I really disliked rote memorization. But since I had quit math competitions, getting into a top high school would depend on my total exam score, not competition results. And to get in without paying 20,000 RMB (Chinese currency), I had to rank in the top 10 of my grade. That’s right—if you didn’t make the top 10, you had to pay 20,000 RMB to get into a top high school. That was quite a lot of money at the time. And even then, not everyone could just pay and get in—there was still a minimum score requirement. If you didn’t reach that cutoff, you couldn’t get in at all. So I had to improve my English. That was my only weak point.

At first, I attended after-school English tutoring classes run by our school English teacher—of course, they weren’t free. But once I went, I didn’t want to do the exercises because I didn’t understand anything, so I just filled in answers randomly. The teacher noticed but didn’t say anything. After a few times, she made a comment in a “concerned” tone: “Some people do well in every subject except English. You try to help them improve, but they just won’t study properly.” I knew she was talking about me, but she didn’t actually do anything. I kept writing whatever I wanted and then went off to play with my classmates after finishing. She didn’t intervene. Naturally, my English didn’t improve at all—I kept failing every time. Looking back now as an adult, it feels like that teacher just wanted students to attend her paid classes. As long as your money went into her pocket, she doesn’t care what you do. Whether their grades improved afterward didn’t really matter to her. She just put on a show of being concerned.

Later, my family started looking for a private tutor. The first one said he would only teach exam techniques. He came twice and then stopped showing up. When you teach something, what really matters is understanding and learning the subject itself, not just test-taking tricks. Even if you teach exam strategies, they should be built on a solid understanding of the subject. But he barely taught any actual English—just so-called “techniques.” That approach made no sense at all, and then he just disappeared after two sessions without a word. It was really ridiculous. Another tutor we found taught elementary school-level English, which obviously wasn’t suitable either. Eventually, through a classmate’s recommendation, we found a third tutor.

He actually taught me what I really needed to learn. He also gave me assignments—like writing out lots of vocabulary. I didn’t like rote memorization, and he wasn’t my school teacher, so I didn’t do the homework he assigned. The next time he came, he asked if I had done it. I didn’t want to lie, but I also couldn’t admit I hadn’t done it 😓 So I stammered, “I… I did.” He asked me to show it to him. I had nothing, of course, so in a panic I grabbed a random English notebook and pointed to a page filled with words. After looking at it, he realized it wasn’t the homework he had assigned. I tried to explain that maybe I had remembered the assignment wrong. He stared at me—it was obvious he knew I hadn’t done it. But he didn’t scold me. After looking at me for a while, he just said, “Make sure you do it next time,” and then continued teaching.

Honestly, if he had scolded me back then, I might have felt better. But because he said nothing, I actually felt deeply ashamed. I may not have liked writing a single word 20 times, but I still had a sense of self-respect. From the next session on, I completed all the homework he assigned—actually, not just the next one, but every single assignment afterward. And he checked them every time. He also taught English really well—not useless test-taking tricks, but real knowledge of the language. Seeing how seriously he taught, I couldn’t help but take it seriously too. And it really worked. My English grades improved—from failing, to the 70s, then the 80s, and eventually close to 90. And it wasn’t just a one-time thing—it was steady progress. The classmate sitting in front of me, who was ranked in the top 10 of the grade at the time, was amazed when she saw my English test paper and couldn’t understand how my English had improved so quickly. My homeroom teacher and English teacher were also surprised. Actually, the English teacher wasn’t surprised on her own—it was only after the homeroom teacher told her that she reacted as if she was. Of course, she didn’t really care about it anyway.

So, how did the high school entrance exam (Gaokao-style middle school exam) turn out in the end?

In the past, you basically had to rank in the top 10 of your grade to get into the top high school without paying a pretty high fee. But in the year we took the exam, the policy changed. Previously, admission quotas to the top high school were evenly allocated among middle schools to reduce the gap in educational resources. But that year, it shifted to being almost entirely based on exam scores. In other words, as long as your score was good enough, even if you were only in the top 50 of your grade, you might still get into a top high school without paying anything.

Because it’s been so long, I can’t remember most of my other scores. But I still clearly remember math and English. I got 117 out of 120 in math, which wasn’t surprising at all. And I got 114 out of 120 in English—I only got two multiple-choice questions wrong. I still can’t forget that. From never even passing English in the past two years to scoring 114 out of 120 in the most important and hardest exam—that still feels like a legend to me when I think about it.

I ended up getting into the top high school very smoothly, without any suspense and without paying a cent. Back then, I decided to quit the Olympiad math class, which is why I started focusing on improving my English. That led me to meet the private English tutor, and later my English improved enough for me to enter the top high school. If I had stayed in the Olympiad Math class, I would almost certainly not have achieved any competition results, and I wouldn’t have had the chance to improve my English either. Staying in that track would have been a losing situation for me. So I really think quitting the Olympiad Math class was the right decision.

I’m also very grateful to that private tutor who taught me at the time. He was just a university student, but he taught me very responsibly. He always checked whether I had done my homework, and he taught the material very seriously. Compared to my school English teacher and the other tutors I had, the difference was night and day. From him, I also learned that when you teach someone, you should be strict and take it seriously. Because I personally experienced the benefits of that approach, I also apply it when I teach others. I make sure they actually complete their tasks properly, check the quality of their work, and explain clearly why it’s important to do things well.

To me, this whole experience really feels like a legend. And that university student who tutored me back then genuinely influenced my attitude toward how I do things. And can you imagine? I’m now living in an English-speaking country. Back then, I would never, ever have imagined that 😅