Wei Sheng Yang

I was prepping fish at 4:30 in the morning when the pain started—tightness in my chest, like someone pressing down with a stone fist. I’d ignored the warning signs for months. Aches, fatigue, headaches I blamed on stress or bad sleep. But this wasn’t something I could shrug off. I dropped the knife. My sous-chef rushed me to the hospital. That’s how I learned I’d had a minor heart attack. That I needed a bypass. That something had to change.

I’m 54 now. I’ve worked in kitchens for forty years. My restaurant in Taipei, Taiwan, earned its Michelin star six years ago. I’ve cooked for presidents, actors, food critics who tried not to smile but couldn’t help themselves after the second bite. I thought that kind of recognition would fill me. And for a time, it did. But it came at a price I didn’t realize I was paying until it was almost too late.

I barely saw my wife in those years. When I came home, she was already asleep. When she woke, I was gone again. We didn’t fight—we just drifted. Slowly, quietly. Like two boats no longer moored to each other. Our son is twenty now. He helps out in the kitchen. He’s good—steady hands, smart instincts. But I missed most of his childhood while perfecting the broth, adjusting the heat, chasing some invisible ideal on a plate.

After the surgery, I sat him down and told him the truth: I don’t expect him to take over the restaurant. I won’t stop him if he wants to, but I won’t push him either. I told him not to confuse excellence with self-destruction. That every passion needs boundaries. That feeding others shouldn’t come at the cost of starving yourself—emotionally, physically.

I’m stepping back now. I still work, but fewer hours. I watch the staff more, teach more, sweat less. I’ve started walking every morning. I read more cookbooks and fewer reviews. I’m trying to learn how to live a full life—not just a busy one.

Success is beautiful, but it's not enough. Not if you can’t breathe.