Most people would say a good neighbor is someone who greets you when passing by,

and lends a hand when needed.

Someone who doesn’t make noise or cause trouble.

But in Taiwan, where I live, it’s common to see people occupying public roads —

cars, scooters, flower pots, even piles of stuff,

as if the street were an extension of their own yard.

So for me, being a good neighbor means one more thing:

keeping shared spaces clean and clear.

It’s not just about tidiness.

It’s about respect — for the people who live beside you.

It sounds simple,

but not everyone remembers it.

After more than ten years of work,

life has become steady—almost predictable.

Having a “first time” isn’t hard;

it’s just that I don’t dare risk losing what I already have.

Still, within that stability,

there are bits of learning and creation that keep me moving.

This year, I built an MVP-level RAG system

by combining office work with late-night study,

and even turned it into a few internal training sessions.

I also self-learned how to fine-tune a YOLO vision model

and built a Taiwan license plate recognition mobile app.

(A small side note—YOLO is something our R&D team

has been talking about for years,

but somehow never actually implemented.)

Oh, and during my trip to Japan,

I had another “first time.”

My first time riding a bus alone—

because right after I tapped my phone to get on,

the driver just closed the doors and drove off,

leaving my friend still fumbling for his transit card.

Thinking back, it wasn’t bad at all.

The system runs, the model recognizes,

and I got on the bus by myself.

Maybe “first times” don’t need to be so serious.

After all, that’s how life works—

you either take the initiative,

or the door closes and takes you with it.

Principles change — with age, with perspective.

When I first entered the workplace, I struggled, trying to prove I could make it.

Then came a period of stubbornness — rules, definitions, and frameworks I clung to, believing they gave life its order.

Now, I let things flow.

I no longer try to make others agree with me,

even when I’ve thought it through and know I’m right.

I speak the truth, but with restraint —

because not every truth needs to be spoken out loud.

Everything, now, is guided by one simple rule:

to keep walking, to stay on the road long enough

to see where it leads.

So many things.

Every day there’s something I’ve been putting off.

I try to stay diligent,

but the day always rises and falls.

Some hours I’m all in,

some hours I just stare at the screen doing nothing.

Funny thing is—

when I’m with the one I love,

my energy suddenly doubles.

Haha.

Growth, to me,

isn’t about getting stronger or earning a higher title.

It’s when you stop rushing to speak

when someone makes a mistake.

I used to judge others in silence,

thinking I could see things more clearly.

But later I realized —

everyone has a reason for what they do.

Pressure, timing, fatigue,

or just a bad day.

Silence doesn’t mean indifference.

It means understanding.

It means restraint.

When you can see the story behind someone’s action,

you no longer rush to decide who’s right or wrong.

That was the moment

I knew I had grown — quietly,

but surely.

Nothing complicated.

I’d just keep giving —

month after month,

year after year.

Keep a kind heart.

Keep the will to give.

Money will run out someday,

but if that heart remains,

it’s worth more than any donation.

Everything has its price.

The greater the deed, the higher the risk.

Sometimes, you gain a lifetime of wealth, but the cost is health—or family.

Sometimes, it’s the opposite.

You may lose fame and fortune, yet keep the truest parts of yourself.

Even if success were guaranteed, it would never come without a cost.

Maybe not now, but the wheel of fate will turn—bringing peaks, bringing valleys.

I often think of that song I love, Can You Celebrate?, and its singer—Namie Amuro.

Her life feels like a reflection of fate itself.

Childhood marked by divorce and hardship; youth that exploded into fame.

Fate did not spare her—loss, betrayal, valleys so low.

Yet she stood again, shining once more, even reclaiming what had been taken.

Tai chi has black and white.

Life is the same.

Light and shadow coexist, and together, they make a whole.