Preface

To My Future Kids

One of the questions I really enjoy asking my friends, and being asked myself, is: “If you weren’t doing what you’re doing now, or pursuing your current career, what would you be doing instead?” For me, teaching or some form of educational career stands out. I hold the value of education and the ability to pass on knowledge to the next generation in high regard.

Perhaps this stems from my own childhood, where academics and education have always been significant parts of the Asian American immigrant experience. I firmly believe that in contemporary society, the need for teachers of wisdom and philosophy on how to live life is more crucial than ever. We live in an age with unprecedented rates of suicide and depression in teenagers, on the brink of nuclear conflict, and yet of aimless distraction and polarization.

Of course, I’m not vain or naive enough to even closely believe that I have all the answers that should be taught. However, the idea that “you are the average of the five people you surround yourself with” applies here—but why limit oneself to the wisdom and philosophy of those in your immediate surroundings or those currently alive? Why not expand one’s horizons to include the teachings of Greek playwrights and ancient Chinese philosophers?

My fundamental belief is that the essence of human life is our ability to sacrifice short-term pleasures for long-term prospects and prosperity. There’s a famous quote I like: “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” In an age dominated by distractions and social media, with so much harmful rhetoric and polarity, it’s more important than ever to absorb and reflect on wisdom from across the ages—from both modern heroes and ancient philosophers—in pursuit of what we deem a good life. After all, “the unexamined life is not worth living.”

The title of this book, “To My Future Kids,” reflects the ultimate responsibility that this examined wisdom should help address. We will all die someday, and I fundamentally believe that our kids are our most lasting legacy, embodying who we are as people. Offering them advice should reflect the profound importance and seriousness of what we write and consider here.

Moreover, as I think about my parents in their 20’s and 30’s, I would have absolutely loved to hear about their daily struggles, the problems they faced, and how they navigated life’s challenges. When we are young, we think of our parents as perfect humans — but growing older and learning about their imperfections is truly what makes us love them as humans not just idols. Yes, the biographies of famous statesmen and military generals are impressive—one should read Walter Isaacson’s works on Steve Jobs and Elon Musk, or about Churchill and Grant’s prolific careers. But the most profound biographies are those of the people in our lives.

For me, the purpose of this book isn’t necessarily to reach social media stardom or become a massively popular influencer but rather as a deep and profound place where I can hold various reflections as I navigate the challenges and volatility of life in my tender years, as someone who is still inevitably naive and clueless about the world. I hope this can serve as a living repository for my future kids and for anyone else out there who may also struggle with a similar journey. At the end of the day, I hope this anthology helps them—and you—navigate the short years we have in life and make it a life worth living.

A Note on How to Read This Book

The following note was written specially for this collection — to set the contract before you turn the page.

A quick word before you begin, so the shape of this book makes sense.

What you’re holding isn’t one continuous argument. It’s a collection of letters I wrote to you across 2024 and 2025 — some on planes, some at 2 a.m., some on slow mornings when I had nothing to prove and just wanted to think out loud. They were written one at a time, in no particular order, each one whole on its own. I’ve grouped them into parts and given them a rough arc, but please don’t read this like a textbook with a thesis to defend. Read it like what it is: a stack of letters from your dad, at a particular moment in his life, still figuring it out.

That means you can open this book anywhere. Read it front to back, or read whichever title pulls at you on whichever day you need it. Each letter will hand you back to yourself just fine.

But there is one thread running underneath all of them, and it’s worth naming up front. I have spent my whole career standing close to the machines — AI, automation, the technologies that are remaking your world faster than I can describe it. So nearly every letter here is, in some quiet way, asking the same question: when the world is being rebuilt by machines, what stays constant and human underneath all that change? My answer, the one I keep circling back to, is this — agency, authenticity, real relationships, and the examined life. The container changes. The water does not. If you remember nothing else from these pages, remember the water.

A small note on the architecture, in case it’s helpful. As you read, you’ll occasionally see a small maroon-bordered box labeled Concept — that’s me flagging the mental model or principle the letter is leaning on most heavily, so you can recognize the underlying move and not just the story on top. Each of those callouts links to a longer entry at the back of the book, in the Appendix of Concepts. The appendix is its own thing — sixty ideas, nine stories I keep returning to, and a short directory of the thinkers I quote, all organized by mental-model family rather than chapter order. You can read the letters as letters and ignore the appendix entirely. Or you can use the appendix as a glossary, jumping back to it whenever a callout catches your eye. Both are fine. Use it the way you’d use a friend’s annotated paperback — only when it helps.

So — in any order you like, with all my love. Let’s begin.