The Man Who Gave Me Wings
- Jun 16
- 3 min read
By Helene Su
My father was a quiet force. He wasn’t one for many words, and had a soft, gentle demeanour—yet deep within, he held the moral fibre of steel. His presence spoke volumes. He moved through life with quiet dignity.
In his early twenties, he boarded a boat from sunny Hong Kong to the chilly isle of England. The journey took over a month—and that one courageous act shaped everything that came after. As the eldest son, he left out of a sense of duty. In his early years, he sent money home to put his auntie through college.
I never heard him complain. He carried the weight of responsibility, sacrifice, and silent love on his shoulders.
Like so many men of his generation, he didn’t talk about resilience. He embodied it. And Dad always encouraged me to make the most of life’s opportunities. To get that university education. To go for things. To keep going.
I remember watching the Tiananmen Square protests on the news in 1989, knowing I could have been one of those students—risking, and some even losing, their lives in the pursuit for personal agency and freedom. But I wasn’t there. Because he chose a different path for us, me and my siblings. He always wanted the best for me. And I guess I got the travel bug from him, too.
There are no words big enough for what that means. Dad gave me wings. The dance of freedom. And I carry a fierce, embodied gratitude that lives in my cells.
He gave me more than safety. He taught me how to live. To persevere, no matter what. To make the most of every opportunity. To be easy-going and unafraid. To not complain. To keep going.
These weren’t values he spoke aloud. They were etched into his actions—his willingness to endure, to show up, to make things work with what he had.
He and my mother were immigrants who arrived with little. English was not their first language. Formal education had been a luxury. My mother was expelled from school at age seven for refusing to lead a parade, and later taught herself to read and write Chinese.
And yet, against every odd, they raised three children—All of whom went to university. All of whom built lives that once seemed impossible.
They didn’t ask, “Is this sustainable?” They simply did what had to be done.
But the way I honour my father’s sacrifices now is not by repeating his survival patterns. It’s by living differently. Freer. Truer. More creatively. It’s by embracing the choices I have that he didn’t.
The freedom I inherited isn’t just logistical or geographical. It’s emotional. It’s somatic. It lives in my body before it ever becomes action. It pulses through my work—supporting visionary leaders, creatives, and sensitive disruptors to reclaim their voice and embody the lives they were born for.
Because this is what I’ve come to understand: Freedom doesn’t begin in the mind. It begins in the body. The tension in your shoulders. The breath you’re holding. The stories your cells still carry. These are the places we begin to soften, release, and transform.
And so, this Father’s Day, I offer this not just as a tribute—but as an invitation. To honour those who came before you, not by living the same struggle—But by living your fullness.
Let’s remember: You can lay down the weight. You can move through life with more ease. You can be the living expression of everything they made possible.
This is what my father gave me. Not just a life. But the courage to truly live it.
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