As a boy in Shenyang, I practiced piano six hours a day. My mother taught me to read notes, and my father, a concertmaster, showed me how to control the keys. I started on cheap Chinese keyboards, then progressed to a Swedish piano, which I broke while playing Tchaikovsky. At eight, my parents and teacher decided I needed to move to Beijing to pursue music seriously.
My father knew the path was difficult, with millions vying for fame. "You need fortune," he said, "If you don't work, no fortune comes. But music exists to make us happy."
To accompany me, he sacrificed his beloved job. My mother remained in Shenyang to support us financially. They warned me about the hardships ahead.
In Beijing, we were outsiders with northern accents. We lived in a cold, shared apartment. My father became a homemaker, cooking and caring for me. Our school was far, so he cycled me there daily, a 90-minute trip each way, even in winter. On cold nights, he would warm my bed while I practiced.
My misery stemmed not from poverty but from my new teacher, who disliked me, declared I had no talent, and eventually dismissed me. At nine, I was devastated and quit piano for two weeks, longing for home.
My father waited patiently. A turning point came when a school teacher asked me to play holiday songs. Reluctantly, I played and realized I could prove my talent. That day, I told my father I wanted a new teacher. From then on, everything changed.