Long before I could form full words, my hands were already tightly gripping paintbrush scribbling recklessly on anything I could find... paper, concrete floors, and even into thin air. Fortunately, my family never stopped me, they actually gave me an entire wall in our house. That wall became my very first art gallery, covered with my wildest, most unrestrained doodles.

This innate artistic impulse led me to win quite a few art competitions throughout my youth. Yet, what stands out most vividly in my memory isn't the shiny trophies or awards, it’s the distinct, metallic taste of iron lingering in my mouth.

It was the day I won first prize in a national contest. My mother was always busy, and when she finally got home that evening, all my yearning and wild joy exploded at once. Holding my award, I sprinted and leaped into her arms with an uncontrollable laugh. Suddenly, a strange, metallic taste flooded my mouth. My mother saw my mouth was full of blood and rushed me to the hospital, my inner lip had caught on the metal button of her coat and ripped open, I ended up with three stitches and a swollen lip for a week.

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Even after that, nothing really slowed me down. Painting was never just a hobby or a skill to check off a list for me, it was just what I did, like breathing. Even during my very last week before moving to Australia, my schedule was still packed with different art classes.