Paul was always a funny child. Not in a loud or showy way but quietly clever. Witty, thoughtful, and full of warmth. He had a natural sense of humor that brought joy to others in the gentlest ways.

As his mother, I was proud of him. But I also remember wondering: Was he making things up? He’d come home with colorful stories about school, classmates, and teachers. They were vivid - maybe too vivid. Instead of encouraging his imagination, I’d respond with suspicion:
“Is that really true?”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“Stop talking nonsense.”

Now, looking back, I wonder how many times I said things like that. And how many times he quietly absorbed the message: My voice isn’t trusted. Maybe it’s better not to speak.

At some point, Paul stopped talking as much. I don’t know exactly when it happened. Maybe it was gradual. Maybe it was after one too many times he felt dismissed.

But the child who once filled the room with imagination and kindness became quieter. More focused. More polite. More… withdrawn. And I didn’t ask why.

I thought: He’s growing up. He’s mature. Quiet is good. Obedient is good.
That’s how a child should be. It never occurred to me that something important was fading. And that I was letting it happen.

In Chinese culture, many of us think success comes from hard work and discipline. So, we fill our children’s days with piano lessons, math classes, swimming practice, and endless goals. We cook their meals. Drive them to activities. Cheer them on when they win awards. We think that’s enough. But we rarely sit down and ask:
“Are you happy?” “Do you feel heard?” “Do you feel like you can speak up… and be safe doing so?”

We don’t teach them how to connect with others, how to communicate, how to navigate difficult conversations or raise their hand in class. We don’t model those skills, and we don’t always value them ourselves. Instead, we hope that good grades and hard work will be enough.

When I read Paul’s story, I cried. He had entered a prestigious Ph.D. program but spent years feeling invisible. His advisor barely noticed him. He didn’t know how to speak up. And I didn’t know he struggled, I didn’t know he felt lost. I didn’t know he had to figure it all out alone.

The most painful thing is realizing that Paul found his way back - not because I guided him, but in spite of the guidance I failed to give. Through quiet walks with his advisor and a dog, he slowly found his voice again. He practiced speaking.
He learned to connect. He built a life - One full of professional success, yes,
but also of confidence, warmth, and the ability to be seen.

I am proud of the man Paul has become. But I also grieve the silence I didn’t notice, and the support I didn’t offer. We, as Chinese parents, often believe we are doing our best - feeding, planning, pushing, sacrificing. But in all that effort, we sometimes forget that the most important thing a child needs is to feel safe being themselves. We think success is the destination. But we forget: communication is the vehicle. Without it, our children might arrive, but they may never feel whole.

To all parents like me:
Teach your children to speak.
To express themselves.
To listen, and to be heard.

Not just so they can succeed but so they can live fully.

Our children may be “successful.”
But are they confident?
Visible?
Heard?

Because someday, when they walk into the world alone, it won’t be their piano scores or math trophies that save them.

It will be their voice.
And we are the ones who must show them how to use it.