When I was young, there was no one around me to offer guidance or share their life experiences. My parents were always busy keeping the family fed, expressing their love through sacrifice rather than long conversations, as was common for parents of that generation. I understand why now, but back then, at the crucial forks in my life, I rarely had the chance to hear someone else’s perspective or ask for advice. So I made decisions based only on the little I knew, carrying the weight of those choices entirely on my own.
Some choices turned out well, while others were mistakes I could have avoided. Most of what I learned came only after living through trial and error. It was no different when I chose my high school. Seeing my family’s financial situation, I felt I needed to earn money right after graduation. So I enrolled in a vocational high school, choosing mechanical engineering because it seemed like the right track at the time. Looking back now, however, I sometimes think electronics or chemical engineering might have suited my temperament better. Would my life have turned out differently? Perhaps. But life never shows us the alternate versions of ourselves who chose a different path; we only get to live this one life.
Maybe that is why I started writing. When I was younger, I often wished someone would share their failures rather than their successes, their hesitations rather than their absolute certainties, and the quiet realizations that only come with the passage of time. Those stories could not have lived my life for me, but I believe they would have helped me make somewhat wiser choices along the way. If this writing can serve that purpose for someone, that alone fulfills half its reason for being.
The other half lies closer to home. I have two sons. Like many fathers and sons, we don’t engage in long conversations. A few words are exchanged, and the talk quickly draws to a close. It is not for a lack of things to say, but perhaps because some thoughts are carried far better in writing than in speech. Over time, I came to hope that this text might become more than just a record—that it might carry the echo of their father’s voice. Not the voice of a father who always knew the right answer, but of someone who stumbled more times than he could count, took the long way around, and kept trying to learn even as he grew older.
If my experience can spare my children even a single trial or error, or encourage them to pause and view the world from a different angle, then this writing will have done its job. Of course, in the end, everyone must walk their own path. No piece of writing can live another person’s life for them. Every generation faces different problems, different opportunities, and different struggles, and their answers do not need to match mine.
There is, however, one thing I hope they hold onto: never lose your curiosity. People tend to think that questions fade with age, but I have found the exact opposite to be true. The older I get, the more clearly I see how little I actually know. Every answer I find seems to reveal another question waiting just behind it.
If this writing offers someone a small sense of comfort, a modest insight, or simply the reassurance that someone else once wrestled with the same questions, that is enough. And if my sons ever open these pages and hear their father’s voice within them, I will be more than content.