A few days ago, I came across an interview with Olympic champion Eileen Gu. She mentioned a word that caught my attention: neuroplasticity.
It is the idea that the human brain is not fixed. Throughout our lives, our brains continuously change in response to what we repeatedly think, practice, and experience. Every habit, every thought, every challenge leaves a small mark. Over time, those marks become the architecture of who we are.
That idea stayed with me.
Because when I looked back at my own life, I realized I might have been practicing it long before I knew there was a scientific name for it.
Before Melbourne Was Reality
Three years ago, moving from Shanghai to Melbourne seemed uncertain.
I didn't know whether I would find a new rhythm of life. I didn't know whether my son would adapt. I certainly didn't know what the future would look like.
But I held one belief very firmly:
We could build a more peaceful life here.
That belief did not magically create reality.
Instead, it quietly influenced every decision that followed — researching schools, applying for visas, accepting uncertainty, learning a new culture, and continuing even when the path felt lonely.
Looking back now, I wonder whether our beliefs are less like wishes and more like compasses.
Perhaps they don't determine our destination. Perhaps they simply keep us walking in a particular direction.
The Stories We Tell Our Children
Every night before my son goes to sleep, I remind him of something he has done well.
Sometimes I tell him, "You've become such a stronger reader." Other nights I might say, "Your soccer skills have improved so much over the past few years."
I rarely tell him that he is simply "smart." Instead, I want him to notice his own growth.
Only recently did I discover that psychologists have spent decades studying this exact idea. Children who believe they can improve are often more willing to embrace challenges than those who believe their abilities are fixed.
Without realizing it, I had been trying to help my son build an identity:
I am someone who learns. I am someone who improves.
My Grandmother Knew Something
When I was young, my grandmother often told me:
"Always speak the good side of life."
For years, I thought it was simply a beautiful saying. Now I wonder if there was more wisdom in it than I understood.
Speaking about the good does not mean pretending difficulties don't exist. It means deciding where our attention lives.
Modern psychology suggests that what we repeatedly notice shapes how we experience the world. The stories we tell ourselves become part of the stories we live.
Perhaps my grandmother didn't know the term neuroplasticity. But perhaps she understood human nature.
Writer or Identity?
Lately, I have been asking myself another question. Can these same principles help me become the writer I hope to be?
Maybe the answer is not to repeat, "I will become a successful writer." Maybe it begins somewhere much simpler.
I am someone who writes.
Every page becomes evidence. Every chapter strengthens the identity.
Success, if it comes, becomes the consequence rather than the goal.
The Question That Interests Me Most
The more I read, the more I realize that I am not only interested in psychology. I am fascinated by a much bigger question:
Why do people become who they become?
Part of the answer belongs to neuroscience. Part belongs to psychology. Part belongs to literature. Part belongs to philosophy. And perhaps there is still a part we do not yet fully understand.
Some people call it destiny. Others call it meaning.
Science explains many things about the brain, memory, and behavior. It can show us how repeated thoughts change neural pathways and how our expectations influence our actions.
But there are still questions that science has not completely answered.
Why do certain people feel drawn toward a particular life? Why do some decisions seem inevitable only when we look back? Why do some experiences feel strangely significant?
I don't know the answers. Perhaps none of us do.
Reading as Exploration
This curiosity has led me to begin exploring books on neuroplasticity, identity, and narrative psychology — not because I want to become a neuroscientist, but because I want to better understand people.
Maybe that is what writers have always done.
They observe. They listen. They notice patterns. And they keep asking questions.
For me, reading is no longer only about acquiring knowledge. It is about understanding how a human life is formed.
Perhaps that journey is just beginning.