Scars Visible

My Eyebrow, Stuffed Animals, and Practice Logs

Scars are what remain after a traumatic wound has healed. They’re thicker protective layers, successfully sealing the damage and hopefully preventing or lessening it next time. They often look a little ugly, deformed. But they’re also important reminders of what happened.

Everyone has them. Some are more visible, like mine. Others hide under makeup and clothing. Many exist inside us, completely unseen.

I have three particularly visible scars: my eyebrow, my stuffed animals, and my practice logs.

Eyebrow

I have a scar through my left eyebrow from when I was a toddler. An inch lower and it would have been an eye patch instead.

My mom might have blamed herself when it happened. But in all fairness, I was an unusually energetic kid. I’ve seen videos of myself around that age, giant mass of hair wobbling every which way as I run across our backyard. No sound in that old recording, but I swear I can hear the wind rushing by — ghost of a memory, whispering of things to come.

It must have happened so fast; I can only imagine play by play. She sets me in the high chair, squirming as usual. Turns to look at something my older brother wants to show her. I suddenly reach for something on the table; a toy, maybe? Head too big, too heavy to hold me vertical — I lose my balance, topple sideways. Fast.

Blood, gushing out. Screaming, from me, from my mom. Too much red to tell where the wound is.

The rest is a blur. Towel, door, car, hospital. Lots of stitches, ouch.

The scar remains to this day, four decades later.

Stuffed Animals

Kids made fun of me at school, church, and even violin recitals. They said my eyebrows looked funny. Told stupid racial jokes and slurs that stung. Other asian kids teased me for not being able to speak Chinese. I felt left out, humiliated at times.

My parents are both from Hong Kong and speak Cantonese with each other. They tried to teach us with flash cards and other methods, but we just wouldn’t learn. Too stubborn, I guess. Or maybe we recoiled at the memory of speaking it to strangers who didn’t understand. Either way, to this day I can only say a handful of basic phrases — and probably with the wrong tones.

I slowly became shy and withdrawn. After school, I would retreat to my room to play with my stuffed animals. I made up voices and personalities for each one. They slept in my bed, starred in my journals, even came with me overseas. I chatted with them about my day, taught them to play cards and board games, hugged them when I was upset. They helped me feel included. Accepted.

Jason Junior was an early favorite. His “parents” were stitched by my brother and me in Home Ec class in middle school. My mom, a seamstress by profession, patterned him after them using the same yellow, slightly ridged fabric, with little brown button eyes. We played rough, flinging him back and forth during intense stuffed animal wars in the basement. Eventually we tore a hole in part of his neck. My mom sewed a little shirt to cover up the wound.

Ducky came decked out with fluffy white cotton wings and skinny little velvet legs. They didn’t last long; apparently, flinging produces an inordinate amount of centripetal force. (We probably should’ve learned our lesson from Jason Junior.) Now he sits on top of my bedroom dresser, a little blue shadow with a floppy stuffing-less neck. If you look closely, you can see faded glue spots where his limbs used to be.

YY eventually became my all-time favorite, a squat reddish-brown squirrel with stubby little arms and legs and tail. He sort of reminded me of me, in some strange way. We clicked early — his signature high-pitched voice became instantly recognizable among my family members. Decades later, my brother found two more on auction. It was then that I realized just how worn out he was next to his fluffy newish counterparts.

Bully at school? Drew a comic where Jason Junior bravely faced a boss, defeating it with his trusty sword and shield. Joke told at my expense? Slammed Ducky down and pummeled it to smithereens with his phantom limbs. Couldn’t speak Chinese? YY said everything out loud that I was feeling inside.

To others, they may seem goofy and weird. To my wife and kids, they’re family.

To me, they’re the stuff of legends — scars and all.

Practice Logs

People kept expecting more out of me. I wasn’t working hard enough; two startups eventually failed. I wasn’t dating enough; four years at BYU and no ring to show for it. I wasn’t practicing enough; some of the meanest comments I’ve ever received in my life appeared on YouTube, where I bore my soul musically.

Those years sitting concertmaster? Winning the concerto competition twice, bringing home the “bacon” from the MTNA national finals? Those same years, I was working at that first startup, getting told I wasn’t shipping code fast enough. That I wasn’t paying attention to the customers’ needs. That I was too young to understand. I was quietly living under a dual pressure, one under a literal spotlight, and another behind a laptop — feeling weighed down by both.

There were many girls at BYU. Pretty, accomplished, generally likable. Not interested in me. I was more like this exotic third wheel: capable of handling more than the average tire, but lopsided enough to throw off the vehicle’s balance. Why did I constantly feel alone while surrounded by peers? Parties standing in the corner, the occasional passing hello. Long trips on a European tour bus, listening to friends discuss their relationships. Shoulder to cry on. A reliable friend.

I hit publish on that first YouTube video. I needed an outlet, somewhere where I could be myself. A release valve for the dual pressure. An escape from third wheeling. Playing the violin, but on my terms.

The output quality was raw; I wasn’t looking for perfection. Others were, and they got what they wanted. Instead, I found peace, a sense of relief. I could play whatever I wanted, whenever I felt like it. I could post or not post depending on the day. People didn’t judge me online like they did in person.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. I hadn’t heard of the word “trolling” before, but I quickly learned when my first video caught some traction. They weren’t just mean, they were aggressively insincere. They railed on my bow hold. They mocked my intonation. They sneered at my interpretation. They even levied some of those racial slurs that had cut so deeply as a kid — which I fended off mentally with YY but still felt somewhat.

I continued posting despite the trolls. Slowly, others began to jump in and defend me. More and more people joined in. They formed scar tissue to help protect me, cheering me on. I learned that being myself brought more followers than polish ever would.

Three hundred videos later, I can clearly see my evolution from age 25 to now — practice logs sitting in plain sight. The failed startups? Practicing in public. The rejection from girls? Practicing in public.

This matters. I have a beautiful wife and a bunch of crazy, delightful kids. My job is stable and fulfilling. I can speak multiple languages, perform violin and piano at a moment’s notice, and get along with most people.

My journey is full of practice scars — protective ones. Anyone can see them whenever.

The Fourth Scar I Almost Hid

There’s another scar I didn’t tell you about — until now. Not because I was trying to hide it. Because I hid it. And AI told me to put it back.

Over the past 5 months, I’ve been using AI to help me write drafts for my podcast episodes and Substack essays. I’ve spent over 200 hours doing this. And you know what? I’ve realized that when I use AI to write, it smooths out my voice. Polishes where I was rough. And sometimes, AI deletes the most important parts of what make me me.

I was afraid to admit this. I feared the Internet would eviscerate me, especially trolls lurking for the right opportunity.

The truth is, I thought the only way I would be able to learn to write was through AI. I’ve never written like this before. I didn’t know where to begin. So I turned to AI for help early. It got me through 6 podcast episodes and 5 Substack essays. And it smoothed them all out.

This is the first piece in the series where I own all of my words. Where my voice feels properly represented in its raw, honest state. No cognitive theft here. Just me.

This scar is healing. I’m trusting my voice more than AI’s polish. I believe I’ll get better and better at this process if I just let myself go: write for the sake of writing. For the love of writing. The way I did with YouTube years ago, trusting that my honest thoughts and personality will shine through the murky waters of automation, polished to planks.

Now the question is, can AI take part in the process anywhere? It’s here to stay, and a powerful tool I use regularly for work. But it’s also inherently dangerous.

— I need a break from AI. Taking a 30 day sabbatical from asking it for any writing help. It’s a self-imposed detox program to retrain my brain to think unassisted.

I’ve declared it. Now I’m doing it.