My journey has been a quiet transformation, from pursuing absolute freedom to discovering infinite possibilities within limitations. I used to believe life should be completely free, unbound, without any constraints. This philosophy led friends to call me “a bird without feet,” — always flying, never landing. After university, I started my own video production business. I was rejecting all forms of discipline and routine in work and life. Then a wedding short I made went viral. Work flooded in. Without a team, I had to handle everything on my own. Often, I was staying up for days on editing. I ate street food at odd hours. My sleep flipped. It might seem like freedom, but in reality, it was disorder. My physical and mental well-being paid the price.

The turning point came with marriage and the birth of a child. The responsibilities of family life pushed me to reflect on what gives my life meaning. I gradually discovered the calm power inherent in rhythm and regularity. It didn’t happen overnight. It took time to adapt.

This winter, my child and I knitted together. This experience gave me a new perspective on creative practices. My child wanted to prepare a Christmas gift for her dad. That simple, loving intention opened the door to the beauty of knitting. Making a sock turned out to be much harder than we expected. A scarf or a shawl lies flat, but a sock has shape. You start at the toe and work in small rounds, one loop after another—almost like 3D printing. A small slip can leave a seam that rubs and feels wrong. What surprised me was the teacher’s approach. She didn’t begin with set stitches. She asked her students to try first, and to learn through exploration. As we went along, my child knitted one section inside out. When she noticed this “mistake,” she didn’t undo it and start again. Instead, she got excited: “This texture is so special!” She decided to keep this accidental beauty, even repeated it on purpose to create a unique design. While the sock didn’t happen, her dad will get a one-of-a-kind phone bag.

This experience reminded me of Abbas Kiarostami’s famous line: “Limitations set you free.” Film is bounded by the frame. Poetry is held by meter. And it is within these limits that artists find something to push against, and a place to stand. This idea was a sharp contrast to what I used to believe. 

Before having a child, I lived purely on impulse.  I often worked 36-hour stretches for urgent projects, surviving on snacks. While this lifestyle brought fleeting satisfaction, it severely impacted my health. Then my child arrived, and everything changed. Life suddenly had a clear rhythm. There was a distinction between weekdays and weekends, sleep formed regular patterns, and family activities were scheduled. At first, that regularity felt like a constraint. Over time, I began to appreciate its beauty.

I started to understand that routine is not a cage, but a framework. Painting needs a canvas. Music needs a score. Life also needs a structure to hold it up. This insight didn’t just change how I lived. It also changed how I create.

Looking back on my creative journey, I can see a clear shift in my work —from “heavy” to “light.” In my early documentary days, I tried to record everything. The footage piled up like a mountain. It became a mental weight, trapping me in anxiety about editing work I had no time for. In recent years, I’ve been trying lighter ways of making. Lately, I’ve been running a small livestream series, the “Pass-It-On Project. With only a phone, I visit different homes. I listen to how people live, and I help them pass along things they no longer use. The setup is simple, but the connection is immediate. People respond in real time. Stories travel faster.

This shift has eased my pressure. It has also pulled my attention back to what matters. A friend once shared, “If you scatter the photos you took from a building and the wind carries them, that can be an exhibition too.” I began to see that the value of making is not in how grand the form looks. It is in how sincere the expression is. Even chores have started to feel different. Cleaning has become a way for me to enjoy life. I like the sound of a broom crossing the yard. I like the rhythm of gathering fallen leaves. These small sensations make me happy. I’ve come to believe that a good life lives in details, not in big displays.

As a documentary director, I’ve also developed a different way of working. Unlike directors who dominated the shoot, I prefer to be almost invisible. On-site, I often let the executive director or the cinematographer take the front. I stay in the background. The benefit of this method is obvious. When people being filmed don’t feel the director’s presence, they act more naturally. I’ve trained myself to develop a particular sensitivity, the ability to anticipate dramatic moments about to unfold in life. If I feel that my child is about to say something interesting, I get the camera ready first. That habit has allowed me to capture many precious, spontaneous moments.

With time, I’ve also become clearer about what I want. When considering collaborations, my first thought isn’t the project’s prestige or payment, but my genuine personal response. If I feel no connection to a subject,  I will choose to decline, even if the offer comes from a renowned brand or publication. Behind that choice is a commitment to my original intention. I try to separate money-making from art-making.I handle finances through other means. So I can protect the impulse behind what I make. While this means taking on fewer projects, the ones I take are the ones I truly want. The process becomes lighter and more joyful.

I once read a Stanford report that suggested people need a few hobbies that don’t involve electronic devices. Repetitive, hands-on activities can induce a state of flow. I strongly relate to that, and I practice it in my own life. Knitting. Brewing tea over charcoal. Sweeping the courtyard. These seemingly ordinary activities have become important ways for me to experience life. The accumulation of these small details has enriched my inner world. I’ve come to understand that meaning rarely comes from dramatic events. It often comes from noticing. From the perception and appreciation of subtle moments. It’s like slowly simmered broth. Though the process is slow, it transforms the essence of the ingredients, nourishing body and soul.

I’m continuing the “Pass-It-On Project.” The audience is not large, but the impact is real. Each live stream helps find new owners for unused items, small achievements that bring me satisfaction. I plan to visit more families. And as I go, I keep adjusting how I create. I’m moving from heavy documentary production to lightweight livestreams. From perfection to acceptance. I’m slowly finding a way of expression that fits me.

Reflecting on my personal growth, I deeply appreciate that true freedom isn’t about casting off all restraints. It is a sense of ease that comes from understanding the rules. Just as in knitting, sometimes a “mistake” opens a new path. I still maintain a persistent pursuit of beauty, but my approach has changed. I no longer force grand narratives. I focus on the subtle emotions in daily life. That shift has brought me inner peace. My stories got smaller in scale, but it started to stay longer with people.

Life is like knitting. Every stitch matters. Sometimes we slip. Sometimes we struggle. But it is exactly those imperfections that create the unique texture of a life.