Why the Dragon Speaks to Us: A Cultural Dive into Power & Grace in Chinese Culture

When we think of dragons, our minds often drift to images of fiery beasts and fearsome battles. But in Chinese culture, the dragon is something entirely different — not a creature of destruction, but a symbol of power, wisdom, prosperity, and grace. It is a figure deeply woven into the fabric of Chinese heritage, identity, and spirit, speaking to something timeless within all of us.

The Dragon’s Unique Role in Chinese Culture

Unlike the fire-breathing monsters of Western mythology, the Chinese dragon (龙, "lóng") is a benevolent force. It embodies yang energy — strength, creativity, and expansion. Throughout history, emperors were seen as dragons incarnate, carrying the "Mandate of Heaven" to rule wisely and justly. Dragons were depicted on robes, thrones, and banners, reinforcing their divine connection to leadership and moral authority.

The dragon’s ability to soar through the skies, dive into the seas, and ride the winds made it a symbol of adaptability and mastery over nature’s forces. In essence, the dragon was the ultimate bridge between heaven and earth — a creature that harmonized opposing elements with ease.

Power Balanced with Grace

One of the dragon’s most profound lessons is its balance of power and grace. In Chinese art and folklore, dragons are majestic but never savage. Their movements are fluid, their gestures elegant. This balance reminds us that true strength is not about brute force, but about harmony, wisdom, and controlled energy.

In martial arts like Kung Fu and Tai Chi, practitioners often mimic the dragon’s flowing yet forceful movements. It is a dance of power wrapped in beauty — fierce yet refined.

This is why the dragon speaks so powerfully to modern individuals too: it symbolizes the potential to be strong without aggression, assertive without arrogance, and powerful while remaining deeply grounded and graceful.

The Dragon’s Blessings: Prosperity, Wisdom, and Fortune

Throughout generations, dragons have been associated with blessings. Festivals like the Dragon Boat Festival celebrate the dragon’s protective spirit, calling forth rain for crops and abundant harvests. In feng shui, dragon symbols are placed strategically in homes and businesses to attract prosperity and protect from negative energy.

The Year of the Dragon in the Chinese zodiac is considered one of the luckiest times to be born. People born under this sign are believed to be ambitious, courageous, and destined for greatness — carrying within them the dragon’s innate charisma and resilience.

Why the Dragon Still Speaks to Us Today

In a world that often seems chaotic and fast-moving, the dragon offers a vision of strength anchored in wisdom and compassion. It challenges us to rise beyond our circumstances, adapt fluidly to change, and lead with integrity.

Whether you come from Chinese heritage or are simply drawn to the dragon’s energy, its symbolism transcends borders. It invites us all to embrace our inner power, move with grace through life’s storms, and lead with the quiet confidence of those who know they are connected to something greater than themselves.

The dragon is not just an ancient myth.
It is a living symbol — a mirror reminding us of who we are capable of becoming.

Created to Love: My Purpose in God's Kingdom

From the very beginning of time, God’s heartbeat has always been love. Every fiber of our being — our thoughts, dreams, and even our unique personalities — was crafted with divine purpose: to love God, love His people, and reflect His kingdom here on Earth.

I believe deep in my soul that I was created to love. Not just in ways that are obvious or easy, but in ways that stretch the imagination, that reach the unreachable, that heal the hurting, and that build what seems impossible. Love, in its purest form, is the language of Heaven, and it’s the very reason I exist.

Loving God's Kingdom

When I think about God's kingdom, I envision a place overflowing with peace, justice, mercy, creativity, and unity — a kingdom not built by human hands, but by the Spirit of God moving through surrendered lives. I was made to love that kingdom: to seek it first, to build it wherever I stand, and to reflect its culture in everything I do.

Loving God's kingdom means honoring His ways above my own. It’s choosing humility over pride, service over status, and faith over fear. It's seeing with kingdom eyes — seeing possibility where others see impossibility, seeing beauty where others see brokenness. Every dream He placed inside me, every gift He entrusted to me, is meant to serve the bigger picture: to love His kingdom into existence here and now.

Loving God's People

But God’s kingdom is not made of buildings or systems — it’s made of people. Each soul, each heart, each life is a masterpiece of God’s design. To love His kingdom is to love His people — not selectively, not conditionally, but wholeheartedly.

I was created to love not just those who are easy to love, but also the ones the world overlooks: the weary, the wounded, the wandering. Jesus Himself said, “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another” (John 13:35). It’s through radical love — a love that listens, a love that gives, a love that forgives — that God’s heart is revealed to the world.

When I love His people, I step into my truest calling. I become His hands that serve, His voice that encourages, His arms that embrace, and His light that shines in dark places. Love isn't just an act; it’s a way of living, breathing, and being.

Created for More

Loving God's kingdom and His people isn’t always easy. There are days when love feels costly, when forgiveness feels impossible, when serving feels unnoticed. But it's in those moments that I remember: this love is not something I manufacture. It's something God Himself pours into me through His Spirit.

“We love because He first loved us” (1 John 4:19). His love empowers me. His love transforms me. His love fuels my mission.

I was not created for selfish ambition or fleeting success. I was created for a love that is eternal, a love that changes lives, a love that leaves a legacy in Heaven. Every act of love, seen or unseen, is a seed planted in God’s everlasting kingdom.

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Today, I choose to live in that purpose.
I choose to love beyond limits.
I choose to reflect God's heart to a world that desperately needs it.

Because loving God’s kingdom and His people isn’t just what I do — it’s who I am.

"West Island, East Heart"

I was born in Montreal—technically, that makes me Canadian. But I was raised by parents who carried Hong Kong in their hearts, in their language, in the way they folded dumplings on Sunday afternoons like it was sacred.

I grew up in the West Island, where the houses were tidy, the lawns trimmed, and the unspoken rules of fitting in were written in invisible ink. I spoke English at school, a bit of French when I had to, and Cantonese at home—though sometimes, it all blurred in my head. Three languages, but I still didn’t always have the words to explain me.

At school, I was the “Chinese kid”—but I didn’t grow up in China. I couldn’t name all the dynasties or write my name in flawless characters. At family gatherings, my aunties clucked at my accent and the way I held my chopsticks. “So Western,” they’d laugh. But in the West, I was still “so Chinese.”

In the middle of all that, I became a master of code-switching. Smiling when someone butchered my last name. Laughing off the “ni hao” jokes in gym class. Pretending I wasn’t embarrassed when I brought fried rice in my lunchbox and someone said it smelled weird.

I wanted to fit in. I tried. But sometimes I felt like a guest in every room.

Still—Montreal was home. I loved the city like a sibling. I biked along the canal in summer, waited hours for poutine during La Poutine Week, and counted the days until Tam-Tams at Mount Royal. I knew the STM like the back of my hand. I watched fireworks by the water and lit incense during Lunar New Year. My life was a mashup of “eh” and “aiyo,” Tim Hortons and tiger balm.

And somewhere along the way, I realized something: I don’t have to choose.

I’m not “too Asian” or “too Western.” I’m not half of anything. I’m whole—a child of two worlds, both stitched into my skin, my spirit, my story.

Living in the West Island didn’t take away my roots. It just gave them new soil to grow in.

And maybe I’ll never fully “fit in.” Maybe I was never meant to.

But I belong—right here, in this space between maple trees and red envelopes, where being different doesn’t mean being lost.

It just means I’m uniquely home.

Flavors of My Roots: A Culinary Journey Through Generations, Home, and Our Family Restaurant

Food is the soul of our family. It’s how we love, how we serve, and how we stay connected. But for us, it wasn’t just about cooking at home. Our story was written in kitchens, seasoned by tradition, and lived out in the heartbeat of our family restaurant—run by my grandparents, the original keepers of our culinary legacy.

🧓🏽👵🏽 The Grandparents Who Started It All

My grandparents were the definition of resilience and heart. Immigrants with a dream, they opened a humble Chinese restaurant that quickly became the pulse of the neighborhood. They didn’t have much, but they had recipes in their heads, fire in their bellies, and a deep desire to create something lasting.

Their restaurant wasn’t flashy. No big signs or fancy menus. Just honest, home-cooked food served with pride. Teochow, Toisan, and Hong Kong-style dishes poured out of the kitchen—dishes they grew up eating and wanted to share with the world.

🍳 The Restaurant Was Their Life

It wasn’t just a job. It was a family calling

My grandfather would wake before dawn, heading to the markets to pick the freshest ingredients. My grandmother would spend hours prepping—rolling dumplings, soaking dried mushrooms, simmering broths. They worked side by side, day in and day out. And through their hands, they built more than a business—they built a legacy.

As kids, we spent countless hours there. We’d sneak sips of soup from the big pots in the back, help fold napkins, or run errands. Some of us learned how to take orders, others learned how to work the fryer or wash dishes at double speed. It was a rite of passage.

And somehow, even during the busiest dinner rush, our grandparents never made it feel like work—they made it feel like love.

🍜 Signature Dishes That Defined a Community

The menu was a love letter to our heritage:

• Teochow braised duck, tender and deeply aromatic

• Toisan salted fish & pork belly clay pot, rustic and soul-warming

• Cantonese wonton noodle soup, made fresh daily with handmade dumplings

• Steamed egg with minced pork, simple but comforting

These dishes weren’t just popular—they brought people back. Some regulars came every week for years. Some knew our family by name. Some shared their own stories of home over a plate of fried rice.

❤️ A Restaurant That Fed More Than Stomachs

That little restaurant fed more than just hungry bellies. It fed generations of memories. Family reunions. After-school snacks. Community holiday meals. It was where birthdays were celebrated, milestones marked, and life unfolded—all while the kitchen clanged in the background.

It was also where we learned the meaning of sacrifice. My grandparents rarely took a day off. They worked through holidays, storms, and long hours. And yet, they never complained. They wore their tired feet and flour-dusted aprons with quiet pride.

🌱 The Seeds They Planted Still Grow Today

Even though that restaurant eventually closed its doors, its impact is still alive in all of us.

I carry their recipes in my hands and their work ethic in my spirit. I cook their dishes not just to eat—but to remember. I pass their stories to my child so they’ll know where they came from. I honor their legacy every time I walk into a kitchen.

They didn’t just teach us how to cook. They taught us how to serve, how to endure, how to love with action.

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👩🏽‍🍳 From Their Wok to Mine

These days, I don’t run a restaurant—but I carry one in my soul. I cook to remember. I share these dishes with my child not just for flavor, but for the feeling. The feeling of being part of something bigger. Something built with love, and seasoned with legacy.

I am their granddaughter. I am their continuation.
And every meal I make is a tribute to them.

Tracing My Roots: A Story of Heritage, Dialects, and Migration

When people look at me, they often can’t quite figure out where I’m from. And honestly, I get it. My ethnicity isn’t easily guessed just by appearances. But here’s the thing: I’m not mixed with anything other than the many rich and diverse cultures that already exist within China itself. My background is a beautiful blend of Chinese heritage—specifically Toishanese and Teochew.

Now, unless you’re familiar with the intricacies of Chinese geography and ethnic subgroups, you might not recognize those terms. Both Toisan (also spelled Taishan) and Teochew (or Chaozhou) represent distinct regions and cultures within southern China, even though they both fall under the broader Guangdong Province.

A Tale of Two Heritages

Toisan, or Taishan, is a city located in the southern part of Guangdong Province. It holds a special place in Chinese diaspora history, especially for early Chinese immigrants who left for North America in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Teochew, on the other hand, refers to the people originating from Chaozhou, a city also in Guangdong, but northeast of Toisan. Though geographically within the same province, these two regions have their own distinct cultures, customs, and—most notably—dialects.

Growing up, my family’s cultural identity was an interesting intersection of these two lineages. Each side of my family spoke their own dialect—Toishanese on one side, Teochew on the other. Ironically, I was never taught to speak either one. Instead, our household primarily communicated in Cantonese, the more widely spoken dialect of southern China and Hong Kong. So while I was surrounded by layers of linguistic diversity, I only caught fragments of it firsthand.

Discovering Roots Through Stories

Understanding where you come from isn’t always about knowing the language or wearing cultural garments. Sometimes, it’s about asking questions, listening to stories, and uncovering the journeys that brought your family to where they are now.

My own journey of self-discovery began with learning about my parents and grandparents. My parents both grew up in Hong Kong, where East met West in a vibrant blend of tradition and modernity. Eventually, they each made the life-changing decision to immigrate to Canada, though at different times and under different circumstances.

My father immigrated to Montreal as a teenage boy. Like many newcomers, he faced challenges adapting to a new language, climate, and culture. But over time, he settled into his new home and proudly became a Canadian citizen. My mother, on the other hand, came to Canada on a student visa. She pursued her studies and eventually found herself enrolled at John Abbott College—a CEGEP, which stands for Collège d'enseignement général et professionnel. In Quebec, this public institution represents a unique level of post-secondary education that sits between high school and university.

Love and a New Beginning

Fate brought my parents together in the halls of John Abbott College. What began as two young individuals navigating a foreign land turned into a lasting love story. They got married, built a life together, and started a family right there in Montreal, Quebec.

Their journey reminds me that our family’s story is one of resilience, sacrifice, and identity. It’s a story woven with threads from multiple regions in China, rooted in the bustling streets of Hong Kong, and flourished in the multicultural landscape of Canada.

The Legacy of Knowing

As I reflect on all of this, I’ve come to realize how important it is to know where you come from. Even if you don’t speak the language or fully understand every custom, knowing your family’s origin stories gives you a deeper appreciation of who you are. My roots may span across Toisan and Teochew, but my identity is the sum of every migration, every dialect, every cultural nuance that shaped my lineage.

I may not speak the dialects of my grandparents, but I carry their legacy in my values, my traditions, and my journey forward.