We Met On Substack

What I’ve Learned About Her Life of Solitude, Loss, and Legacy

In my own evolving life journey as “The Chocolate Taoist,” I have often observed a quiet resolve in those who navigate the world on their own terms.

My Substack friend Tiffany Chu, a second-generation Taiwanese-American, is one that exemplifies that strength with a rare balance of resilience and tenderness.Her life, shaped by literature, music, and an unrelenting desire to understand herself beyond imposed expectations, unfolds like a passage from the Tao Te Ching—both fluid and unshakable, embracing change while holding firm to the truths that matter.

Tiffany grew up in a home where reputation was everything, where the worth of a person was measured by their accomplishments rather than their intrinsic being. She was raised in a performance-driven culture, where approval was contingent upon success, and success meant adhering to a rigid script.

In Taoist terms, her formative years reflect a struggle between wu wei—the effortless flow of nature—and the forced structures of societal expectation.

But even as a child, something in her resisted. Maybe it was the books—stories written by authors long gone, voices she could hear through the pages, whispering of other ways to be. Maybe it was the music—the notes that carried emotion in a way words sometimes could not.

Or maybe it was simply the realization that she had a voice of her own, and that it deserved to be heard, not just in the performance of excellence, but in the quiet, unpolished truth of existence.

Letting Go of the Unworthy Self

Says Tiffany:

“I spent years believing I was only as good as my last achievement. I still wrestle with it. The voice in my head—the one that tells me I must accomplish more, be more—was never really mine. It belonged to the culture, to my upbringing, to the ghosts of expectations I could never meet. But I’m learning that I don’t need to prove my worth. I just need to exist. That is enough. And some days, I even believe it.”

One of the hardest lessons Tiffany has wrestled with is the deeply ingrained belief that she was never enough. It is a weight carried by many who come from cultures where the family name must be upheld at all costs, where love is often conditional, a currency traded for obedience and achievement. To unlearn this belief was to break free from an invisible prison.

Taoism teaches that the river does not strive to be worthy of the ocean—it simply flows, and in flowing, it becomes the ocean. Tiffany’s journey has been one of recognizing her own ziran—her natural, unforced self. Worth is not something to be earned through external validation. Rather, it is inherent.

And yet, even knowing this, the echoes of old conditioning remain. The path to self-acceptance is not a straight line; it is a spiral, revisiting the same doubts and fears, each time meeting them with a little more wisdom, a little more grace.

She has learned, as Lao Tzu wrote, that “when I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.”

The letting go is the hardest part.

Writing as a Bridge Between Two Worlds

Says Tiffany:

“I’ve been described as cold. I suppose that’s because I don’t wear my emotions on my sleeve. But my writing—my writing is where everything spills out. The words hold all the things I don’t know how to say in person. I once had a friend tell me that reading my work was like finding the secret door to a hidden room in a house they thought they knew. That felt right. Writing is where I let people in.”

To be both deeply emotional and outwardly restrained is not a contradiction; it is a paradox, much like the yin and yang of Taoism. In stillness, there is movement. In detachment, there is connection.

Tiffany has found that writing allows her to reconcile these opposing forces within herself. She does not need to perform her emotions for the world to see; they are woven into every sentence, every character, every moment of vulnerability on the page.

Storytelling is her Tao, her path. It is how she processes the world, how she reaches those who, like her, have felt unseen, misunderstood, or alone in their strangeness. In writing, she creates a space where others can find pieces of themselves.

A Guardian of Words and Memory

Says Tiffany:

“When Ren asked me to publish his words, I promised I would. It was the last thing he asked of me. I was once the kind of writer who didn’t care if anyone read my work. But this isn’t about me. This is about him. His words deserve to be in the world. And I will spend the rest of my life making sure they are.”

Loss has a way of reshaping everything. When Tiffany lost her son, Ren, the world did not stop. The sun still rose. People still laughed. Life carried on, indifferent to the chasm that had opened in her heart. But grief is not something that can be fought or conquered; it is something to be carried, to be honored.

Ren’s last wishes were for his words to live on. And so, Tiffany became their guardian. She put aside her disdain for marketing, for the performative aspects of publishing, because this was not about her—it was about him.

His voice deserved to be heard. His words deserved to exist in the world, not just as memories, but as something tangible, something that others could hold in their hands and read.

In Taoism, there is the concept of wu wei, often translated as effortless action or going with the flow. But wu wei is not passivity — it is alignment with the natural order of things. Tiffany’s devotion to her son’s legacy is wu wei in practice—doing what must be done, not out of force or obligation, but because it is the most natural expression of love.

In the years since, she has come to value her own words as well. Ren’s belief in her writing became a gift, a reason to trust in her own voice. In preserving his stories, she has found the courage to tell her own.

The Courage to Question, the Wisdom to Let Go

Says Tiffany:

“I question everything. Faith. Culture. Social norms. I have spent my life making people uncomfortable because I refuse to accept things at face value. It makes for a lonely road sometimes. But I would rather be alone with the truth than surrounded by comforting lies.”

Tiffany has always questioned the world around her. This has not always been easy. To question is to invite discomfort, to risk alienation. In a world that demands loyalty to a single viewpoint, she has found herself angering people on multiple sides. But as the Tao Te Ching says, “Care about people’s approval and you will be their prisoner.”

She is learning when to speak and when to remain silent. Not every battle is worth fighting. Not every mind is open to dialogue. Some things must simply be let go, like leaves carried away by the wind.

Finding Home in the Space Between

More at home among trees than crowds, more comfortable in her own head than in the noise of the world, Tiffany walks the fine line between solitude and connection. And yet, through her writing, she builds bridges. She reaches out, not in a plea to be understood, but in an offering to those who might see a reflection of themselves in her words.

Taoism teaches that the sage does not cling to the past nor grasp at the future. Instead, they embrace the present moment in all its complexity.

Tiffany’s journey is one of learning to be at peace with the contradictions within her—the part of her that craves solitude and the part that longs to be known, the deep feeler who pretends to feel nothing, the skeptic who still believes in the power of story.

She does not need a thousand readers. She needs only the ones who truly see her. The kindred spirits who understand that sometimes, the most powerful truths are found in the quiet spaces, between the words, in the pauses between sentences.

Her life is not a performance. It is not a checklist of accomplishments or accolades. It is a story still being written, one that, like all great stories, will outlive its author.

For in the end, we are all just words—spoken, remembered, carried forward by those who loved us.

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