Raising Sons, Elevating Teachers, and Embracing the Call We Didn’t Choose
Life Has a Way of Rewriting Our Plans
Life has a way of rewriting our plans, forcing us to adjust our sails when the winds shift. True strength lies not in forcing our will but in embracing what comes, trusting there’s purpose in the detour. On April 30, 2025, I learned this anew, sitting with my eldest son, Aden, as a canceled fishing trip turned into a profound moment of teaching and connection.
When the Boat Stayed Docked
It was 9:14 p.m., and the house was quieter than usual. I’d sent my younger sons, Eann and Evan, to stay with others, anticipating a grand adventure with Aden. The plan was to take him out on a real boat, into the vast ocean where the horizon swallows the shore, to fish and share an experience he’d carry forever. I pictured us laughing, the salty breeze in our faces, as I showed my eldest what it means to venture boldly into the unknown. But life, like the sea, is unpredictable.
Just hours before, I got word: the trip was canceled. Something about marine police instructions, details vague but final. Disappointment stung, especially for Aden, who’d been buzzing with excitement. He looked at me, his nine-year-old eyes searching, and asked, “Why am I the only one here?”
His words hit deeper than he knew. He wasn’t just asking about his brothers’ absence; he was grappling with his place, his identity as the eldest. I felt the weight of that moment—a chance to teach him something lasting.
My wife, strong and independent, was nearing the end of her pregnancy, just two months from delivering our next child. She didn’t need me hovering, but the canceled trip felt like a nudge from above, a reminder to stay close. As a believer of God, I lean on God’s sovereignty, believing every closed door has a purpose. Like a sailor reading the stars, I adjusted my course, choosing to see this as an opportunity to be present with my wife and to guide Aden through his disappointment.
A Father’s Voice, a Son’s Lesson
Aden and walked in the park, the hum of the evening settling around us. I could’ve let the moment pass, distracted by the long day behind me—coaching, a town hall speech, navigating a rain-soaked traffic jam. My body craved rest, but my heart knew this was a teaching moment, one I couldn’t squander. So, I spoke aloud, reflecting on the day, knowing Aden was listening.
I told him about responsibility, about his role as the eldest son. In our Chinese culture, being the firstborn boy isn’t just a title; it’s a mantle. It means carrying the family’s name, its legacy, its light. I shared how I’d once resisted this as a young man, the only son between two sisters, feeling burdened by expectations I didn’t choose. “Why me?” I’d ask, as if I could outrun my identity. But over time, I learned that true freedom comes not from escaping responsibility but from embracing it, like a tree rooted deep to withstand the storm.
Aden listened, his disappointment softening. I explained that his role means looking out for his mom, his brothers, and soon, his new sibling. It’s not about being perfect but about showing up, choosing to care even when it’s hard. I pointed to history—Abraham Lincoln, who saw slavery’s wrong and took ownership to change it, or Barack Obama, whose presidency marked a nation’s shift toward freedom. “One person,” I said, “can close a gap, make things better, because they choose to stand up.”
The Art of Leading Small
This moment with Aden mirrored a bigger truth I’ve learned leading Stellar Preschool. Society often dismisses early childhood educators as glorified nannies, but I’ve seen the truth: their work is an art and a science, shaping the foundation of every human life. When I started Stellar in 2016, I noticed a gap—people undervalued these educators, paying them little, respecting them less. I’d been a university lecturer, but running a preschool showed me that teaching toddlers is harder than lecturing adults. It demands patience, creativity, and resilience amid vomit, tantrums, and parents’ expectations.
Like Aden learning his role, these educators needed to embrace their identity with pride. We invested in training, elevated standards, and fought for better pay, not because it’s easy but because it’s right. True success isn’t the downhill glide of comfort—it’s the uphill climb of doing what matters. Just as I teach Aden to own his responsibility, I urge our educators to own their calling, knowing they’re building a nation, one child at a time.
A Legacy Worth Carrying
As I spoke, Aden nodded, his eyes catching mine. I don’t know how much sank in, but I trust the seeds are planted. Parenting, like leadership, is a long game, a journey of small moments that add up to something eternal. I think of my own father, the weight of his expectations, and how I’ve come to see them not as chains but as anchors, grounding me in purpose.
Life’s detours—like a canceled fishing trip—are never just obstacles. They’re invitations to pause, to teach, to grow. True strength isn’t in forcing the boat to sail; it’s in sitting with your son, sharing your heart, and showing him that legacy matters more than adventure.
As I tucked Aden in that night, I whispered, “You’re becoming someone who carries light. Don’t be afraid of it.”
Life was never meant to be a straight path. It was meant to be a story, woven with unexpected turns, where the real victory is in the meaning we find along the way.
