20 Lessons in 20 Years

Have you recently felt an invisible sense of urgency?

Every day, we hear that we have entered the age of AI. Science and technology are advancing so rapidly that even the phrase “changing with each passing day” no longer seems enough. It almost feels as if everything is changing by the second. New products, new packaging, new models… It is not only exhausting to keep up — even our wallets can hardly keep pace.

And yet, when we turn back to look at children, we see something very different. Their development has not accelerated.

A baby still begins weaning at around four months. The first milk tooth appears at about six months. A child takes their first steps at around one year old. The first adult tooth is lost at around six. This age-old rhythm is like a metronome — steady, faithful, moving back and forth at its own pace. No one can rush it.

Over all these years, children’s developmental processes have not changed because of modern technology. The mouth is still an infant’s first way of encountering the world. Then come the hands — exploring, testing, trying to understand. From lying down, to rolling, to sitting, to crawling, to standing, to walking — their control and coordination of both large and small muscles continue to follow a natural sequence and timeline.

Their inner development follows the same pattern. At first, a child only knows their own existence. Gradually, they come to understand that others exist independently. This marks the maturation of their senses and cognition — and it too unfolds according to its own timing.

I still remember the first time my child understood a joke. I felt a quiet excitement — because we were laughing at the same thing. In that moment, we truly shared something.

And I also remember the first time my child lied to me. I felt a mix of emotions — anger, surprise, concern… Yet at the same time, I realised that this, too, was a sign of growth. It meant my child was beginning to move beyond the concrete world and was starting to grasp abstract ideas.

This, too, is something that only time can reveal.

Over the years, I have come to understand that every child has their own developmental path — and their own pace.

Some children begin walking at ten months, yet still struggle with night-time control at two.

Some have not started recognising characters at four, yet can brush their teeth independently and drink neatly from a cup much earlier. Some speak very little at three, yet can build tall structures and tie their own shoelaces.

And yet, given time, all children will reach these milestones.

When I once worried that my own child was nearly one year old and still not walking, I reassured myself: everyone out on the street can walk — my child will too. And sure enough, on that very first birthday, my child took their first steps.

Childhood — and the innocence within it — is built moment by moment, through time and experience. From birth to entering school:

6 years,

2,191 days,

52,584 hours,

3,155,040 minutes.

No one can change this.

We can spend those 2,191 days alongside our children — laughing with them, trying things together, exploring the world with them. Or we can sit beside them, each absorbed in our own screens, letting devices take our place. Or we can fill their days with endless classes, trying our best to push knowledge and skills into them. It is still 2,191 days.

Those six years may feel fleeting to us — like something that passes in the blink of an eye.

But to a child, they are as essential and as precious as the food they eat and the water they drink. And perhaps, it is not only precious for the child.

Sometimes, when I look back at my own impatience — wishing my child would grow faster — I find it almost laughable.

I only wish that I had held them more often, held them closer, and for just a little longer.

There is a saying often quoted in education:

“The purpose of education is not to prepare for life; education is life itself.”

Childhood is the beginning of life — and a part of life in its own right. So, in truth, there is little meaning in rushing.

When we try in every possible way to push learning forward, it often leads to the opposite effect. Children grow at different speeds — and there is, in fact, nothing to compare.

When I first entered early childhood education, I was like many young teachers. I believed children should “learn faster”. I thought that as long as I followed the methods in the books carefully — even doing a little more — their progress would naturally exceed expectations.

But reality surprised me.

My efforts seemed only to make my own teaching smoother. When it came to the children’s learning and development, there was hardly any sense of them moving ahead. They simply continued to grow at their own pace.

I remember one child who spent a long time just pouring water — again and again. Once, twice, three times… I began to feel a little impatient, because that day I had prepared other, more advanced activities for him. But he was completely absorbed. When he finally finished, I could sense something in him — a quiet steadiness, a sense of satisfaction, and confidence.

At that moment, I had a sudden feeling: For him, this was not wasted time. He was simply living. And then another thought followed. From my perspective as an adult, it was an exercise. But for the child, it was a moment of life that he was fully living.

I have also seen children spend an entire morning colouring — filling page after page. And I would find myself wondering: “What exactly is he doing? What kind of progress is this bringing?” Of course, there is no clear answer. But gradually, I began to notice that some forms of growth cannot easily be measured as “progress”.

I came to accept the idea that “the process is more important than the result”. For a child, the process itself is learning. Adults often carry the mindset that “those who do not plan ahead will soon face worries”. So we think about the child’s future: primary school, examinations, long-term benefit…

But childhood exists only in the present continuous. Children live in today.

For them, pouring water now, drawing now, doing a puzzle now — everything they are doing in this moment is part of their life. For a child, education is not something separate from life.

Education itself is life.

Over the years, I have encountered countless moments like these — almost every day. They have slowly helped me understand that growth has its own rhythm — a rhythm that belongs to human development itself.

This rhythm cannot be determined by a timetable. Nor can it be accelerated by adult urgency.

Education should respect this pace.

After twenty years of teaching and curriculum design, I have come to understand this more clearly:

The essence of early childhood education is not to prepare for the future, nor to hurry children along the path. It is to honour the life they are living now.

When we are willing to slow down, and respect this rhythm of growth, learning begins to happen naturally. For a child, each day of life is, in itself, growth.

In recent years, I have also noticed something else.  Educational methods are constantly changing. Every few years, a new trend appears — a new slogan, a new approach. And yet, the child’s brain does not evolve every ten years.

Sometimes, the urgency we feel as adults comes simply from the fact that we cannot see growth happening.

Perhaps that child who kept pouring water already understood learning better than I did.

When we are willing to slow down, we begin to see: Children are not preparing for life in the future.

They are already living it.

Anyone who has spent time with children will, sooner or later, realise this: Children are like mirrors. They reflect back to us the small actions and habits we hardly notice in ourselves — replaying them, often with surprising accuracy.

A friend once told me that for a period of time, her two-year-old son would often lie flat on the floor, pressing his face against it, for no apparent reason. Later, she suddenly realised why. One day, while cleaning, she had done exactly the same thing — lying on the floor to check underneath the sofa. Her son had been watching. He didn’t understand what she was doing, but he learned it anyway.

Ah… so that’s how it works. Which makes me wonder: When parents say to their children,

“Didn’t I tell you to put things back after using them?”

“Why do I have to repeat myself so many times? Where has your memory gone?”

Perhaps we should believe that the issue is not poor memory. Perhaps the child has simply never seen the right example.

Some people say that children possess a kind of instinctive observational ability — almost like that of animals — far sharper than that of adults.

At first, I wasn’t entirely convinced. But when I think about it more carefully, it does seem true. When we can’t find something at home, it is often the child who remembers where it was put.

Not long ago, many parents told me that it was actually their children who first noticed that Basic Chinese 500 is organised using beads, rather than numbers, to mark the books.

I remember when I used to teach children in my classroom how to wash their hands, pour water, or roll up a work mat. As teachers, we were especially careful not to explain. We didn’t say: “First prepare the basin and the sponge,” or “Hold the cup with your left hand, and the handle with your right…” Instead, we demonstrated.

Quietly. Slowly. Clearly.

The children would watch once — and then they could do it. And when they practised, they would move in the same way:

Slowly. Attentively. Repeating the same actions again and again.

What we say, children may not always understand. What we do, they almost always follow.

Some children are naturally quiet. Especially in new environments, or in the presence of unfamiliar people, they may simply stand to one side, saying nothing. We do not know what they are thinking. Sometimes, we are not even sure where their attention has gone. Some parents begin to worry: Is my child falling behind? But in reality, quiet children are often observing more carefully. They are learning — silently.

And when they take in more, their minds need more time to process. Communication with children is often, in fact, beyond words.

Time and again, I have noticed this: When I am genuinely moved by a child’s progress — when the feeling comes from within — they sense it immediately.

In those moments, praise and reward stickers almost feel unnecessary.

Sometimes, we consciously try to use more encouraging language — because experts often tell us to do so. But children are not so easily persuaded. They can tell the difference.

I remember when my child was four. One day, holding up a drawing, he asked me: “If I show this to my teacher tomorrow, what will she say?”

Without thinking, I replied: “She’ll say, ‘Oh, that’s beautiful!’” My child nodded seriously and said: “Yes… because she’s very busy.” That answer surprised me. Because it was exactly the kind of thing adults say when we are being perfunctory. And clearly, he knew it.

Children, by nature, have a uniquely sensitive and perceptive way of observing the world — perhaps even as a matter of survival. Over the years, I have gradually learned to make use of this ability.

Instead of forcing learning, instead of adding pressure, I rely on their natural sensitivity — allowing them to move forward and learn in their own way.

And it works rather well.

“You’ve had this way of thinking all along? How come I never knew?”

“I’ve always thought this way. Maybe it’s because whenever I tried to say it before, you interrupted me halfway.”

Recently, my child — now working and grown — said this to me in passing during a casual conversation at home.

I was momentarily taken aback.

“You never let me finish what I’m saying. So how could you know what I really think?”

In that moment, something struck me. I realised that I did not, in fact, truly understand my child. It felt like a quiet alarm bell sounding somewhere inside me.

Decisive. Efficient. Quick to act.

These are qualities I have always valued in my work. I like things to be clear and direct. I dislike wasting time on what feels unnecessary. Often, after hearing just the first half of someone’s sentence, I feel I already understand the whole situation — and the rest no longer seems essential. It may not be particularly polite, but in the adult world, it rarely affects the outcome.

And I have always known that what works in the adult world does not necessarily work with children.

But knowing something — and truly experiencing it — are very different things.

I had never realised that my “efficiency” could leave my child’s words suspended mid-air. Their thoughts were cut off before they had time to fully take shape. What they wanted to say never had the chance to become complete.

And I began to wonder: Could these interruptions also be affecting their language — their ability to think, to express? For the first time, I felt uneasy.

I have often told parents: Ask open-ended questions. Encourage children to speak in full sentences. Listen patiently.

But if I was the one constantly interrupting, wasn’t that a contradiction?

I remember that when reading stories with my child, I was able to slow down. Because I saw that time as “teaching time”, I took on the role of a teacher. I would follow the pages, ask questions, and patiently wait for each answer to be completed.

But in everyday life, I was often one step ahead.

“I don’t want to wear the green one—”

“Then wear the yellow one.”

I thought I had solved the problem efficiently — even democratically.

Only later did I realise: It was never about the colour. It was about the hood.

“Adam got a lot of Christmas presents, and—”

“Christmas isn’t really about presents, it’s about—”

I rushed to explain values, afraid my child might be influenced by material things.

Only weeks later did I realise:

At that moment, my child simply wanted to share how much fun they had playing with Adam.

My child once said to me:

“It’s not that I care whether I can finish a sentence. Sometimes it just feels like my thoughts aren’t even worth one minute.”

That stayed with me.

One minute.

To let a child finish speaking — it only takes one minute.

Why didn’t I wait?

I began to reflect.

How many of my child’s unique thoughts had I missed? If I only ever heard half of what they said, could I really understand their feelings?

Perhaps I had only come to know the version of my child that I could see from my own perspective. Because I never paused to listen, I had missed the child as they truly were.

Only then did I begin to understand the importance of listening.

And also how difficult it is.

I may never do it perfectly.

But then again, life itself is a continuous process of learning.

I remember watching the drama Jewel in the Palace many years ago. There was a line that stayed with me: “A mother is the doctor of the whole family.”

I believe many people would agree with that. But I would go a step further: Parents are a child’s very first teachers — and their most important guides.

In the Three Character Classic, it says: “To raise without teaching is the father’s fault. To teach without discipline is the teacher’s neglect.” Most modern parents, alongside their work, take on both responsibilities — to nurture and to teach. And yet, most parents are not experts in raising children.

I still remember when I had my first child. After leaving the hospital and returning home, I placed the baby in the cot — and immediately felt a sense of uncertainty.

What do I do next?

And so began a cycle of constant learning, practising, and learning again.

Even in professional fields — doctors, engineers — people must continue studying and undergo regular assessments in order to maintain their qualifications. How could parents be any different?

A child is constantly growing. At every stage, their development — physical, emotional, cognitive — is different. Every single day presents a new challenge. How could we not keep learning?

For new parents, there are always experienced elders around us — generous, well-meaning, and willing to share what they know about daily life.

But when it comes to early education — especially something as important as language learning — experience alone is not enough.

We need the right tools.

At the time, I could not find a suitable one. So I created one for my own child.

The Sage Formula (思展方程式).

Every lesson, every character, every small story was shaped with care, thought, and hope. Later, as I watched my child grow, I felt a wish to share this tool with other parents.

Fortunately, I received support from a senior figure in the publishing world who was approaching retirement. With his encouragement, we published Basic Chinese 500 in the simplest possible form, and in the smallest quantity.

There was no experience. No marketing. It simply appeared quietly on the shelves.

And yet, even more fortunately, it was quickly recognised by parents and teachers.

Emails began to arrive. Messages appeared on Facebook. Each one brought surprise — and a deep sense of gratitude.

Some parents said the programme saved them from having to research and design their own curriculum.

Others said it became a kind of companion — something that supported them emotionally along what can often feel like a long and lonely journey of raising a child.

Gradually, a community formed. Parents who had used the programme began sharing their experiences with those just starting out.

I often heard parents describe the Sage Formula as a kind of map. A map that marks a child’s learning journey — showing where they are, where they have been — so that even after a pause, they can find their way forward again.

And that is true.

All of us, at times, feel tired. We want to stop. To put things down. To rest for a while. But often, that pause becomes a stumbling point. Because once we let go, the resistance to starting again is far greater than the determination we had at the beginning. One day becomes tomorrow. Tomorrow becomes the next day.

Pressure builds. And with it, a quiet sense of guilt.

A map does not restrict our direction. But it tells us where we are. And sometimes, that is exactly what we need.

In this way, the Sage Formula gradually entered many homes and schools — and became, in its own way, a teacher to children.

At the very beginning, I deliberately chose not to give names to the characters in the books. I wanted to leave space — space for children’s own imagination.

Later, I discovered that many children had given the characters names themselves. Their sense of engagement was remarkable.

I also discovered something unexpected: Basic Chinese 500 had acquired a nickname among children — “The Tall Mountain” (《高高的山》).

I had never planned that. What I had originally created as a space for children’s imagination gradually became something more.

It became a space for parents as well — a space in which they could teach in their own way.

One Sage Formula became thousands — each one different, each shaped by a different family.

It felt like dropping a small stone into water, and watching the ripples spread.

The very first character I chose was “山” (mountain). Because it is one of the most representative pictographs — and one of the easiest for children to understand. Three simple strokes. And yet, enough to open up a wide and generous space — A space from which a child can begin their lifelong journey of learning.

It seems, after all, that I chose well.