Happy Birthday to Me!

I used to hate birthdays.

Mine, anyway.

Every August 25 felt less like a celebration and more like an annual notification that my shot clock was running out. Another year older. Another year closer to six feet under.

People would inevitably tell me, “It’s better than the alternative.” I hated that saying, too, mostly because they were right. Funny how getting older changes your perspective about getting older.

Today, I’m celebrating another birthday, and instead of lamenting the number, I’m trying to appreciate the fact that I get to have one. Because not everybody does.

I’ve been thinking about Tina Cox today.

Tina was a media colleague and one of those people who always seemed so alive. Vibrant is probably the best word. She had an energy about her that made it difficult to imagine a UK sporting event without her in it.

I remember distinctly that the last time I spoke with Tina, she asked me about Bingo.

She always asked me about my dog.

She could have asked about my writing, Kentucky basketball, my family, or any of the supposedly important things going on in my life. Instead, sooner or later, I’d get, “How’s Bingo?”

I loved that about her.

I’m not sure why that particular memory has stuck with me so strongly since she passed. Maybe because it was such a small thing, and I’m learning that small things aren’t always small.

Neither are birthdays. Tina doesn’t get another one. I do.

That realization will sober you up pretty quickly when you’re tempted to complain about getting old.

So I’m trying to savor today, and many of you have made that easy. I’ve heard from people I see all the time, people I haven’t seen in years, and people I’ve never met in person. I’ve gotten texts, calls, Facebook posts, and messages from people whose names brought back memories from completely different chapters of my life.

Some of you wrote a sentence. Some wrote several paragraphs. Some apparently decided a Facebook-generated “Happy Birthday!” was sufficient effort for another year.

I’ll take it.

Every single one meant something to me. Dan Mackey even bought me lunch. Thank you.

But here’s the strange thing about birthdays. You can hear from a hundred people and still notice the one person you didn’t hear from.

Kanisa didn’t wish me a happy birthday today.

There. I said it.

And it hurts more than I care to admit.

I’m not angry with her. I understand why things are the way they are, probably better than most people could. But I’ve also learned that understanding something intellectually doesn’t make it hurt any less emotionally.

I would trade a whole bunch of Facebook greetings for one “Happy birthday” from my wife.

Maybe that sounds ungrateful. It’s not. It’s just true.

So if there’s anything this birthday has taught me, it’s something I never would have considered years ago when birthdays were mostly about cake, presents and complaining about getting older:

Don’t ever take for granted hearing a “Happy birthday” from the person you love.

Don’t take for granted the card on the kitchen counter, the kiss in the morning, the dinner you didn’t particularly want to go to, or the lousy present they bought even though they should know you better by now.

And don’t dismiss those two simple words just because you’ve heard them every year for the last 30 or 40 years.

There may come a birthday when you’d give almost anything to hear them again.

I’m incredibly grateful for everyone who remembered me today. I’m saddened by the one person who didn’t.

But I’m also here.

Another August 25.

Another birthday I once might have dreaded.

This time, I’ll take it (along with any gift cards, free lunches, or book purchases).

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. He currently serves as a columnist for Nolan Group Media and invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. His latest book is Whining for Posterity, available on Amazon.

The Olympics, Immigration, and the Question We Avoid

My sister, Mary, and I—both naturalized American citizens—with the Olympic rings in Whistler, British Columbia, the site of the 2010 Winter Olympics.

I’ve been thinking a lot about two things lately: the Olympics and immigration. They don’t seem connected—but in my life they are.

Watching athletes march behind flags has a way of stirring pride—and also stirring questions. Questions about belonging, about identity, and about who gets to wear a country’s colors and who is forever asked to explain themselves.

Somewhere between the opening ceremonies and the nightly news, those two worlds have been colliding in my head.

I’m a naturalized American citizen—but I didn’t take the test. My parents did. They filled out the forms. They stood in the lines. They navigated the system so I wouldn’t have to. My citizenship was inherited before it was understood, and respect for authority came with it.

Growing up as the only Asian kid in my elementary school, authority meant structure. Structure meant stability. And stability meant safety. My parents always told me to keep my nose out of trouble and not to make waves.

So yes, I stand for the anthem. I feel pride when the flag goes up.

But while we’re counting medals and celebrating national pride, immigration has been dominating the headlines again—raids, protests, tension, fear. And it’s made me uneasy in a way that’s hard to articulate.

Part of it is personal.

I joke sometimes—half joking—that I’m probably next on the list to be hauled away by ICE. It’s said half in humor, half in recognition of something many immigrants understand instinctively: that possessing the paperwork doesn’t always erase the perception.

Citizenship may be official, but belonging can still feel conditional.

And that’s where Olympic pride and immigration collide.

Let me say something plainly.

Criminals—especially violent criminals—should be deported. Who wants thugs around? Wanting safe streets doesn’t make you heartless. Communities have the right to protect themselves.

But immigration isn’t just a policy debate. We live it daily through personal relationships. There’s something different about the nanny who watches your kids. About the workers on the horse farms who show up before dawn and leave without applause. About the people who do the jobs no one else wants.

They aren’t abstractions. They’re faces and voices woven into daily life long before anyone asks where they’re from—or how they stay.

When I see immigration stories unfold, I don’t just see arguments. I see people who look like me. People who have been asked, “Where are you from?” enough times to know the follow-up is never innocent.

Citizenship didn’t erase that feeling. It just gave me the official paperwork.

Talking with my civic-minded friends has sharpened the tension. We look at the same issues and see different threats. I talk about order. They talk about liberty. One of them told me, “Protest is how liberties survive. If people don’t push back, they disappear.”

That sentence makes me uncomfortable. Because you can disagree with protest, debate enforcement, argue law and order endlessly. But at the very least, we should be able to agree on this: no one deserves to die for speaking up.

This is where the Olympics quietly teach us something.

Every athlete marches behind a flag, but the stories that move us most are personal ones. Refugees competing without a country. Athletes born somewhere else, representing a nation that gave them a chance. People who crossed borders not for glory, but for survival.

National pride, at its best, celebrates excellence without erasing humanity. At its worst, it tightens into something ugly and brutal.

Jesus lived under an empire that loved banners and authority. He respected order—but He never confused it with righteousness. He didn’t issue policy papers. He noticed who was hurting. He touched people others avoided. He stood with the vulnerable even when it complicated the story.

Christians don’t have to choose between loving their country and loving their neighbor. But we do have to choose which one shapes our tone.

I can believe criminals should be deported and still see dignity in the people who hold up daily life. I can stand for the anthem and sit with those who feel unseen. I can feel pride and practice humility.

My parents stood in line so I could belong. Others are still standing—sometimes quietly, sometimes fearfully, sometimes invisibly.

As flags rise and medals are awarded, maybe the most faithful posture is this: to hold pride and compassion in the same breath.

Jesus is still asking the same question—Olympics or not:

Who is my neighbor?

I love this country, and I’m grateful to stand for its flag.
But a nation worth standing for is one that still knows how to kneel.

Let Freedom Ring

I first penned this essay back in April of 2019. It still remains one of my favorite pieces. Happy Birthday, America!

Final Four? I don’t care. I guess I’m a sore loser. The minute Kentucky gets eliminated in the NCAA tournament, I just want to get as far away from basketball as possible. In 2017, right after UNC’s Luke Maye sent the Wildcats prematurely packing, I immediately started packing for my own trip to Turks and Caicos. When Kansas State upset the Big Blue a year later, I booked the first flight out for the Florida Gulf Coast. In 2019, unfortunately, I headed out early again—to someplace far away from Minneapolis, where I could put overtime losses to Bruce Pearl completely out of sight and out of mind.

You see, less than twenty-four hours after returning from the disappointment in Kansas City, I was stuffing my suitcase for Washington, DC. I’ve been there many times over the course of my lifetime, but never while the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. I was killing two birds with one stone on this trip—making my wife happy and NOT watching basketball during the first weekend in April.

Ah, the memories came flooding back. My first visit to our nation’s capital was with my mom and dad back in the mid-1960s. As newly minted, starry-eyed, first-generation immigrants from China, my parents wanted to show firsthand—to their number one son—the sights and symbols representing their personal pursuit of the American dream. Where better than Washington, DC, where founding fathers and freedom fighters named Washington, Jefferson, and Abraham Lincoln stood sentinel over democracy? Granted, I was only six years old at the time, but something deep down inside of me still resonated with this Land of Opportunity. Even back then, the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness sounded pretty darned good to me.

I returned to DC again in the early 1980s, this time as a recent college graduate, indoctrinated with the liberal agenda and misguided cynicism flowing out of all university campuses. The city had a different vibe for me this time around. Thoughts of American imperialism, social injustice, and racial inequality sadly replaced the wide-eyed innocence of my earlier visit. With malice towards none; charity for all suddenly became a slogan that pipedreams were made of. Not going to happen in this America, I surmised at the time.

I returned to Washington again in the early 1990s, a thirty-something professional with a beautiful wife and one-year-old daughter in tow. Ten years in the military with a stint living overseas, and my thoughts on America had changed. The good ole’ USA was now all about capitalism—making a buck, keeping up with the Joneses, and paying off your mortgage. To me, DC represented all that was worth striving for—the money of the Federal Reserve, the power on Capitol Hill, and the status of the West Wing. I have a dream. It was a different dream than Dr. Martin Luther King had, but it was my dream, nonetheless.

And now, nearly three decades later, I’m back again—armed with a lifetime of experiences and a bucketload of supposedly new wisdom. It’s somewhat bittersweet. My mom has since passed, my daughter is all grown up, and I’ve been retired and put out to pasture. On a beautiful sunny weekday morning, I stroll leisurely along the National Mall, with plenty of time to ruminate about life’s regrets, growing old, and what America has meant to me.

Over a half a century as a naturalized American citizen gives me a perspective grounded mostly in gratitude. I’m grateful for many things—a fine education, access to health care, and languorous walks with my dog. But as I pause in front of all the different war memorials, I realize that the thing I’m mostly grateful for in America is freedom. Freedom to speak, write, gather, and worship as I choose. The United States of America still has its faults, but in terms of individual freedom, it remains the greatest nation on the face of the earth.

Walking up the steps of the Jefferson Memorial, I’m reminded that with freedom comes responsibility. Freedom isn’t free. Many have died fighting for it. “May we think of freedom, not as the right to do as we please, but as the opportunity to do what is right.” (author unknown)

Our Founding Fathers got it right in the beginning. “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness…” May Washington, DC, remain forever a bastion of liberty and a beacon for democracy. Let freedom ring!

By the way, the cherry blossoms were beautiful in April. My wife is happy. Final Four? Who does Duke play again?

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. Currently serving as a columnist for Nolan Group Media, he invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. If you enjoy his writing, please check out his newest book, “Whining for Posterity,” available here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FDLCGR1P

The Top Five Reasons NOT to Buy My Book

Let’s face it. We’re all inundated these days—with political propaganda, fast food coupons, and suspicious texts warning that your bank account’s been compromised. So when a washed-up orthodontist-turned-sportswriter announces his eighth book, your first instinct might be to mutter “bless his heart,” roll your eyes, and scroll on by.

But before you do, allow me—with all the humility I can muster—to present:

The Top Five Reasons NOT to Buy My New Book, Whining for Posterity: Life, Sports, and Other Things Worth Complaining About

Reason #5: You’ve Already Heard It All Before

Fair. At least the five people outside my immediate family who’ve read all my blogs, chuckled at my columns, and survived a few of my Facebook rants might think so. You know who you are.

You’re thinking, “I don’t need a bound compilation of recycled material cluttering up my coffee table.”

Touché. But this is the director’s cut. Whining for Posterity includes never-before-seen edits, timely updates, and slightly embarrassing bonus reflections by yours truly—organized into tidy little categories like “Life,” “Love,” “Politics,” “Religion,” “Travel,” and “Sports.”

Skip the spiritual stuff. Go straight to the football whining if that’s your thing. I won’t be offended.

Reason #4: You Don’t Like Complaining

Neither do I. That’s why I wrote a whole book about it.

Let me clarify: this isn’t just me griping about the Bengals’ play-calling or America’s healthcare system. It’s an honest, often humorous, occasionally heartfelt look at the little frustrations of life—and the big lessons hiding behind them.

Think of it as therapy, but with fewer co-pays and more Rick Pitino references.

Reason #3: You’re Holding Out for the Movie

Ah yes, the inevitable blockbuster. Picture it: Jackie Chan as me, Meryl Streep as my long-suffering editor, and John Calipari making a surprise cameo as himself.

Sadly, Hollywood hasn’t called. Yet.

So for now, your only option is to read the book. Don’t worry—it’s got plot twists, emotional payoffs, and enough laugh-out-loud moments to keep even the most distracted reader engaged. There’s something in it for everyone.

Best of all? It’s cheaper than a bucket of overpriced movie popcorn.

Reason #2: You Think I’m Just Trying to Make a Buck

Please. I’m a writer. If I wanted to make money, I’d still be straightening teeth.

Truth is, I’m donating all the proceeds from this book to charity. Not because I’m a saint—but because YOU are. Plus, I’d rather give the money away than explain to the IRS why I spent it all on road trips with the Wildcats.

So when you buy Whining for Posterity, you’re not just supporting me. You’re supporting a good cause—and giving yourself (or someone you’re regifting it to) a few laughs, a few tears, and maybe even a fresh perspective on this maddening miracle we call life.

Reason #1: You’d Rather Read John Grisham

Who wouldn’t? I’m no John Grisham.

But here’s the truth: Whining for Posterity isn’t a legal thriller. Nor is it just a collection of gripes and giggles. It’s a scrapbook of moments—some hilarious, some heartfelt—that remind us what really matters. Relationships. Family. Faith. Our dogs. The everyday absurdities that make life worth living.

At some point, we all start thinking about what we’re leaving behind. Not money or monuments, but memories, stories, and maybe a few lessons others can carry forward.

This book is my way of doing that. A little piece of my voice—whiny as it is—preserved for whoever wants to listen.

So no, you don’t have to read it. But if you do, I hope it makes you think a little more about your own legacy—the one you’re writing every day, whether you realize it or not.

Because whining, at its core, is just love in disguise. A love that refuses to let life pass by unnoticed.

So there you have it. Five completely legitimate, totally reasonable, utterly unconvincing reasons not to buy my book.

But if, despite all that, you feel compelled to grab a copy of Whining for Posterity, I won’t stop you. In fact, I’m thanking you now in advance. Flag me down and I’ll sign it for you—maybe even buy you lunch, or at the very least, offer a heartfelt “bless your heart.”

Whining for Posterity—available now on Amazon and wherever books silently judge you from your nightstand. Click here to purchase. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FDLCGR1P

#WhiningForPosterity
#BuyItAnyway
#ComplainingWithPurpose

Don’t You Dare Trash Our UK Degrees

Today was a big day.

My nephew, Griffin Shively, walked across the stage at the University of Kentucky commencement ceremonies. Not only did he officially extend the growing line of Huang Family academic nerds, but he also followed in the hallowed footsteps of my dear old dad with a coveted engineering degree. Needless to say, the whole family is quite proud of Griffin.

There’s been a lot of talk over the years about the value of a college education—especially one from the University of Kentucky. As someone who spent eleven years chasing after a bachelor’s, master’s, and doctorate degree from my beloved alma mater, I feel uniquely qualified to set the record straight.

Remember when former Wake Forest center Olivier Sarr was considering a transfer to Kentucky? Demon Deacon head coach Steve Forbes started a firestorm by posing the question, “Why would you want to go to Wake for three years and then graduate from a place like Kentucky?”

Of course, Forbes was just trying to be cute…and I thought his quip was humorous. Unfortunately, it just wasn’t true.

During my decade in the military, I worked side by side with individuals with degrees from all different institutions of higher learning, and I’ll put my UK diplomas up against any of theirs. My education at the University of Kentucky served me as well or better than anything Wake Forest, Duke, or any of the Ivy League schools could dish up for that matter. When you throw in the value my parents received for in-state tuition, an argument could be made that I finished head and shoulders above any of those elitist snobs.

For athletes headed for professional glory, where they get their degrees really won’t matter. After all, they’ve got their sights set on that lucrative NBA or NFL contract. But for the rest of us—for the hardworking students and student-athletes who graduated this week—that University of Kentucky degree represents years of sweat equity and life-changing opportunity.

In the high-profile college sports of basketball and football, the value of an athletic scholarship frequently gets taken for granted. A half million dollars’ worth of room and board, books, top-flight medical care, academic counseling, first-class travel, fancy hotels, and gourmet food can easily get lost against the backdrop of potential money gained from name, image, and likeness. Throw in future earnings at the next level—and for someone like Otega Oweh and his rising basketball superstardom—the world truly is their oyster.

But for the rest of us regular folk, a college degree can make all the difference between financial success or failure. I don’t care how fast you can run or how high you can jump, student-athletes who remain serious about academic performance and grades will ultimately be rewarded seventy times seven.

Despite all the hullabaloo surrounding NIL and Pay-for-Play, my UK degrees remain my life’s most valuable assets.

So, congratulations are in order for all the UK students and student-athletes receiving their degrees during this academic year. They’re all in possession now of that treasured blue sheepskin.

Each and every one of them graduating from “a place like Kentucky.”

Well, I’ve got news for Coach Forbes. As one of my dental school instructors used to tell me, “It doesn’t matter which bus you ride, it’s the destination that’s important.”

We all punched our ticket on the Big Blue Bus. Griffin and I plan to keep riding for a long, long time.

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. Currently serving as a columnist for Nolan Group Media, he invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. For more whimsical and opinionated posts like this, be sure to check out his latest book project, “Whining for Posterity.” Explore his debut novel— “Name, Image, and Murder”—and all his books at https://www.Amazon.com/stores/Dr.-John-Huang/author/B092RKJBRD

A Father’s Heart Smolders as California Burns

The Palisades fire, as seen from the roof of my daughter Katie’s Santa Monica condominium, has made the news seem all too real.

Natural disasters affecting those we know always hit closer to home.

Destructive tornados, devastating ice storms, and ravaging flood waters are frequent visitors to the citizens of our great commonwealth. As Kentuckians, we fully understand the impact Mother Nature has on the lives of our friends and neighbors, and we’re always quick to spring into action with helping hands, a much-needed donation, or loving hugs and prayers.

So, what do we make of these crazy fires out in California—these hundreds of acres that are burning as we speak out on the West Coast, which sometimes feels so far removed from our daily lives here in the Bluegrass.

Those of you familiar with my blog know that I’ve got some bona fide ties to Southern California. My daughter Katie and son-in-law CJ live in Santa Monica, I’ve got property in LA County, and I’ve kind of made the Los Angeles area part of my second home.

I’m well familiar with all the iconic landmarks, hiking trails, and neighborhoods and businesses that you’ve seen engulfed in a flaming Armageddon on CNN the past couple of nights. Of course, I’m worried about my condo burning down and not being around to sweep up the ashes, but my real angst lies in Katie and worrying about her safety.

You see, although she’s in her thirties and has always been about as independent as you can get, Katie’s still my little girl—and Daddy’s worrying while LA burns.

The fires are getting way too close for comfort. You wouldn’t think buildings located in such a densely populated area could combust so easily. I mean, it’s a literal concrete jungle with high rises, sidewalks, and endless miles of pavement. And yet, throw in some 70 mile-per-hour Santa Ana winds and a few rogue embers, and everything quickly goes up in smoke.

I feel for my daughter. To be honest, it’s always been tough having her thousands of miles away. I’ve always kind of envied those whose kids have stayed close to home. It’s one thing to call, FaceTime, and text, but sometimes you just need to drive down the street and wrap your protective arms around them—especially when potential disaster is looming.

Given the circumstances, Katie’s holding up as well as anyone could. She’s staying vigilant as the evacuation line creeps agonizingly close. With CJ in Denmark on business, Katie is packed and ready to move. She can easily spot the fires from the roof of their place, and this morning she can finally smell the smoke. It’s not horrible, but she says the air quality definitely sucks more than usual.

“I kind of don’t want to be alone,” Katie texted me earlier. “CJ needs to get back and suffer with me. How the heck did he get out of this?”

Through it all, I’m trying to remain calm and reassuring. Katie stayed with her friends, Mallory and Matt, last night. They feasted on pizza. CJ’s mom is also just a short drive away. Kanisa’s brother is also within shouting distance. There are plenty of options and escape routes available. I know she’ll use good judgment.

“It’s really sad how everything is burning,” Katie lamented on another text. “Crazy. I feel bad for the firefighters. They’re probably spread so thin. Fires popping up everywhere in the city.”

It’s too easy to distance ourselves from these disasters whenever they hit. As of this writing, let’s not forget that five people have died and thousands have lost their homes. I know that God uses adversity to draw us ever closer to him. When you’ve got skin in the game, you can’t help but get sucked in. After all, there’s no greater skin than your own flesh and blood. I guess some degree of worry is a part of parenthood that never leaves you.

For my devotional time this morning, I recited and meditated over one of my favorite memorized verses from the book of Isaiah.

“When you pass through the waters,
    I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
    they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
    you will not be burned;
    the flames will not set you ablaze.”

– Isaiah 43:2

These words remind me that, no matter how distant or helpless I feel, God’s presence is unwavering. Just as He promises me comfort, I pray for His strength to guide all those firefighters, decision makers, and those affected by these devastating blazes. And please, Lord, take care of Katie and CJ.

Let’s all take a moment to reflect, pray, and, if possible, support relief efforts. The Red Cross or local fire recovery funds are always effective ways to donate. Together, we can help restore hope to all those affected in and around the City of Angels.

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. Currently serving as a columnist for Nolan Group Media, he invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. Explore his debut novel— “Name, Image, and Murder”—and all his books at https://www.Amazon.com/stores/Dr.-John-Huang/author/B092RKJBRD

A Legacy Renewed

Me, with scholarship recipients at the recent Dean’s Circle Donors Luncheon sponsored by the UK College of Arts and Sciences.

I miss my dad. It’s hard to believe it’s already been over two years since he died. I think about him a lot—much more so it seems as the days slip away.

I find myself thinking also about his circle of influence. As his eldest-born son, his influence on me was meaningful and profound. But during his ninety-three years on the face of this earth, what legacy did he leave behind to the many others he encountered?

Come to think of it, what lasting legacies do any of us leave behind? The answer, I’m afraid, is slim to none. Most legacies fade away like yesterday’s news. Once you’re laid out on that cement slab, people quickly forget the things you’ve accomplished.

Just look at the great athletes of our generation. After Father Time catches up with them and their playing careers are kaput, no one remembers them anymore. They’re all distant memories, reduced to a small footnote in the annals of sports history.

An even better example are the legacies of U.S. presidents. Here you have people who at one time held the most powerful positions on the planet. And yet, other than George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Franklin Roosevelt, we can’t really recall any of their most significant achievements.

What did Zachary Taylor or Millard Fillmore ever do?

Here’s my point. My dad was not a transcendent athlete or famous political figure, but he was legacy smart. Before he left us, he directed a substantial part of his life savings towards scholarships at Centenary Church and at the University of Kentucky, knowing full well that education has a transformative and lasting impact.

I’ll admit I bristled a bit when I heard he was giving away my inheritance. But practically speaking, it made sense. Years from now, those scholarships would be worth a heck of a lot more than an African safari or a new Mercedes.

In that vein, I now present to you “Family Strong,” a memoir that my father meticulously crafted before his passing. It’s not just a book; it’s a beacon of hope, a reminder that our stories can create lasting impact for others in our own circle of influence. By purchasing the book, you not only gain insights into my dad’s remarkable life, but you also become a permanent part of the scholarships he established, furthering his legacy of belief in the transformative power of education and academic achievement.

“Family Strong” takes you on a journey from Fujian, China, to the heart of America, weaving together a tapestry of faith, love, and perseverance. My dad’s inspirational story embodies the American Dream in action, showcasing virtues like industriousness, honesty, humility, selflessness, and love. Through his vivid recollections, you’ll gain a unique perspective on the American immigrant experience during the 1950s and ’60s—all sprinkled with rich doses of humor, wisdom, and cultural insights.

This memoir, however, is not just my dad’s story told in his own words; it’s a celebration of love, faith, and family. As you explore his amazing life, you’ll also discover these similar narrative themes coming from us—his children and grandchildren—thus adding depth and warmth to the overall tale.

Moreover, the book pays homage to my dad’s legacy through the aforementioned Huang Family Scholarships. Established in June 2022, these scholarships inspire academic success, hard work, and a spirit of learning that transcends time.

Ultimately, “Family Strong” is an invitation to embark on a journey of faith, love, and the pursuit of your own dreams. My dad’s life, with all its trials and triumphs, serves as an inspiration for you to reflect on your own unique journey and the personal legacy you wish to leave behind.

Please join me in spreading the good word about “Family Strong” and be a part of preserving my dad’s legacy for generations to come. Remember, your purchase is not just a transaction—it’s a step towards ensuring that his story continues to inspire, motivate, and impact lives.

Click on the link below to purchase. Note that kindle, paperback, and hardcover versions are all available.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CTD1ML8J

Once you’ve made a purchase, please let me know either through direct message or email (KYHuangs@aol.com) so that I can include your name as a permanent part of the scholarship legacy.

THANK YOU!

“From generation to generation – Dr Huang came to Kentucky and fulfilled an American dream for his children, their children and those who will follow in extending a legacy of goodness, kindness and a love for his colleagues, students and the Wildcats.”

—Dr. Eli Capilouto, University of Kentucky President

“As a pastor, I meet many people who are extremely kind, who are humble and who have accomplished great things. I’ve met very few who can be described in all three ways. Dr. Huang was a man of impressive achievement, yet he respected others and was a true witness of his deep, Christian faith. His autobiography is not only interesting but so very inspiring.”

—James Williams, Centenary Church Lead Pastor

“This book serves to witness that our Lord Jesus Christ is merciful, full of love and grace, and is a good Shepherd who always wants to find and save His lost sheep.”

—”Pete” Huang, author of Family Strong

huangswhinings

Tag: life