My Story
I always wanted to be “normal.” Yet emotions swirled relentlessly around me—frustration, shame, and isolation. In elementary school, a single act came to define my days: being forced to copy Chinese characters 100 times in the recitation class. No matter how hard I tried, the right answers seemed just out of reach. My parents were the most often called by the homeroom teacher due to my “incorporation.” That moment marked the beginning of a long and difficult journey.
When I changed schools, receiving a diagnosis of dyslexia initially felt like a relief—an explanation for my struggles. But it quickly turned into an official “bad” or “special” label. It wasn’t freedom; it was a tag that followed me everywhere. My parents grew anxious about my future and took me to “experts” who predicted I would only become a security guard. The pressure mounted, and it felt like everything was falling apart.
“Special care” came in small, sharp forms. Being pulled out of class for exams sparked whispers: “Did he cheat?” The computer I used was sometimes punctured with needles—a quiet but painful form of bullying. In therapy, frequent sessions, especially for English reading and writing, felt less like support and more like a ritual that repeated, “You are wrong. You are different.” The therapist told me my frontal lobe was underdeveloped, but my posterior brain might be stronger. My confidence suffered deeply.
The turning point came when I moved to Leighton School. I decided to hide my dyslexia. This wasn’t surrender—it was a conscious shift from accepting a label to taking control of my own identity. In this new environment, I began to notice subtle advantages. Past therapy had strengthened my English, and I found a way to use it: I tutored classmates in English in exchange for math help. For the first time, being “special” created value—not just for me, but for others. It became a two-way exchange, not a one-sided plea for help.
Through one of these exchanges, a friend taught me how to fly FPV drones. I picked it up quickly—faster than my dad and younger brother—and soon learned to operate them smoothly, even without flight control. After assembling many drones, I felt driven to design my own. Then, during a bout of COVID, I taught myself 3D modeling in just five days. I could model almost anything: a SUB-250 high-speed drone, a Y4 configuration FPV drone, or a 5-inch quad. It reminded me of what the therapist had said: my posterior brain might be stronger. I realized my 3D thinking and spatial imagination were real strengths—and they pointed me toward industrial design, a field where my mind could work in its own way and create true value.
Now, every time I go home, I immerse myself in industrial design—building drones, taking apart road bikes, assembling electric skateboards. My parents noticed the change. The support from my father came not in the form of special care, but as freedom—the freedom to go deeper into what I was truly passionate about. He provided the space for my trials, trusted my process, and tested the products I built. Failure, of course, is common. But iteration is key. I’ve faced failure for much of my life, yet I’ve always kept moving—just like with my projects. No matter the problem, I build the next version.
That same mindset—to keep building—led me to found a 200-member club focused on FPV design. I help beginners learn 3D software and open-source my designs on GrabCAD. I no longer hide my dyslexia—I live through it. Now, I don’t just help myself. I help others see their own strengths differently.
I once wanted to be “normal.” Now I see my difference not as a limitation, but as my way of thinking, designing, and creating. I don’t hide what makes me different—I build with it. And in building, I’ve found not just my strength, but my purpose.
