Running My Own Race
(Tuesday, April 1, 2025)
It was hard to fall asleep last night.
I accidentally clicked on LinkedIn, and what popped up immediately was a shiny career update from someone I’ve intentionally cut out of my life.
In my early twenties, she treated me with side-eyes and made fun of the nerdy version of me behind my back. The worst kind—because to most people, she appeared jolly and kind. When someone who pretends to be good turns out to be cruel, it feels even worse than someone who’s just openly mean. At least own your brand.
I know it wasn’t easy for her to climb into that elite world, and maybe that’s why she made sure I never felt welcome in it. The social circles, the coded norms—I didn’t belong, and I never wanted to pretend I did. I’ve never been interested in performing class.
This is all so outdated. So not worth my time now. But it did bother the twenty-year-old me—feeling like an outsider, like a clown sometimes.
So I cut ties. One of the best decisions I’ve ever made.
Still… when I saw her update—her new title at a bigger, fancier company—I felt it: that sharp little sting.
For a second, I thought, Did I waste the last few years? Did I waste my MBA?
For a longer moment, I asked myself: Why couldn’t I stay in one company for seven years like she did? Why didn’t I genuinely like everyone? Why wasn’t I more socially motivated—up for anything, smiling at everybody like she always seemed to be?
I watched the clock creep toward midnight.
And then I remembered something I’ve learned over the years: Don’t trust your mind too much at night. Don’t think too hard, don’t make decisions, maybe don’t even believe yourself fully. Everything can look different in the morning—including how you feel.
To bring myself back to reality, I thought: For all those “Why couldn’t I” questions, the answer is simple. Because that’s not me.
I shouldn’t care how much money she makes, or what her title is, or how happy she looks in filtered photos. That’s her life. Tant mieux.
We’re not friends. We’re not even meant to be in the same chapter anymore. So I’ll let her live her life, and I’ll live mine.
The only job I have is to live my own life.
Focus on myself. Be myself.
—
This morning, I went for a run in the park. A lot of people passed me.
I had a scraped knee from another run earlier this week—it’s still bleeding, and every step hurt. But the pain was on the surface, not deep enough to stop me. So I kept going. Just slower.
And I thought: We all have to run our own race.
As a runner, you can’t care who’s passing you. Or who’s behind. It’s useless to care. Everyone’s running their own route—fast, slow, with bleeding knees or pristine legs. The only thing that matters is that you keep moving forward, in your own rhythm.
I’m not behind. No one can ever truly be “behind” anyone. We’re each living a life that only we can live. And we’re in constant motion—making progress in ways that can’t be seen from the outside.
It might sound individualistic, but I’ve come to believe this more and more.
I don’t know the nature or purpose of life.
But I do know I’m trying to understand the nature and purpose of my life.
—
Last Thursday night, in a bar thumping with EDM, I found myself holding my tenth beer when someone from school asked me what I was passionate about.
He’s a young Irish doctor. His dream is to join Doctors Without Borders. He’s learning French to be able to work globally.How inspiring.
I looked amazed, and he turned to me and asked, “What are you passionate about?”
“Hmmm,” I said, tipsy and thinking for a beat. “I don’t know. The career services advisor at my MBA program once told me—”
He cut me off. “I’m not asking what they told you,” he said. “I’m asking you. What are you passionate about?”
I did a quick mental search.
Career paths. Volunteer work. Creative hobbies. Nothing stood out.
I’m excited about the new job I’m starting. But I can’t say that’s my life’s passion.
I love art. But not in the way an artist does.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m afraid… I have no passion.”
He was about to respond, but then someone else—much drunker—crashed into our conversation.
Still, I’ve been thinking about his question ever since.
Can I be passionate about simply living my life?
But then—what about life makes me passionate?
Do we even have to have a passion?
Does it need to be something fixed?
Or can our passion change over time?
I don’t have the answers.
At least not today.
But I’d like to find out.
While I run my own race.
While I live my own life.
Cleaning it up
(Friday, March 28, 2025)
Wednesday night, Valérie had a friend over for dinner. Thursday night, I went out with classmates from language school. So Friday morning, before heading off to her leadership training, she said, “We’ll have a nice dinner together tonight—to catch up.”
That felt unexpectedly nice. When your host notices your absence and wants to catch up at the end of the week, it makes you feel like you matter. We still had our long breakfast conversations each morning, but those aren't quite the same as winding down together over dinner.
Nina, Valérie’s 16-year-old daughter, has been crying almost every night since I arrived. She’s also been skipping dinners, so once again, it was just Valérie and me at the table.
“I don’t want to overstep,” I began gently, “but I’ve heard Nina crying every night. I just wanted to make sure she’s okay.”
Valérie sighed. “That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”
She explained that Nina had broken up with her boyfriend—again.
“She’s done this so many times. They break up, get back together, break up again. I’ve tried to help, but I think she needs to process her emotions herself.”
“The tall guy who was here last week?” I asked. I remembered the sound of soft laughter and kisses from Nina’s room just a few days ago—now replaced by muffled sobs.
“Yes,” Valérie nodded. “He’s a wonderful boy. Respectful, thoughtful, smart, positive… and madly in love with her. But Nina keeps pushing him away. She tests people’s limits—friends, siblings, even him.”
“I’m her mother, I’ll always stand by her,” she said. “But she can’t keep doing this to people.”
I felt even more sorry. As someone who’s pushed people away before, I knew this wasn’t what Nina wanted. I see how sweet she is. Sometimes pain wears the disguise of distance.
Trying to lighten the moment and connect, I said, “I was a very difficult child for my parents.”
That one line cracked something open.
Valérie was genuinely surprised. From what she knew of me, I seemed like a dream child. I had moved to the U.S. alone, built a life, started a company, had a strong academic record, and now was here in Lyon—reading, writing, running, doing yoga, learning French, making friends. She thought I was confident, warm, engaging. The idea that I could have been “difficult” didn’t fit.
So I told her.
—
At 16, I chose to attend a strict, rural boarding school far from my city home in China. The decision was part ambition, part impulse: the school was known for sending students to China’s top universities. And I had a crush on my desk mate from middle school who said he was applying.
He never ended up going.
The school had nearly 7,000 students, all tightly regimented under military-like discipline. We studied from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m., six days a week. Everything was scored, ranked, and compared. The dorms were rough, the bathrooms worse. I avoided drinking water to avoid using them. Showers were in a separate building, which no one used.
As a city girl, I stood out immediately. I spoke Mandarin instead of the local dialect. I dressed better. I was “other.” The local students bullied us outsiders, especially girls from big cities. My food and money were stolen. The class president targeted me publicly. My dorm mates gave me the worst bed—near a broken door where icy winter air poured in. I wore every piece of clothing I had to sleep, and still froze.
I cried every day. During class. Walking across campus. In bed at night. I even tried to sneak out of school by lying to the guards and climbing the fence, planning it in detail. I hated everything—the bullies, the dorm, even the air.
Still, somehow, I placed in the top 15% on our first exam. I hadn’t studied. I was too busy crying. That caught the attention of my chemistry teacher—a kind, awkward man with a metal tooth and a constant smile.
He pulled me aside one day and said, “You’re not even paying attention, but you still did well. Aren’t you curious what might happen if you actually try?”
That single question shifted something.
What if I fought back in my own way? Not by reacting, but by achieving—outperforming the mean girls academically, and, I’m ashamed to admit, trying to be thinner than them too. Those were the only two things girls seemed to care about in that environment.
What followed was a dangerous spiral—of obsessive studying and starvation. I buried my emotions. I smiled all the time. I read that smiling could make you happy. It didn’t work for me.
But the studying did. Books became my escape. Control became my comfort. I stopped caring about clothes, friends, anything else. I wanted out. And I would earn my way out.
After the college entrance exam, I never looked back. I skipped the farewell party. There was no one I wanted to say goodbye to—except one boy I secretly liked, who I later learned had planned to confess his feelings to me that day. I wrote him a separate thank-you letter, years later. Quietly. Just for myself.
I got into one of the best foreign language universities in the country. Everyone else saw success. But I knew I was a mess—still trapped inside the shell I’d built in high school, while weighing only 35 kg (77 lbs) at 172 cm (5'6"). .
I was chosen for an elite translator program. I felt constantly behind. My English and French lagged. I was anxious, starving, overwhelmed. Outwardly, I seemed confident and carefree. My friends said I was inspiring. They didn’t know I was playing survival as a chameleon, hiding everything.
I didn’t know what “mental health” was. Neither did my parents. But I knew something was wrong, and I needed to breathe.
During my second winter break, I asked to visit New York—to “practice English.” Really, I just needed to escape.
It was my first time abroad, second time on a plane. I forgot how seatbelts worked. A kind British family sitting next to me helped out and chatted with me the whole flight. They even gave me their nephew’s contact in NYC.
It was snowing when I landed. But I felt warm.
Times Square was chaotic, loud, packed—but it felt like freedom. No one knew me. I could just be… me. Not perfect. Not pretending.
A one-month trip became six. I volunteered at soup kitchens, helped my off-Broadway Airbnb host organize parties, and even tutored a woman I met at Starbucks.
The “old me”—the curious, fearless, joyful child—started to return. I dropped out of my Chinese university. I was ready to start over.
In 2014, I arrived at the University of New Hampshire. That was the beginning of my new life—and my American dream.
—
As I spoke, Valérie’s expression shifted constantly—shock, empathy, admiration.
And I hadn’t even gotten to the next chapter: Yishi.
She already knew about the company from our previous dinners. But last night, she understood something deeper—why it still hurts so much.
She looked at me carefully. “What you’ve done is an amazing success story. You don’t need to avoid telling the ending, you need to change your relationship with failure.”
I nodded. I already knew that.
“I also think you’re grieving,” she continued. “It was your baby. It’s in the past now.”
I knew that too.
What I didn’t know—what I hadn’t thought about—was what she said next.
“You need to clean it up.”
I looked at her, confused.
She pointed to her stomach. “There are still pieces from your past—resentments, grief, guilt—that don’t serve you. Like your anger toward unethical people you dealt with. It’s time to clean it out. Close the book. Let it go.”
Then she told me about her grandmother, a Holocaust survivor from Auschwitz. She never spoke of her experience until she was in her eighties—when she was interviewed for a documentary. She died two years later.
“You have to clean it up, Lin,” she repeated.
And I will.
I know I will.
Just like I always have.
Walking Away (Reflections on Yishi)
(Thursday, March 27, 2025)
I’ve really gotten to know my host, Valérie, over the past week and a half. She’s a beautiful woman in her fifties—tall, with a model-like figure, shiny, flowing brown hair, and an ever-elegant smile.
Every morning and evening, we spend a couple of hours chatting at the dining table while we eat.
Unlike Louis’s mother, who turns her home into a Michelin-worthy experience, Valérie doesn’t care much about organic ingredients or culinary perfection. She’s a casual home cook—raising three children on her own may have been her culinary and life training. Her food is simple but cozy, homey, warm, and relaxed.
Over breakfast and dinner, we talk about everything—starting with Lyon, the news, our work and travels, and expanding into our families, our pasts and future plans, even politics. (Thankfully, we’re aligned—and we’re both very open-minded.) I enjoy being around Valérie more and more. I feel like we’re on the same emotional wavelength.
This morning, she started a training course to become a leadership coach—someone who helps leaders grow not just in tactics, but in emotional intelligence. Before she left, we talked about leadership—the disconnects between feeling and thinking, between capabilities and EQ—and how those gaps often lie at the root of ineffective leadership. EQ, we agreed, can be developed endlessly. IQ? Not so much, but it doesn’t matter.
I took a spoonful of cereal, and my mind drifted to my experience building Yishi—my Asian-inspired oatmeal and pancake mix brand that, at its peak, was trending in 5,000 grocery stores nationwide, including Walmart and Whole Foods.
Until last July, when we shut down—right in the middle of rapid growth.
The mistakes we made. The mistakes I made.
Yes, we were deeply unlucky:
Endless supply chain delays and price hikes from COVID
Labor shortages that caused our co-packer to cancel production without notice
Oat prices skyrocketing in 2021, just as we launched nationally
Two major manufacturing accidents, each resulting in six-figure losses and PR nightmares
An unreasonable co-packer contract locking us into dangerously high volumes and frequencies
Sky-high costs from all sides—sometimes just to make a basic improvement (the final UPC change killed us)
But the mistakes I made as a leader—those may have mattered more:
Hiring the wrong people, believing hard work and eagerness could substitute for readiness
Paying team salaries we couldn’t afford, while I took just enough to survive
Saying yes to ideas I didn’t believe in, just to support the team
Letting tension with my co-founder get to me
Being too optimistic. Too bold. Then, crashing into doubt and losing confidence completely
Just to name a few.
Of course, we did many things right. And whenever someone made a mistake, we’d say, “This is education. We paid to learn. We won’t make that mistake again.”
But those lessons came with real, lasting costs. And I couldn’t raise the funding we needed in 2022 or 2023.
What followed was a string of layoffs, painful cost-cutting, and a daily grind of trying to raise money while inventing new, creative ways to grow profitable revenue.
Every day, I was at war. I didn’t allow myself to feel, or reflect. No yesterday. No tomorrow. Just execution. Do. Don’t think.
The last three team members—including me—worked without salaries. We built the most efficient model we could. Our bank accounts dipped below zero weekly. Still, we clawed our way to real progress.
In our final 12 months, we doubled sales while cutting costs in half. We were almost profitable—a rare feat for a tiny 7-figure business in national retail.
But it was just a little too late.
The early mistakes had already pushed away investors. The co-packer contract penalized us for not producing. And we had no inventory left.
Products, money, time—we ran out of all three.
In the final few months, my family sent money to help pay vendors. I got cast for a food entrepreneurship TV show—to win funding—but had to drop out because of debt collections. I nearly begged the investors who never liked us. (Side note: begging rarely works. FOMO works better, even for the exact same business.)
Some people were on the phone with me every day, trying to help.
But after countless sleepless nights, I decided: it was time to throw in the towel.
You have to know when to walk away.
After five years building Yishi, I missed my family. I couldn’t stand seeing my boyfriend stressed anymore. I wanted to relax on a Friday night. And embarrassingly, I was broke. After never paying myself a meaningful salary and only pouring more and more money into the business.
Practically, I told myself: We had no product left, only a mountain of co-packing liabilities. It’s time to walk away.
And honestly, it might be the best decision I’ve ever made.
Because in choosing to walk away, I finally began to ask: What do I want in life?
Not—how do I prove them all wrong?
Not—how do I fight to the bitter end?
For the first time, I realized:
Maybe this isn’t what I want anymore.
Maybe I don’t have to be the “oatmeal girl.”
Can I Be a Matisse Too?
(Tuesday, March 25, 2025)
Last night, I went to the movie theater again to see Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy—the newest and final Bridget Jones movie.
I loved it. Not because of the familiar gags or the new hot guys she dates, but because it captured something real: the struggles and joys of adulthood—grief, vulnerability, messiness, and the courage it takes not just to survive, but to truly live.
It’s marketed as a rom-com, but it’s really a tearjerker.
I was wiping tears throughout the whole film, while bursting out laughing at Bridget’s awkwardness and Daniel’s eternal devotion to flirting. Oh, the British—somehow they always manage to make me cry and laugh at the same time.
I once read: “Sometimes the healing hurts more than the wound.”
We learn how to survive, but that’s not enough. At some point, we have to re-learn how to live.
I’ve gone through that journey once already. Maybe the second time is just around the corner, the clock ticking. Am I ready?
Or maybe, before that—do I even know how to live?
When I was a child, my art teacher used to encourage me to add bold, contrasting brush strokes to my paintings. But I was always too afraid. I preferred small strokes, gentle transitions, gradual shifts in color.
Ironically, one of my favorite artists has always been Henri Matisse.
And last night, I realized—if Bridget were a brush stroke, she’d be one of Matisse’s.
At first glance, it may not make sense. It doesn’t conform to traditional beauty, it feels too loud, too messy, too raw. But then—its awkward, overwhelmed, neurotic existence starts to win you over. It speaks to the thoughts we keep buried deep in our minds.
The absurdity makes sense. The mess feels alive. The painting becomes more honest, more human.
More liberating.
Can I be a Matisse too?
A Perfect Moment
(Sunday, March 23, 2025)
I was singing on my way home from the movie theater. I had just seen Blanche Neige (Snow White) with a couple of friends from school.
Yes—I have friends in Lyon now.
Having drinks at a cozy, dimly lit bar with people who, like you, are new to a city is always a solid way to build quick friendships. Over a few beers, you get to know each other beyond class and see if you’re on the same emotional wavelength. Over days or weeks, you hope some of these fleeting connections might grow into something lasting—and others, you hope, quietly fade.
We’ve all had this kind of experience while traveling, and last night, I had my first official “friendship drink test.”
I must say—I liked everyone who was there.
Each person had their own story, and each story could easily be its own book. One is determined to start a new life in a new country. One is a free-spirited world traveler. Another is an aspiring diplomat, her impressive academic and professional experiences leading her steadily toward that path.
I love hearing people’s stories. They remind me of how wide and rich life can be.
Last night, they probably heard more of mine. My stories are strange, complicated, sometimes funny and heavy at the same time. One story can take forever to explain. But I shared a part of myself with them. Whether they enjoyed it or not—that’s not really my business.
This morning, after a run, I went to Carrefour to get some groceries—the same Carrefour I visited on my first day in Lyon, where I accidentally annoyed a store clerk. I was secretly hoping she wouldn’t be there. But as I stepped inside, there she was, standing right behind the checkout lane.
I awkwardly smiled at her. And—surprisingly—she smiled back. A small, genuine smile. The kind you give to someone you recognize.
She remembered me. That felt really nice.
This time, I made sure to grab a basket first, and as I walked through the aisles, I noticed her casting an approving gaze from the counter.
Everything was going smoothly. I was feeling proud, maybe even a little excited. I had turned things around! I was going to befriend the lady who had once dismissed me completely.
But then—disaster.
After putting my basket down at the register, I realized: I had no money.
No wallet. No card. Nothing.
Merde.
I immediately said, “Désolée, je n’ai pas de cartes.” (Sorry, I don’t have my cards.) I didn’t know the word for wallet. I looked at her for a second and then quickly started pulling my basket back.
From that one-second glance, I think she understood.
I put everything back quickly. The cookies I had spent 10 minutes choosing. The high-protein yogurt I was excited to eat after running for two hours. And my smiles.
When I returned later with my wallet, she didn’t smile at me again. But somehow—I still found her kind. Maybe she was in a good mood. Or maybe I was.
Coming back from the movie tonight, the streets were quiet on a Sunday night. I was singing along with Elvis Presley’s Can’t Help Falling in Love, dancing between pools of streetlight and patches of shadow, past blooming pink magnolia trees.
And I remembered the first time I came to France. I was on summer vacation with friends, but I had arranged to meet a French guy I’d met in the Copenhagen airport the Christmas before. We had met in the security line and talked until we boarded separate flights. Months later, we reunited in Avignon—a dreamy, artsy town in the south.
After dinner with my friends, he and I went for a walk.
The streets were dim and quiet, the streetlights soft and golden, flowers lining the road. He sang for me, and then held my hand to slow dance.
I knew it might be the last time I’d ever see him. Some things don’t need a future to be beautiful. His voice, our simple dance, the flickering streetlights—they were enough.
In that moment, I felt like I was dancing on a cloud.
I didn’t want anything beyond a kiss. I walked back to the Airbnb and rejoined my friends. They were surprised to see me return so early.
But I knew—I had already had the perfect moment.
Now, thinking about it again, I smiled.
The power of a perfect moment lifted me once more.
And for a second, I felt like I was walking on that same cloud again.
Push
(Saturday, March 22, 2025)
It’s Formula 1’s Chinese Grand Prix weekend—and it’s a sprint weekend—so of course, I had to watch.
Yesterday morning, I started working with the F1 sprint coverage playing in the background. As soon as the broadcast began and the familiar intro music played, it hit me. It was the most familiar thing I’ve felt since arriving in Lyon, more than the Hacheir Parmentier.
Why do I love F1?
F1 makes me feel like I’m part of an ongoing story. It makes me feel connected—to friends, to all the drivers and teams, and to something bigger. I also love how the sport works. It’s the ultimate team effort: even the best driver won’t make it to the podium in a bad car. If the strategist messes up a pit stop or tire change in unpredictable weathers, the leader can fall to the back of the pack within mere 30 seconds.
I deeply respect the drivers. They have to be both physically and mentally tough—always pushing. I think of Romain Grosjean jumping out of the high flames of a burning car. George Russell losing 4kg in one race at the brutally hot and humid Singapore Grand Prix. Daniel Ricciardo, fighting for a seat with a big smile and reminding us to “enjoy the butterflies,” after heartbreak after heartbreak.
My favorite driver is Oscar Piastri—quiet, focused, the calmest of them all. That kind of emotional control is something I truly admire.
But sadly, I don’t think I have anyone to watch F1 with right now.
Today is Saturday. I had a lot of time to read. I picked up The French Ingredient again and read about the author’s early entrepreneurial journey. Every word of her roller coaster experience reminded me of building Yishi. My eyes felt sore and my throat tight as I flipped through the pages.
She wrote:
“I was on a roller coaster ride—at one moment thinking, Forget it, this will never work, the next feeling euphoric because we had booked a client or gotten some press. Then rinse and repeat. Utter despair and regret when another bill arrives and still you don’t have clients, then sheer elation that one person out there (other than friend or family) has discovered that you exist.”
That was exactly how it felt building Yishi. Each day came with dramatic highs—like being on top of the world—and crushing lows that left me feeling helpless. I’d give everything I had and still not be able to turn some things around.
It’s been six months since we shut down, but my body still freezes and my chest tightens whenever I think about Yishi. I’m afraid to go there.
It’s all still so fresh. So complicated. So raw. Sometimes even shameful. I don’t even know where to begin to share it.
I know what I’ve learned. I know how it’s shaped me and moved me forward. I know there are so many beautiful, meaningful memories tied to it. But somehow, that only makes it harder.
It’s like the aftermath of a long-term relationship ending. The scar is too fresh, too tender to touch. And so, we bury that part of the heart for a while.
But like an F1 driver, I have to push.
I promise myself: this trip won’t be an escape. It will be a journey—of forgiving, of believing, of healing.
There will be one step forward, two steps back, and that’s okay.
The Past and the Future
(Thursday, March 20, 2025)
Today in class, we had an exercise on hypothèse. We had to complete a sentence starter using the hypothetical tense. I chose: “Si j’étais une technologie, je serais…” (If I were a technology, I would be…). A question I’ll probably never need in real life, but still, I played along.
I said: “Si j’étais une technologie, je serais une machine à remonter le temps.” If I were a technology, I would be a time machine.
Immediately, the American girl sitting next to me turned to me and asked: “What would you change if you went back?”
Without thinking, I said, “Nothing. I wouldn’t change anything.”
Did I love every moment of my life while I was living it? The times I was beaten as a kid for stealing 10 cents from my parents to buy snacks after school. The nights I cried on the intercity bus, dreading my return to a rigid rural boarding school. The loneliness after moving to the U.S. alone, missing home. The numerous heartbreaks I endured, and the guilt of giving them to others. Just a fraction of my personal encyclopedia of misery.
Do I really want to live through all of that again?
Well I think so. Maybe that’s what life is about—to love, to unlove, to meet new people, to say goodbye, to experience, and to feel everything fully.
I’ve never been good at un-loving or saying goodbye, but I know this: The people who have left my life are still a part of me, and the people waiting for me afar bring me comfort as I explore the world.
And I know I’m lucky to be able to say that I miss my childhood. I miss being the happiest, most carefree tomboy, so loved by my parents and grandparents. Everything back then felt stable, effortless.
Now, from across the Pacific Ocean, I watch our family group chat fill with updates—how my grandparents are back in the hospital again, how my parents are exhausted from caring for them, barely managing their own lives in the process.
This morning, I saw a photo of my grandmother. At first, I barely recognized her. Cancer has taken its toll.
In my memory, my grandmother was always the strongest woman I knew—working tirelessly inside and outside the house, taking care of everyone, and always doing it so well. When I visited last year, she looked much older than before, but she was still able to care for herself. Now, in this photo, she is lying in a pale blue hospital bed, her face so thin, deep lines carved into her skin. Her eyes barely open. This is the third time this month she’s been hospitalized. My parents and uncles have been by her side day and night, never sleeping more than three hours at a time. They can’t work. Everything looks chaotic and heavy.
So if I had a time machine, I would take myself back to when life was stable, quiet, and simply happy. I would give it to my parents and grandparents, too—maybe they would love to be children again, to be with their parents and grandparents once more. If this technology existed, I wouldn’t care for any others. I could write instead of type, light candles instead of switch on lamps, travel only by foot and by boat.
But this is hypothèse. It’s not real.
In the evening, a few students and I went to a boat bar on the river for drinks. I got to know a couple of them better—one American girl had quit her job as an archaeologist and is studying French for nine months and then will try to work at a coffee shop. Another Australian guy had also quit his job and is taking a six-month break to improve his French before doing the same.
I admire their plans. Big changes are always good, eventually. (And I understand why they’re so insistent on speaking French outside of class instead of English. They have a deadline.)
They reminded me of myself at 19, convincing my parents to let me drop out and move to New York alone. At 26, of quitting my "dream job" at BCG to start a company in the U.S. by myself.
Now I’m in the middle of another big change. Going from being an entrepreneur to working at Walmart doesn’t feel as cool as their transformations, but I’m truly excited. I trust that I’ll achieve so much in this next chapter. Work hard, stay open-minded, be kind.
I feel like I’ve been floating for years—maybe a decade.
And now, finally, I’m about to land. And that feels pretty damn exciting.
The Mashed Potatoes Dish That Brought Me Back Home
(Thursday, March 20, 2025)
I’m typing this diary while sitting on a rock at the riverbank, soaking in the sun.
The warmth melts my homesickness a little. Maybe it’s the jet lag, maybe it’s the unreliable WiFi and the freezing night air in my bedroom, but last night, I missed home more than ever—even though yesterday wasn’t a bad day.
In fact, it started on a positive note. For lunch, I decided to go to Les Halles de Lyon Paul Bocuse on my own. As I stepped outside, the sun wrapped around me like a hug, and Somewhere Over the Rainbow played in my headphones. I had downloaded my Warm Fuzzy Feelings playlist—fitting for this little solo date I was taking myself on.
This whole trip, really, is a long date with myself. Not just a solo vacation, but something more romantic. I secretly like to romanticize life, though I rarely admit it—it's too cringy for the stiff American business world I’ve been in. The startup world I was in before is messy and exhausting behind the scenes, and the corporate culture I will be joining has no space for poetry.
Les Halles is a covered food market dedicated to the legendary chef Paul Bocuse, the “pope of gastronomy.” With only 15 minutes before class, I wandered through the market, surrounded by a feast of sights and smells—fresh seafood, golden pastries, endless types of cheese. The restaurants inside serve dishes made with the freshest ingredients, and I wished I had time to sit down and eat.
Instead, I ended up having a pleasant chat with a restaurant server who was on his break. He was very friendly, funny, and effortlessly outgoing. He has worked at the restaurant for 17 years as a server, something unthinkable to many Americans. We spoke in a mix of French and body language—something I’ve always been good at when navigating non-English-speaking countries. I promised him that I would go back to the market, at some point. I will live up to the promise.
Once again, Boulangerie Les Frères Barioz next to the school saved me. A simple baguette sandwich—brie, prosciutto, and a single crisp lettuce leaf, all tucked into a short baguette with the perfect golden, crunchy crust. A quick espresso on the side, and I headed to class like a local.
For dinner, my host’s mother made hachis parmentier for us, a classic French dish: a rich, savory ground beef mixture covered with fluffy, cheesy mashed potatoes, similar to Shepherd’s pie.
Louis’ mom has made it for us before, and to me, she is the best French chef I know. She insists on using only the best ingredients—organic, fresh, full of flavor. Her hachis parmentier has the creamiest, most buttery mashed potatoes, and the ground beef is deep and indulgent in taste. Last time she made it, she prepared a small one just for Louis and me, baked in a cute glass dish. When I was working late at my desk in the bedroom, I smelled it browning in the oven, I ran over, asking Louis what on earth could smell that good.
Maybe it was the memory of that dish, bringing me back to Chicago, that made me feel so homesick. Maybe it was tiptoeing back into my cold bedroom after dinner. Or maybe it was today’s class on the futur simple, where I felt behind, struggling more than I wanted to admit.
Either way, my pillow might have caught some warm moisture last night.
I wonder—maybe growing up means that no matter how exciting the world is, a part of you will always belong somewhere else.
The Swans by the Rhône
(Tuesday, March 18, 2025)
Still jet-lagged but unable to resist the pull of a sunny day, I went for a morning run along the Rhône. The sky was a soft, pale blue, the river sparkled under the sun, and the trees lining the riverbank swayed gently in the breeze. Perfect conditions for running.
I moved at an easy pace, taking in my surroundings. Running has always been one of my ways of discovering a new city. In France alone, my sneakers have kissed the beaches of Nice, traced the sidewalks of the Seine, and pressed into the dirt tracks of the western countryside. Now, they’re ready for Lyon.
Lyon seems to be a runner’s city—not just because of its infrastructure, but its spirit. In just two days, I’ve already seen countless runners at all hours: running solo, in groups, some wearing weights, others inexplicably sporting swimming goggles. They move at a noticeably milder pace than the runners along Lake Michigan in Chicago. I wonder if they run longer distances, or if it’s simply the French way—to run lightly, effortlessly, as if floating through the spring morning.
A delightful surprise this morning was the swans. Dozens of them, gliding across the Rhône—bigger than the geese that dominate Chicago’s lakeshore path, with the perfect swan silhouette I remember from childhood cartoons. They moved so gracefully, barely disturbing the water, a few lingering near the moored boats, the Hermès and the Van Gogh.
Of course, I had to take photos.
First Day of School in Lyon
(Monday, March 17, 2025)
Lyon welcomed me with sunshine today—an official warm greeting.
When I woke up, I noticed a small note slipped under my door. It was from my host’s 18-year-old daughter, Nina, apologizing for making noise last night and for accidentally eating my yogurt. Thoughtful, sweet, and surprisingly old-fashioned. Ever since I got a phone as a teenager, I don’t think I’ve received a handwritten note slipped under a door. I loved it. I wrote back a polite reply and slid it under her door in return.
At 7:15 AM, I walked into the kitchen to find my host, Valérie, already preparing breakfast. Freshly toasted bread with the creamy beurre demi-sel (French salted butter) I’d been craving, and a perfectly cooked sunny-side-up egg. A lovely way to start the morning—except for one thing. She had also turned on French news on TV, ready to engage me in breakfast conversation… in French. Jet-lagged and barely awake, I did my best—chattering away in passionate but broken French, my natural tendency to overshare completely uncurbed.
I was placed in an afternoon French class, which gave me time to sign up for a cultural activity at noon: a guided tour of la Presqu’île, the historical heart of Lyon.
Our guide, Janine, was the epitome of elegant French womanhood in her 80s—bright eyes framed by perfectly applied mascara, blush precisely matching her lipstick, dressed in a plum-colored suede jacket with fur around her neck and heeled boots. Along for the tour were two other new students: Heide, a German woman, and John, an Australian man. Both seemed about my parents’ age, both on vacation from work. Heide had exactly one week off and chose to spend the entire time at this school. John, a teacher, was on a three-month sabbatical—a perk Australians get every ten years of working. He teaches grammar to elementary school teachers, which might explain why he was particularly good at picking up what Janine was saying and translating it for me whenever I got lost.
The Presqu’île stretches from the foot of Croix-Rousse hill in the north to where the Rhône and Saône rivers meet in the south. It’s the quintessential old French neighborhood—ochre-colored buildings, squares with intricate tilework and fountains, statues of historical figures, and a grand plaza dedicated to an important Louis. Scattered throughout are cafés, restaurants, luxury boutiques, government offices, and cultural institutions. The magnolias were already blooming in pink and white, decorating the lovely streets and making us feel tipsy from the view.
By the time I arrived at my first French class, I was already exhausted from the two-hour walking tour. But the class itself? Surprisingly fun.
Our teacher was a true entertainer. She danced, sang, exaggerated every sentence, and pretended to be a chain-smoking alcoholic to make her stories funnier. (Or maybe she wasn’t pretending.) The students were all lively and unafraid to speak, and their French impressed me. I couldn’t help but wonder why I had been placed in this class. Jet-lagged and slightly overwhelmed, I resorted to mixing a lot of English while attempting to tell my classmates about a disastrous but hilarious trip I once took in a group exercise. Fortunately, they were kind—laughing when I laughed, looking concerned at the right moments. Hopefully, that meant they actually understood me.
Two questions dominated our conversations today:
Tu viens d’où ? (Where are you from?)
Pourquoi apprends-tu le français ? (Why are you learning French?)
We also asked each other how long we’d be studying at the school. The answers were often unclear, even in English, because not everyone spoke English. A young Japanese student spoke pas du tout (not at all), while students from Russia and Ecuador had limited English. But somehow, we understood each other better in our very broken French than in any other language.
After class, our teacher suggested we all celebrate St. Patrick’s Day at Paddy’s Corner, an Irish bar not far from the school. It seemed like a good chance to bond, so I joined. We took the train together like a children’s field trip, our heavy backpacks marking us as a group of foreign students. The bar was packed and loud, filled with traditional Irish music and orange and green balloons.
A few beers in, our broken French somehow became more fluent. Everything—every misunderstanding, every badly conjugated verb, every empty nodding and “ouai”ing along (saying yeah to everything)—became funnier. At one point, I laughed so hard I nearly choked. I also got to know two other American girls better; both have very cool stories.
I left the bar early to have dinner with my host family. Two new Italian students had arrived today, young girls who would also be staying in Valérie’s massive apartment.
Dinner was simple but delicious: creamy red-sauce spaghetti with ground beef, the ever-present baguette, and a fresh watercress salad with a flavorful mustard vinaigrette.
Outside, the night was chilly, the stars twinkling over Lyon. Inside, warm light filled the dining room as we gathered around the table like family, sharing stories from our day over good food.
A perfect first day.
Fu Fu Ramen – First Dinner in Lyon
(Sunday, March 16, 2025)
After just a few hours in Lyon, I had already managed to annoy a French lady at the supermarket—an accident, of course, but still an initiation of sorts. Wanting to play it safe for dinner, I went for something familiar: ramen. Warm, comforting, and perfect for both my Asian stomach and the crisp night air.
Fu Fu Ramen was tucked away at the end of a lively alley, almost hidden. I had to double-check my Google maps to be sure I was in the right place, but then, there it was—a cozy little ramen shop. The moment I stepped in, I was met with a synchronized burst of Japanese greetings from the four staff behind the counter. None of them were Asian, but they shouted orders to each other in Japanese with such ease that it made me smile. Strangely, I felt welcomed.
I ordered the classic Chashumen—Bol de bouillon avec des nouilles, pousses de bambou, soja, oeuf, algues, confit de porc et poitrine de porc caramélisée (a bowl of rich broth, noodles, bamboo shoots, soy, egg, seaweed, pork confit, and caramelized pork belly). And, of course, some gyoza on the side.
The first sip of broth was heaven. Deep, savory, soul-warming. Then came the pork belly—meltingly tender, full of flavor. I rarely order pork ramen back home in Chicago, but tonight, I might have consumed more pork in one sitting than I ever have before.
Midway through my meal, I glanced up and did a double take. Sitting next to me was a blond-haired Frenchman who looked exactly like my ex from five years ago, accompanied by his French wife and child. Lyon, it seems, had a sense of humor.
By the end of the meal, I mustered up my best French to chat with the server, who turned out to be incredibly kind. A small but rewarding moment to wrap up my first night in Lyon.
Departure – A Once-in-a-Lifetime Opportunity
(Saturday, March 16, 2025)
"It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."
As I sat at the airport, my thoughts drifting to home, I reminded myself of what my boyfriend, Louis, had just told me before dropping me off.
For months, I had planned this five-month adventure with excitement. But as the departure date approached, excitement gave way to nervousness and sadness—I would miss home, and I would miss him. Fortunately, final exams at Booth and a busy week at my part-time job kept me too occupied to fully process those emotions.
Louis, ever thoughtful, had planned a wonderful send-off with his parents. A cozy aperitif featuring a delicious, naturally lactose-free Norwegian cheese. A lovely dinner: yuzu-sake-soaked chicken with zucchini, preserved lemon, and saffron—a dish of his I adore. The next morning was a whirlwind of last-minute packing and navigating O’Hare amid the chaos of St. Patrick’s Day weekend, where the air smelled distinctly of alcohol.
Finally settled at the Wicker Park Seafood & Sushi Bar in Terminal 1—a family favorite—I felt my nerves creeping in. A long journey ahead: a connecting flight, meeting my famille d’accueil (host family), settling into a new city, all within 24 hours. Wanting something comforting, I opted for the safest choice on the menu, without seafood or sushi: a grilled chicken avocado sandwich with kettle-cooked chips. Then, I pulled out The French Ingredient, a gift from Louis’ mother—an American woman’s memoir of living and entrepreneuring in Paris.
"It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity," I reminded myself again, turning my focus to the book.
The dedication read: To all the dreamers.
I got lost in the pages. The author’s story—boarding school, moving abroad, starting a business alone—mirrored parts of my own journey. But her inner voice was lighter, more naturally optimistic, uncomplicated. Maybe, one day, I’d write my own story.
The flights were uneventful and exhausting, as expected. I missed home like crazy. But “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
I had finished my MBA coursework early and carved out this five-month semi-vacation before officially starting my post-graduation job at Walmart. (Still keeping my remote part-time work, of course.)
It’s going to be an adventure.
First stop: Lyon, France. Language school.
I have a suitcase, a few books, my yoga mat, my running shoes, and an appetite for exploring the gastronomy capital of France.
And at 31, I’m staying with a host family for the first time.
I smiled to myself.
记于三月出行前
去年结束了创业项目并接了毕业后的offer，很高兴有我最心仪的。回想这几年看似随机的经历，其实也蛮有意思的。创业后有幸从“桌子的一边”走到另一边做投资，做快消品久了之后，也想去体验规模化零售（所以决定去全世界最大的公司学习了）。在创投和快消的两张桌子之间切换，也算是圆满了。
我的过去完全不是线性的，但好像都多维地连接起来了：小学特别快乐自由，初中组织同学为汶川地震众筹，高中逃学对抗学校。大学期间跑去纽约做义工，给食物银行设计新项目上了报纸，帮室友的外百老汇戏剧做宣传，偶然在星巴克认识个阿姨请我做家教。那是我第一次出国，日子漫无目的却忙碌充实。后来主动退学，重申美本，两年火速读完，进入咨询公司疯狂学习，收获巨大。学习曲线放缓后果断辞职，轰轰烈烈地创业，打入全美零售市场，上了国内外媒体，很风光但也买了很多教训。
Exit期间每天奔波，努力保持清醒，重新定位自己，最后一刻锁定目标、硬挤进已经截止的校招。那段时间是对精神和肉体的双重考验，每天频繁切换模式，要处理的每件事、要见面的每个人都需要独特的应对方式。回头看看，真是自虐但极好的经历，也让我在很差的大环境下争取到自己想要的机会。
我像手腕上的风筝一样，一直在冒险，忍不住向上飞，每次都带着全部激情拼得淋漓尽致。这一路，心态越来越从容，思绪越来越清晰。接下来的路是我以前没走过的，所以格外期待。当然，我必须感谢我的父母，相信我、支持我，主动和我一起成长。
离下一个篇章正式开始还有几个月，我把毕业前剩下的课挤在冬季上完，给自己空出了五个月的“大假期”，除了接着远程做投资工作，剩下的时间读书学习，出去走走，给大脑和身体充电。
My Simple Takeaways from Being an Entrepreneur
Last night, I read a brief story by a French adtech startup co-founder about how they launched, built, and eventually sold their company in just two years. The advice they shared resonated deeply with me, especially because it touched on some mistakes I made with Yishi.
After tossing and turning for most of the night, I felt compelled to jot down some of my takeaways. Someday, when I’m ready, I’ll write more about my journey with Yishi. But for now, here’s a quick snapshot of my reflections:
1. Team - the Most Important Factor
I believe that the success of the a startup is largely dependent on the founding members. Ideally, you find co-founders who:
Have extensive and complementary experience and skills in the field of the business + in early-stage startups,
Have worked together and know each other well, and
Are people you genuinely like and trust (do not ignore red flags in their personal lives).
Looking back, I didn’t have all three. Starting with myself, I lacked firsthand experience in CPG and startups, which led to some expensive mistakes.
2. Product
1) Pick an attractive market you know well:
I made two critical mistakes here:
I analyzed the market after I picked the product, and naturally, I did so with a biased perspective.
I chose an industry I knew little about.
Be brutally honest about your market. Make sure either you or your co-founders have relevant experience. Without that, no amount of resourcefulness can truly compensate.
2) Have a killer product:
I believe that deep down, founders know whether their product is the best product solving the problem they set out to tackle. While the product can and will evolve, it needs to start from the right category. This is one of the things Yishi lacked before we decided to shut it down.
3. Money
1) Do not raise money (if you can avoid it):
For me, having investors created immense pressure. Subconsciously, I felt obligated to push for faster growth to make my investors happy. That constant need to deliver can cloud your judgment and shift your focus away from what truly matters.
Most importantly, without raising, you will be forced to grow revenue and profitability as fast as you can so you can live off the profits. This is the best incentive to ensure the financial health of the business.
2) Be as frugal as possible:
The adtech company sent thousands of cold emails per day manually using free Gmail accounts and the free version of HubSpot. Their resourcefulness stuck with me—sometimes, scrappiness and creativity can go a long way.
4. Be True to Yourself & Embrace Change
If, 2-5 years in, you start questioning your decision of starting the company, don’t be afraid to evaluate all your options. Life is meant to be lived fully, and that includes embracing the uncertainty of change.
The reality is: most startups fail, and that’s completely normal and should be your expectation from the very beginning. The mission from Day 1 is to overcome failure by working hard and doing all the above.
Many founders talk about the “scary moments” when they felt their business might not work. After Yishi, I’ve learned there’s nothing to be scared of—difficult business decisions are normal. Embrace the changes that align with your true desires at that point in time.
Personally, I believe all change is good. It shapes who we are and adds vibrant layers to the limited time we have on Earth.
The Next Chapter
As I like to call myself, I’m an experience collector. I feel extremely lucky to have the full experience of being a Founder—building, growing, and exiting a startup. All the ups and downs are invaluable gifts that helped me learn and grow, and I’m truly grateful for every bit of the journey.
My next chapter—working at a large retailer HQ—will bring experiences I’ve never had before. It will lead me to a new part of the country, potentially to many other countries around the world. I’ll see and touch the results of the work I help create (the main reason why I left consulting), and I’ll be growing and learning more within a large and complex organization.
I’m excited to embrace this new phase with open arms. Every twist and turn along the way is a step toward a richer, fuller life, so enjoy!
我有失去自由的自由
这两天读到了一位奇思妙想的70后老文艺青年的自传体小说，让我佩服不已。相比于积极向上的名人自传，我更喜欢这篇脑洞大开的回忆录。再仔细一想，这应该是我在读完《月亮与六便士》之后最喜欢的作品了。一部分原因是我自认为我们心气相像，但更主要是我很佩服作者，在真真假假的现实世界里保持自我，在漫无边际的思想和文学世界里不脱离现实。
我把我最喜欢的部分摘抄下来，阅读全文请点击下面两个链接阅读。
下：失去自由的自由
我用那扇铁门把全世界关进了监狱，而自己逍遥法外。
我一生都没上过正规的全日制大学，我不知道正规全日制大学是否教会了你们应对环境的有效捕食技巧，是否教会了你们面对不测风云，走出痛苦焦虑的精神治愈能力；亦或抹杀每个人的独立个性，独立思考，只是把大家变成了标准罐头投放社会，供少数权贵大快朵颐。
多年以后，我更理解了刘院长的那句话：人这一辈子，没有谁能一直光明磊落，但千万别放弃对光明磊落的追求。要想看清人性，首先要敢于把自己的灵魂放在手术台上解剖。要正视自己人性灰暗的那一面。
年少的时候，我们厌恶恶，讨厌一切不美好的东西。成年以后，经过人生的跌跌撞撞，我们不得不承认恶的存在，开始想控制恶，消灭恶。实不知，当我们定义善的时候，恶就已经如影相随。当我们定义了好人的时候，坏人就已经存在了。
往深了说，这也是人类认知的局限，人类想要认知实物，就必须要下定义，而任何定义都无法涵盖全部，必会产生非定义的事物。比如，当你定义美人标准那一刻，实际上非美人就同时产生了，非美人是什么人呢，平庸的人，丑的人，或更丑的人。
有些事未经他人苦，就理解不了他人的难，直到后来我自己创业才理解，在中国，真正的较量远不是台面上的明刀明枪，而是人性深水区的你死我活。
最损的就是报善以恶，尤其那些没事倒地装病，等好心人来救，然后反咬一口讹人钱财的最缺德，本来社会上好人就不多了，她偏在万人中把他挑出来，给与重重一击，似乎在宣告：让你做好人，活该！更败坏的是连法官都会认为这合理，都会问，你没撞倒人家为什么扶。
我认为的任性不是有钱没钱都点龙虾，抽中华。我认为任性是活出真性情，是年近不惑，还敢善良，还敢真诚，还敢酒后吐真言，还敢爱，敢恨，爱的彻底，恨的畅快。还敢瞪眼睛说不，微笑说我愿意；还敢有理想，有追求，而不顾是否能实现；还敢哭，敢笑，敢酒后去KTV吼几嗓子，而不在乎是否失态丢人；还敢迎着世俗的眼光，坚持特立独行，做自己。
做实业这事，还真不是靠着一腔热血就行的。从进货到包装，到定价到宣传，到渠道拓展，到运营管理，到应对各个山头的吃拿卡要。都需要丰富的行业经验才能应对，而我们除了在宣传环节略有擅长外，其他各个环节全靠摸石头过河，试错成本极高。
有一次，我们向业内一家非常有实力的米业公司老总请教。酒席间，这个老总对我们这种瞎胡闹打法，嗤之以鼻。他说：你们根本就不懂这行业咋玩的，我们每年都有国家巨额农业补贴，我1元进的大米，可以卖8毛还能赚钱，你们咋跟我们抢市场。更别说我们通过规模效应，可以把成本降的更低，你们这种体量的想在这个领域存活，简直连炮灰都不配。
有句话，“一切为我所用”。听起来有点狂妄，其实里面有大智慧。“一切”都是工具，但有一样东西不是工具，那就是“我”。这个“我”不是肉体的我，而是觉悟的生命，本来面目，或者说是真正的我。正因为“我”是觉悟的，所以才能用的起来。否则“一切”给你用，你也用不了。佛经里有句话，“天上地下，唯我独尊”，听起来也是狂话，其实不是，这里的“我”也是觉悟的我，是人人都有的觉性，有什么值得狂妄的？
为了让生命最根本的“我”不被工具化，我们需要在发展中保持想象力和诗性，保持善的进化的动机，保持有机、变化、热爱，也就是保持意义生成的可能性。
但现实是残酷的，从来就没有什么救世主。在天灾人祸面前，每个人都像在溺水，拼命想抓住一根稻草，却毫无所获，越陷越深。眼睁睁看自己一点点沉入水底。我非常能体会那种绝望，焦虑与悲凉。
我给你的意见是，要么你就教会他如何去写。要么你就换个能写的助理。记住，你是将，不是兵，你要照顾的是上百人的市场团队，而不是某个人。作为将，你的作用是如何给整个团队战斗力加成，如何让整个团队效率更高，效果更好。你要处理的永远是一类事，而不是一件事。教会他或者换掉他都是处理一类事的办法，而替他做只是处理一件事的办法。
在GM口腔工作这三年，经过不断学习思考和实践，我把如何当好一个团队领导归纳为以下三点。
第一，要有独特的人格魅力让大家尊重和喜欢……
第二，要有高超的分配技巧，让大家竞争而不纷争……
第三、要有资深的专业能力，能够带领大家克服困难走向胜利。
宇鹏来到GM集团后，最突出的改变，就是建立起了一整套的可量化的数字工作体系。
第一：描述可量化……
第二：评估可量化……
第三 、预测可量化……
咱们小时候都学过木桶理论，讲的是，木桶的短板决定装水的多少，这导致每个人都想全面发展。动不动就既要，还要，都要，这是不现实的。真正能决定你高度的其实是你的长板，你只有集中精力把长板做的更长，才能在激烈竞争中获得突破。
如何界定你在某件事上是否有天赋？1、当你对做某件事享受过程而不在意结果时；2、当你做某件事很容易，别人却很难时；3、当你总是心心念念某件事，没有条件创造条件也想做，而不是被逼无奈去做时。
黑格尔说：人类从历史中学到的唯一教训，就是人类无法从历史中学到任何教训。
即便是骂我的回复，我都不会删除，尽管我们身处一个思想备受禁锢的时空，但我希望能用心中的铁门把全世界关在门外，独在这篇文章下，留一个自由的空间，让大家可以在这里透透气，尽情的表达自己。
我认为，人性是兽性、人性、和灵性三者结合的综合体。兽性、人性和灵性就像三原色，不同的配比调和，形成了形形色色的人。
人类的进化经过了数百万年，人类的文明只有区区几千年，我们至今无法用几千年的文明来对抗数百万年的基因。这就是，我们活到今天，身体依然里存在兽性的原因。
失去人性失去很多，失去兽性失去一切。
回到现实，面对大家现在的处境，我想问大家一句，你现在的生活到了会饿死的地步吗？如果没有，请多保留一些人性，多存有一份希望。
如果说，兽性是站在个体角度思考，人性是站在种族角度思考，那么，灵性就是站在宇宙角度的审视。除了人性和兽性外，人体到底还有什么？人的思想是否就止步于兽性和人性？
灵性是一切皆可存在和一切皆不存在的宇宙本身。我们即是宇宙，宇宙即是我们。
我们只能按时间维度把先观测到的称之为因，后观测到的称之为果。我们试图在因果之间找到稳定的规律。
泰晤士河畔的微风
往年的圣诞假期，我们总是去法国，先在巴黎游转几天，再乘火车去西岸和路易的亲戚相聚。今年圣诞，我们决定换个地方来到伦敦度假。路易的妹妹住在这里，从事电影工作，而我也想感受一下圣诞节的伦敦。
伦敦依旧阴冷，薄雾像一层轻纱，笼罩着那些不多的高楼，但这丝毫不影响整个城市的节日氛围。Soho的大街小巷中，百货店和精品店装饰得如同一只只精美的礼盒，街道上弥漫着糖果和香水的甜腻。我们漫步于商店和餐厅之间，尝试各式美食，也看了几场精彩的艺术展，晚上一家人聚在一起笑个不停。几日下来，似乎完成了一份“假期清单”上的所有事项。悠闲，满足。
旅程的最后一晚，我们在泰晤士河边散步。夜晚的伦敦塔桥在灯光的装饰下显得格外耀眼。路易和他的妹妹驻足拍了很久的照片。而我靠在河边的护栏上，看着这座桥，思绪却飘回到去年的圣诞节。
去年圣诞，我和路易提前一周到巴黎，想两个人单独享受一个小假期。路易为此精心计划了几页行程，但我的创业公司当时面临困难，工作几乎压垮了我，让我们不得不取消了几乎所有的安排。有一天，我忙到凌晨四点，蜷缩在酒店的浴室里里和洛杉矶打电话，生怕吵醒熟睡的路易。浴室里电脑无处安放，空气中满是沉甸甸的疲惫与自责，几乎让我喘不过气来。
此刻站在泰晤士河边，风轻轻地吹过，我不由得想起了这一幕，有些想笑，也有些释然。今年，我终于做出了积极的改变。虽然改变的过程是痛苦的，但我感谢足够勇敢去承担一切的自己。
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从伦敦返回芝加哥的飞机上，我破天荒地看了两部电影，美联航上仅有的两部国语片。第一部是《热辣滚烫》，这部电影让我从头笑到尾，又泪流满面。我感受到贾玲的用心和努力，她的坚持与蜕变深深打动了我，她塑造的每个角色也都生动饱满。虽然我没这样减肥过，但我也曾经反复历过类似的内心挣扎和蜕变。幕后花絮里，贾玲在第一次正式录制出场比赛那场戏时突然泪崩，我看着也跟着泪流满面，真为她骄傲！
昊坤喝多了的时候说了句人话：“生活不就是要为自己喜欢的事情去努力去奋斗那才叫生活吗？” 乐莹已经赢了。
会把两个苹果都给别人的人，希望我们以后都学会看自己的心情。
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去年圣诞我忙到凌晨四点的那天，其实是为一个英国明星厨师的真人秀节目试镜，我在几个压力爆表的工作会议之间慌忙地录了试镜视频，第二天，在酒店大堂，我跟导演临时试镜和面试。整个过程非常仓促，条件格外简陋。万万没想到的是，我被选上了。看到发给我的演员签证资料的那一刻，我也崩了，心跳加速，止不住的流眼泪，好像凌晨四点蜷缩在巴黎酒店浴室的我终于喘了一口气。虽然最终还是很无奈地错过了这个节目的录制，但我在崩的那一刻就知道我也赢了，我知道我能行。
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最后，我看到了豆瓣上一位豆友胡博乔的影评。他精准地总结了我对《热辣滚烫》的感受，以下分享：
乐莹应该是INFP人格，也就是典型的高敏感、高共情力、低能量的人格。
她的共情能力强，所以会为身边的人着想，经常以委屈自己的方式去满足别人的想法。同时她又是高敏感人格，每次受到的委屈，都积压在心里。再加上她本来就是个低能量的人，害怕受到伤害，无力承担伤害，久而久之，就变成了极度压抑、极度缺乏自信的性格。
这就是她之所以在家里躺平很多年，一直走不出去的原因。她缓解内心焦虑和压抑的方式，就是暴饮暴食和抽烟喝酒，这也造成了她身材的过度肥胖，性格上的消沉自卑。
贾玲看到了这样的人，这部《热辣滚烫》正是献给这群“被社会、被人际圈子、被世俗价值所看不起”的人们的一封最美的情书。
贾玲用了一个女性的温柔眼光，讲完了这个故事：
电影里有胖女生，但没有洋相百出的肥婆。
电影里有小三和婚内出轨的女性，但没有荡妇羞辱和过分的道德批判。
电影里有利用别人获得工作的年轻女生，但没有对绿茶婊的羞辱和唾弃。
电影里有一开始散发光芒的男主，但他不是女人的救世主。
电影里有纯纯的单向爱情，但没有女性对男性的崇拜和恋爱脑的所谓感人爱情。
就连同样的女性对手，也很闪亮，最后在拳击台上对手挨了贾玲一拳后，也马上站起来反击，她也像贾玲那样坚强、不服输。
电影的最后提醒了每个有讨好性格的人，“为了自己活一次”，这句话由像贾玲这样的、常年用肥胖的身材当做自嘲笑点的女喜剧明星说出来，显得特别有说服力。
电影里的女主没有报复所有伤害过她的人，而是成为了一个强大的自己。因为不把伤害过自己的别人放在眼里，才是对自己真正的强大。
豆友Tapir说，电影里的几个所谓的“恶人”，无论是妹妹，还是闺蜜、出轨的男朋友、电视台工作的远房亲戚，选择的演员都不是那种演惯了恶人角色的演员，反而是路人缘非常好的演员——张小斐、李雪琴、乔杉和杨紫，贾玲刻意让这些善良的面孔演这些恶人，想要侧面表现的，其实是乐莹的讨好型人格，讨好型人格看这个世界真的是这样的，所有的人都有一幅善良的面孔。
还有一点就是，贾玲不想刻意塑造恶人来引起这个世界的仇恨，更不想加深性别的刻板印象和性别对立，这就是一个女性的善良本质。
在电影中，我们看到了一个女性导演的自我疗愈和自我成长，之前是对母亲的爱和遗憾，这次是对女性的自我人生的找寻。
好想告诉李焕英，你的女儿真的很棒。
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李焕英上映时，贾玲说票房过30亿就瘦成一道闪电。
她不仅实现了自己的誓言，让这个flag立住了，还用它拍了一部电影。
电影中讨论了“man”这个话题，李雪琴给乔杉说“你好man”，健身房前台也望着昊坤的背影说“你好man”，
但是电影中做出了最“man”的事情的人，不是那些努力展现自己的雄性荷尔蒙的男人们，反而是拼尽全力想要“赢一次”、并且最后说到做到了的女主角杜乐莹。
忽然想到之前在网上看到的一段话，送给所有被这部电影感动和激励的人们：
“你不喜欢这个工作了想辞职，你觉得人心险恶不想恋爱，或者想出去玩也好，想放纵生活也好，这些都不等同于'做自己'。所谓做自己，是不再刻意的追求他人认同，并找到了自己认定可贵的、值得坚持的事，然后抛弃那些形式上和思想上的束缚，跟平庸的生活搏斗，跟无聊的时间对抗，不在乎输赢。”
想给所有高敏感、低能量的兄弟姐妹们说一句，努力走出来，我们的人生也能赢一次！！！
谢谢你，背影里的少年
我很幸运拥有完整的小学和初中时代：交心的朋友、痛快的大笑、叛逆的任性。然而，高中生活却显得有些残缺。但在那些不起眼的小事中，我慢慢明白，它其实也很完整，因为有你和那些朋友的存在。
我是个被娇惯的城市孩子，却被送到军事化管理的县城高中。仿佛一夜之间，所有的舒适与自由都消失了。没有靠背的凳子，第一个学期就把屁股坐得出血。刚开始，我和一个天津来的借读生总是被班里的女生排挤，带去的东西被偷了，趴在课桌上哭也会被嫌弃；后来，我反复逃校、不守纪律。但最终，我学会了掩盖情绪，把所有精力埋进课本里，默默与几个同样低调的朋友相处。白天的我看似平静，夜里却躺在床上，任眼泪悄悄流淌。
尽管高中生活让我难过、让我心酸，但分班后的几个朋友，还有你，让这一切变得完整起来。
谢谢你，让我的狼狈不堪的高中生活，有了一丝微光。
你的背影
分班后，我才真正认识你。我一直觉得你不爱学习，所以更好奇为什么走班时你总是坐在我前面。我坐第二排，你坐第一排。每次看着你的背影，我总忍不住想：你在想什么？
我一直觉得你挺帅的，不仅是模样，还有你那种沉默却稳重的感觉。每次经过你和你的朋友身边，我总是装作没看见，但余光里，我会悄悄留意你。无论周围多么吵闹，你总是低着头，仿佛半个你活在自己的世界里，那一刻，时间似乎都停顿了。
青涩的秘密
刚分班不久，我们班那个爱惹事的男孩神秘兮兮地对我说：“有人喜欢你，是别的班的，但我不能告诉你是谁。”当时我觉得莫名其妙，也没放在心上。那时的我，整个世界都是灰色的。即便分班后情况有所改善，我也早已把自己的心锁起来，对一切都不再好奇。
我经常看到有两个女生在走廊找你聊天，其中一个很漂亮。我猜她可能是你的女朋友。她们偶尔也坐在我旁边，主动跟我说话。虽然被她们打量时有些不自在，但她们的友好让我意外又开心——两个酷酷的女生，竟愿意和这个格格不入、常被孤立的借读生说话。
高三下半学期的一次晚饭，我和两个性格开朗的同学闲聊。A突然说，毕业后要告诉我一个秘密，B也跟着附和。我追问了五分钟，他们却始终不肯说。我便不再追问，心想：还有什么秘密能改变我的高中生活呢？但我错了。
后来我才意识到，原来他们都知道。
一次考试结束后，我蹲在走廊整理课本，你正好路过，问我需不需要帮忙。我礼貌地拒绝了。拒绝是出于礼貌，也是因为我搬得动。但更重要的是，我很害羞。我发现自己不仅总是下意识地注意你，甚至有点怕和你说话。高一时被打碎的自信和自尊心，让我连抬头看你的勇气都没有。
毕业与释怀
毕业聚会我没去。那时的我只想逃离那个灰色的地方，连最后一眼都不愿回头。我以为没人会注意到我的缺席，但后来听说，你想那天向我告白。遗憾吗？也许吧。但没去也挺好。
刚去北京上大学时，我依然是个假装合群的怪人。后来，我情绪崩溃，退学出国。在美国十多年的漂泊与成长，经历了无数的喜怒哀乐，才让我终于放下过去的不堪，找到真正的自己。虽然我们错过了青春，但我庆幸，那些秘密最终被解开了，我的回忆里有你。
我其实经常想起你的。在美国读大学时，第一次结婚时，独自来芝加哥读研时，结束第四段感情时，还有昨晚辗转难眠的时候。
我的高中生活暗淡无光，但你的存在和那些细微的小心翼翼，成了最耀眼的部分。
谢谢你，让我知道，自己值得被喜欢。尽管一切都成了过去，但你在我的心里，永远占据一个位置。
后记
我还想谢谢那个在英语老师办公室遇到我，第二天托人从教室后面传来情书的人。那封信，我曾小心翼翼地保存，只是后来，被我爸“替我保存”了。你没有给我信里许诺的圣诞礼物，但你的出现，也让我觉得当时的世界并非全然灰暗，也有人为我的存在感到高兴，也有人用心给我一个微笑。
谢谢你们，让我有个完整的青春。
Un été suédois : histoire, art et le meilleur tartare de ma vie
7 Août 2024
Je suis arrivée à Stockholm hier, et Louis m’a attendue à l’aéroport. Je l’ai vu immédiatement après être sortie du terminal.
Nous avons pris l’Arlanda Express et le métro pour aller à notre hôtel dans le centre-ville de Stockholm. L’hôtel est très beau et artistique. Il est aussi ancien, car il a été ouvert en 1647.
Nous avons dîné dans un restaurant traditionnel, Kvarnen, ouvert depuis 1908.
Notre dîner était délicieux. En entrée, nous avons pris du hareng mariné avec de l’œuf et du caviar, et une tartine de carpaccio de bœuf avec du raifort. Pour le plat, j’ai commandé un ragoût de renne, et Louis a pris des boulettes suédoises traditionnelles.
Après le dîner, nous sommes allés au musée de photographie, Fotografiska Stockholm. Nous avons vu beaucoup d’œuvres. Ma préférée était une photo de Shepard Fairey. Ce n’était pas “Eye Alert” ou “Hope,” mais “Incarnation,” une belle femme avec une grande rose rouge.
P.S. J’ai adoré le buffet du petit-déjeuner de notre hôtel : il y avait de tout, et tout était tellement frais et délicieux! 😋
Le restaurant et le bar de notre hôtel : Hotel Frantz
8 Août 2024
Nous sommes allés à Gamla Stan (la vieille ville) et au Moderna Museet (le musée d’art moderne). Gamla Stan était charmante et culturelle. Il y avait beaucoup de bâtiments anciens et colorés. La météo était merveilleuse, et nous nous sommes promenés jusqu’au Moderna Museet. Je n’ai pas aimé toutes les expositions, mais j’ai particulièrement adoré une œuvre de Maurizio Cattelan, un artiste italien. “Him,” une sculpture représentant Hitler dans un salon rouge, était très puissante.
Le dîner était chic. C’était bon, mais le service était lent. Par exemple, j’ai remarqué qu’il y avait du pain délicieux, mais le serveur ne nous en a jamais proposé! J’ai dû demander!
Avant de dormir, nous avons trouvé un film en anglais à la télé : “The Lord of the Rings 1.” C’était la première fois que je le regardais. Je n’ai pas tout compris, mais j’ai aimé regarder un film que Louis adore avec lui dans le lit. C’était un beau moment!
Au Moderna Museet:
9 Août 2024
Hier, nous avons pris un bateau pour le palais de Drottningholm, une résidence d’été pour la famille royale depuis le 17ème siècle.
Nous avons déjeuné sur le bateau, avec des vues magnifiques sur les rivières, la mer et de nombreuses petites îles.
Le palais de Drottningholm était très beau et impressionnant! Il y avait plusieurs salles, chacune avec son propre style. Ma préférée était la bibliothèque. Elle est grande, élégante et brillante, avec des couleurs blanches et dorées.
Les jardins étaient très beaux et très grands. Nous avons exploré les différents jardins et un petit bâtiment intéressant, le pavillon chinois. C’était un cadeau du roi à la reine au 17ème siècle. Chaque salle avait une décoration chinoise unique.
Pour dîner, nous sommes allés à Prinsen, un restaurant traditionnel dans un quartier chic. J’ai adoré! Les plats, les serveurs, les autres clients, l’ambiance… tout était parfait! J’ai pris “le trésor du vieil homme” en entrée. Il y avait six sortes de poissons et crevettes, des petites pommes de terre, du fromage et du pain, mon préféré!
10 Août 2024
Il y a plus de 50 musées à Stockholm. Hier, nous en avons visité trois.
D’abord, nous avons commencé par le Spritmuseum, un musée qui explore la culture de la boisson en Suède. Nous avons découvert une exposition fantastique: Absolut Statehood. 51 artistes ont créé des œuvres mettant en valeur leur état ou région tout en intégrant Absolut vodka. Toutes les œuvres étaient fabuleuses!
Nous avons pris un verre au restaurant du musée et découvert un snack merveilleux: “Crisps and Dip.” Ce sont des chips servies avec des œufs de poisson, des échalotes, des oignons verts et du beurre râpé. Tout était parfaitement équilibré!
Et puis, nous sommes allés au musée ABBA. Avant de rencontrer Louis, je ne connaissais pas bien ABBA, mais maintenant, je les adore. Ma partie préférée était le film d’introduction. C’était très impactant!
Finalement, nous avons visité le musée Vasa. Ce musée conserve le seul navire entièrement intact du 17ème siècle jamais récupéré : le Vasa, un navire de guerre avec 64 canons qui a coulé juste après avoir quitté le port lors de son voyage inaugural en 1628.
Pour le dîner, nous avons découvert un restaurant créatif, Black Milk Gastro Bar. Chaque plat était original et délicieux. Mon préféré était le steak tartare, servi avec de l’huile de truffe, des amandes et de la mayonnaise. C’était le meilleur steak tartare que j’ai jamais mangé!
Le Dîner de Black Milk Gastro Bar and Hotel Frantz :
11 Août 2024
C’est le dernier jour de notre voyage, et c’est le “shopping and relaxing day” !
Après notre retour à Chicago, c'était notre deuxième anniversaire de rencontre!
Castaway Diva - Thoughts and Quotes
我不知道我能不能在无人的荒岛上生活15年，但在普通的世界生活15年又何尝简单呢？作为一个很乐观的人，我其实觉得活下来是最大的勇气。话说的可能比较极端，也可以说，我们这些活着且清醒的人去做一件事、去面对各式各样的人、去反复否定又接受这个世界有没有意义等等，都经常需要勇气。人活着要的就是一口精气神儿，去享受所有的好事与坏事，去感受各种各样奇妙的情绪，去爱和被爱，去守住身边自己爱和爱自己的人。这是我喜欢这部剧的原因。
剧里有一些说的很好的台词，至少现在作为30岁的我很喜欢，记下来了。
“撑过台风吧，创造奇迹吧。要有惊人的毅力啊！”
“就算十年后仍然一事无成，我做了十年自己最喜欢的事，多好啊！“
”失败是成功之母，就算失败了，多了一位母亲是件多好的事啊。“
”愿望不会立马实现，也不会在你想要的时候实现，而是会慢慢实现。“
《Until the end》- 木禾在“垃圾桶”里找到的歌，她可是听了所有的歌啊。她把这首歌修改的很美，在展示会上演唱，歌词和旋律都很轻快开心，唱到心里去了。
작은 가방 하나 메고 背着一个小背包
구름 따라 걷는 길 跟着云朵的脚步，启程上路
파란 하늘 덮고 누워 枕着蓝色的天空，躺了下来
춤추는 나무와 노래해 和跳着舞的树木一起唱歌
저기 위에 떠가는 구름이 从上方飘过了大片云彩
곧 비를 내려도 就算马上会开始下雨
뭐 어때 상관없어 那又怎样呢？没关系的
막 구부러진 길 经过蜿蜒曲折的道路
또 오르막길 又是另一段上坡路
그 어디라도 걸어갈래 无论在哪里，我都想这样走下去
Until The End 直到尽头
그곳에 숨겨진 就算隐藏在那个地方
보물 따위는 없어도 돼 什么宝物也没有，那也没关系
사실 그건 那个其实呀
지금 내가 걷는 이 길에 我正在前行的这条路上
뿌려져 있거든 早已铺满了璀璨宝石
하얀 마음들을 적어 写下那些纯白的心意
종이 배를 접어 띄워 折成纸船，让它自由漂流
저곳 어딘가에 닿아 抵达那个地方的某处
그곳도 하얘지기를 将那里也染成一片洁白
저기 위에 떠가는 구름이 从上方飘过了大片云彩
바람을 던져도 就算抛下这阵风
뭐 어때 상관없어 那又怎样呢？没关系的
막 구부러진 길 经过蜿蜒曲折的道路
또 오르막길 又是另一段上坡路
그 어디라도 걸어갈래 无论在哪里，我都想这样走下去
Until The End 直到尽头
그곳에 숨겨진 就算隐藏在那个地方
보물 따위는 없어도 돼 什么宝物也没有，那也没关系
사실 그건 那个其实呀
지금 내가 걷는 이 길에 我正在前行的这条路上
뿌려져 있거든 早已铺满了璀璨宝石
풀잎 하나 들꽃마저 连一小片的草叶野花
햇살을 담은 아름다운 거리 都盛满阳光的美丽街道
어두워질 때 더 빛나는 별빛들 天黑时，反而更闪亮的星光
내 머리 위로 비춰 주며 따라와 照耀在我头顶上方，跟着我来吧
Until The End 直到尽头
그곳에 숨겨진 就算隐藏在那个地方
보물 따위는 없어도 돼 什么宝物也没有，那也没关系
사실 그건 那个其实呀
지금 내가 걷는 이 길에 我正前行的这条路上
Until the end 直到尽头
무지개를 타고, babe 乘着彩虹
구름 위에 언덕을 넘어 越过云霄上层层山坡
마법 같은 하루를 如魔法般的一天
선물해 줄 거야, yeah 会成为送给你的礼物
나랑 같이 가지 않을래? 你要和我一起去嗎？
下面这些是在网上看到好台词，也不错：
”迫切地期盼，总有一天，会以从未想过的方式实现。“
”如果一直担心接下来的事，那到最后反而会有更多的后悔。“
”什么都不做的话，终究会死的。“
”你走进了我的人生，时机很刚好，你就像我的冰桶。“
”世界上最委屈的事，就是没能表达出来的心意。“
”别用一百分的力气，至少留下一份的力气，不然你会感到窒息。“
”本来人就是会把气出在最善良、最好欺负的人身上。“
”就算祈祷也不会出现奇迹，但还是会这么做，因为这样才会有坚持下去的动力。“
A Horsie Named “Donkey”
There was a little horse with a round belly and short legs, only capable of swaying back and forth as he walked.
People often mistook him for a donkey, which left him feeling somewhat speechless.
With puffed cheeks and drooping eyes, he had come to accept being called a donkey.
One day, he met a little girl with short hair and round eyes, resembling him with her chubby cheeks and a cute tummy.
She had a bright, shiny pink hairpin in her hair, looking truly beautiful.
At first glance, the girl instantly took a liking to the little horse.
"Oh, so you're a horse," she approached the little horse.
"But you look like a donkey, hehe."
"Well, in that case, I'll call you Donkey!"
She embraced the little horse, affectionately stroking his head and gently patting his belly, her smile becoming even more radiant.
The little horse's eyes suddenly brightened, taking on a gentle curve as he felt a happiness he had never experienced before.
He lowered his head to look at his round belly and, for the first time, found himself quite adorable.
