What Foon Yew Taught Me About Life, Leadership, and Legacy

Foon Yew: Where Roots Had to Grow Deep

Foon Yew shaped me — but not by sheltering me in comfort. It shaped me the way a forest shapes a tree: you either grow deep roots, or you get swallowed.

6,000 students.

No government funding.

Endless fundraising.

No spoon-feeding.

It wasn’t a carefully curated garden where every child was nurtured and fussed over. It was a paludarium — a living, breathing ecosystem, where every struggle, every triumph, every unseen choice quietly shaped your survival.

At Foon Yew, you learned boldness by selling food during school events. You learned initiative, because nobody owed you a sale. You learned discipline, because rules weren’t optional — they were survival. Excellence wasn’t something that was handed to you. It wasn’t even expected. It was required if you wanted to stand out at all. In a sea of thousands, you either figured out how to thrive — or you quietly disappeared into the background.

Parenting Reflections: Eann, Aden, and the Unseen Battles

Earlier today, I brought my sons, Eann and Aden, back to Foon Yew for an Open Day. We laughed, we explored, we had small arguments — normal family moments. At one point, Eann got upset over something I can’t even remember now — and maybe that’s the point. In a family, we get angry, we forget, and we move on — because love always outweighs pride.

As we walked through the familiar grounds, memories stirred. Decades ago, I was one of these students — walking these corridors, selling food during carnivals, learning to survive without a safety net. Today, I watched new students doing exactly the same — carrying trays of handmade food, approaching adults shyly but boldly:

“Would you like to buy some? It’s handmade!”

It wasn’t just a fundraiser. It was a silent rite of passage.

They were learning what we had learned long ago — that life rarely rewards the passive. That selling isn’t just about having a good product; it’s about having the boldness to step forward, to take initiative, to face rejection without losing heart.

Each generation faces different battles, but the need to earn your place never changes. You either learn to move forward — or life moves past you.

No Perfect School, Only Purposeful Parents

Choosing a school for your child is never simple. There’s no perfect education system. Even within my own family, we were divided: I went to Foon Yew, my elder sister attended a public school, and my youngest sister studied at a private school. Each system shaped us differently. Each brought strengths, each left gaps.

My wife, understandably, had concerns about Foon Yew — worrying that many of its graduates might not reach university. I understood her fears. But I also understood scale. 6,000 students means more failures — but also more extraordinary talents.

Where others saw chaos, I saw a training ground. Where others feared a lack of nurturing, I saw the forging of independence. Where others worried about order, I saw the raw materials of greatness.

There is no “best” school. Only the school that best prepares your child for the battle they’re meant to fight. And in softer environments — like international schools today — where emotional nurturing is high but hardship is low, we as parents must become the blacksmiths, building discipline, resilience, and earned autonomy with our own hands.

Life Lessons from a Paludarium

Recently, I bought something curious for our home: a paludarium — an ecosystem where plants, water, crabs, and mini lobsters all co-exist, supporting each other’s survival.

At the top, a fountain keeps the water moving. At the bottom, the waste of the creatures becomes fertilizer for the plants. Everything is connected. Everything affects everything else.

When I first placed our mini crab in a plain tank, it survived, but just barely. The water dirtied quickly. There was no system — no environment to sustain life naturally. That’s what led me to the paludarium: an ecosystem that reflects how life truly works.

When one part thrives, others are lifted. When one part collapses, others suffer. Strength isn’t about isolating yourself — it’s about finding your role within something bigger than yourself.

It reminded me of Foon Yew. And of life itself. You’re not an island. You’re not a lone survivor. You are a part of an ecosystem. And your survival — your flourishing — depends on understanding your role within it.

Feng Shen Bang: The Fall of Entitled Leadership

Tonight, after dinner, we watched 封神榜 (Feng Shen Bang) together — a story of gods, kings, betrayal, and destiny. But beneath all the magical battles and special effects, I saw something simpler, something timeless: a warning about leadership.

The emperor had everything — absolute power, loyal generals, armies at his command. He could command life and death with a word. He was, in his own mind, untouchable. Almost like a god. But because he ruled through fear instead of love, control instead of service, his empire began to rot from within. Slowly, quietly, until even the soldiers who once pledged loyalty turned against him.

Not because he wasn’t strong enough. But because he lost their hearts.

I thought about my sons. About myself. About leadership in every form — as a father, as a founder, as a human being. True leadership is not about securing loyalty through fear. It’s about winning trust through sacrifice. Even if you have all the power — title, wealth, authority — it means nothing if you lose the soul of the people you are supposed to serve.

Empires fall. Legacies endure. And legacies are built not on dominance, but on devotion. Not on commanding others, but on serving them.

What Are You Building? A Dynasty, or a Legacy?

As I watched Feng Shen Bang unfold, and as I thought about the paludarium quietly cycling life in our living room, one truth kept echoing: we are all building something — whether we realize it or not.

The only question is: are you building an empire for yourself — or a legacy beyond yourself? One collapses when you are gone. The other outlives you.

In leadership, in parenting, in business, in relationships — the temptation to build for ourselves is strong. To create structures that serve our comfort, feed our pride, protect our control. But the greatest ecosystems, the greatest families, the greatest communities — they are built by those who understood they were not the center. They were stewards — caretakers for something bigger than themselves.

Reflection Questions to Carry Forward

• What kind of ecosystem are you cultivating around you?
• Are the people you lead flourishing — or just surviving?
• If you disappeared today, would what you built continue — or collapse?
• Is your leadership rooted in serving others — or in serving yourself?

The Reverse That Redefines It All

Leadership is not about rising above others. It’s about sinking your roots deeper — so others can rise higher.

That’s the kind of legacy I want my sons, Eann and Aden, to inherit. Not a throne. Not a title. But the courage to build ecosystems of life wherever they go — starting first with their own hearts. Because in the end, the greatest leadership is not seen in how high you climb — but in how deeply you serve.