I never imagined I would one day become an author. Writing wasn’t part of the plan.

 After my stroke, I was simply trying to survive, to recover, to find my way back.

I was a man who once spoke confidently, clearly — and suddenly, words felt like strangers.

 Aphasia silenced so much of what I wanted to say.

But in that silence, something else awakened.

I began to write — not because I knew how, but because I needed to.

 I wrote to remember.

 I wrote to feel.

 I wrote to connect with the world again.

And slowly, writing became more than recovery.

 It became my strength.

 It became a voice — not just for me, but for anyone who ever felt invisible, forgotten, or lost.

Why Our Stories Matter

There are so many people out there still searching — for hope, for healing, for someone who understands.

That’s why I write.

 Not to impress, but to express.

 Not to talk at people, but to speak with them — heart to heart.

We need more than just awareness.

 We need empathy.

 We need truth.

 We need action.

Because behind every book I write is a truth I lived through — and behind every truth is someone else still walking through their own darkness.

My Love for Chinese — A Language I Feel But Can’t Fully Write

I’ve always been able to speak Mandarin.

 I use it in conversations, I hear it in my family, I feel it in my bones.

 But writing it? That’s something I never learned.

Chinese is such a beautiful language.

The characters are rich with meaning — each stroke, each curve, each line carries weight.

 Sometimes just one or two words can hold a world of emotion.

 It’s not just a language — it’s an art form.

Since my first book A Cry in the Dark, I dreamed of sharing my words in Chinese too.

 I wanted people who speak and read Chinese to connect with the feelings I poured into those pages.

 But I couldn’t do it on my own.

I didn’t have the ability to write the language I love.

 And for a long time, that made me feel... limited. Like part of me couldn’t be heard.

But This Time... I Did It — With Help

With Thunderstroke, that changed.

I found incredible people — kind, generous, deeply talented — who helped me translate my poetry into Chinese.

 They didn’t just translate the words.

 They captured the emotions.

 They respected the soul of the writing and made it come alive in a whole new way.

And that’s not all — we added calligraphy to the book.

 Beautiful, powerful brush strokes.

 Elegant characters dancing across the page.

There’s something healing in that.

 Something spiritual.

I may not be able to write Chinese myself, but now, it’s in my book —

 a language I love, holding my words, sharing my voice.

I feel so grateful.

 So proud.

 And so deeply moved.

I Can’t Wait to Share It With the World

Thunderstroke is almost ready in English and Chinese.

It’s more than a poetry book — it’s my heart, my pain, my joy, my journey.

 It’s the voice I thought I lost… coming back stronger.

 It’s a tribute to resilience — mine and everyone else’s.

I hope people who read it in Chinese will feel how much love went into this.

 I hope it reaches people who needed something just like this — something real.

Even if I still can’t write Chinese, I’ve found a way to express myself through it.

 And that means more than I can put into words.

Because no matter what language we speak, we all feel.

 We all hurt.

 We all hope.

And sometimes, we just need someone to remind us —

we’re not alone.