I grew up the way most people expect an Asian kid to grow up: parents owning a Chinese restaurant, the smell of oil and soy sauce clinging to my clothes, homework done at a corner table while adults argued about business and life. Food was everywhere—yet somehow invisible. It was just… there. Survival. Background noise.
My parents never taught me how to cook. In their eyes, cooking wasn’t a skill worth passing down—education was. So I listened. I studied. I did well. Straight As, top scores, passed every exam. I became a doctor on paper… except I never became one in real life. Every residency program in the U.S. said no. Again and again. I kept going until I ran out of money.
So I pivoted—hard. I built a digital marketing agency from nothing and somehow turned it into a multimillion-dollar business. I saved money. I proved I was capable. I thought maybe this was the plot twist that made everything make sense.
Then my dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. I took two years off my life to try to save his. I actually matched into residency—but walked away from my dream because timing is cruel like that. You don’t get to choose when life demands everything from you.
My dad eventually passed away. Shortly after, I found out I was pregnant with my daughter. Life, once again, rewrote the script without asking. Now I work multiple remote jobs as a digital marketer. From the outside, it looks fine. Productive. Stable. But inside, I miss my dad.
I miss our late-night ramen conversations. I miss the loud dinner parties he hosted where food wasn’t just food—it was connection. I miss the version of life where we weren’t obsessed with prestige, titles, or who was winning.
“Life isn’t 1 + 1 = 2. It’s messy, unpredictable, and unmeasurable—just like cooking. You don’t follow it perfectly; you show up, innovate, and learn to love what you create.”
One thing my dad always said stuck with me: cooking isn’t about measurements or following a recipe perfectly. It’s about enjoying what you’re doing. It’s about innovation. Life isn’t 1 + 1 = 2—it’s messy, unpredictable, and beautifully complicated.
You don’t control outcomes. You embrace the process. You create anyway. So I started cooking. Badly at first. Then better. Then joyfully.
This blog—and my social channels—exist because food was the only place I felt whole again. It reminded me of who I was before life became a scoreboard. Food brought us together. Food softened grief. Food gave me permission to experiment, to fail, to feel, to remember.
This isn’t a cooking blog about perfection. It’s about stories, cravings, late nights, and figuring things out one dish at a time. If life has taught me anything, it’s this: the most meaningful things aren’t measured—they’re felt. And sometimes, healing starts with a bowl of ramen. 🍜✨
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