Tyrannical Chinese Emperors and the Trauma That Forged Them (And Me)

There’s a saying: hurt people hurt people. But not everyone chooses that path.

In this week’s Wisdom Wednesday, I plunge into the haunted minds of three of China’s most infamous emperors—Qin Shi Huang, Zhu Yuanzhang, and Cao Pi—to expose how childhood trauma doesn’t just scar you… it builds you. It twists, hardens, isolates—and sometimes destroys.

And as I peeled back their stories, I couldn’t help but feel like I was staring at distorted mirrors of my own life. Because I know those feelings too. That terror. That shame. That insatiable hunger to prove you’re more than what they say you are.

But where they chose cruelty, I chose creation. Where they broke, I bent and rose.

Qin Shi Huang (259–210 BC)

First emperor of unified China. Brilliant. Paranoid. Devastated by family shame and gripped by a fear of death so deep, it drove him to madness.

He grew up surrounded by rumors of scandal—his mother’s affairs, his father’s disputed identity, betrayals in the palace that left him unsure who he really was. That shame festered. As emperor, he sought total control, eliminating anyone who challenged him. When tricked by charlatans claiming they could grant immortality, he flew into a rage and executed over 400 fake alchemists. Not scholars, like many misreport—it was fraudsters who paid the price for exploiting his terror.

He built the Terracotta Army to guard him in death. Some even believed those statues housed real bodies—but modern science says no: they’re just clay. No corpses, only paranoia carved in stone.

Image: A man in ornate Chinese imperial robes stands solemnly before burning piles of books at sunset, evoking the historical scene of Qin Shi Huang’s infamous book burning in ancient China.

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And me?

Like him, I grew up in fear. Being blind and half-deaf in a foreign land—Canada—was like being thrown into a battlefield with no weapons. My stepmother hated me. My siblings echoed that hate. And the shame? I know that too. My father’s criminal history wasn’t just a whisper in my life—it was a stormcloud I carried into every room, every school, every relationship. Like Qin Shi Huang, fear dominated my actions for years.

Zhu Yuanzhang (1328–1398)

From beggar to emperor—but he never stopped feeling like that dirty, starving boy on the street.

Zhu lost everything early: his family, his home, his innocence. He joined a monastery, then a rebellion, then clawed his way into history. But once he had the throne, his trauma lashed out. He executed tens of thousands in paranoid purges. Created a secret police. Turned even loyalty into a liability.

He didn’t rule from strength—he ruled from scar tissue.

Image: Imperial throne room scene with a stern emperor in ornate robes seated on a golden throne. A shirtless man reclines at his feet, surrounded by a crowd of attentive courtiers.

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And me?

Oh, Zhu… I feel you. I’ve lived with crippling self-esteem issues too. Being blind and deaf, I was constantly told I had to prove myself—over and over. My stepmother called me ugly, fat, slow. My siblings said I was pathetic. Every time I looked inside, I saw a monster instead of a man. Just like Zhu, I felt like I didn’t deserve anything unless I fought for it. And even then, I never felt worthy of the win.

Cao Pi (187–226 AD)

The bitter, brilliant son of the legendary Cao Cao. No matter what he did, he was never enough.

He usurped the Han emperor, founded the Wei Dynasty—but ruled like a jealous, starving ghost. He stole his father’s concubines. He executed his own mistress, Lady Zhen, in a jealous rage. He tried more than once to have his younger brother, the poet-warrior Cao Zhi, murdered for daring to be more beloved, more talented.

Cao Pi wasn’t just an emperor. He was a son who never got the approval he craved.

Image: Cartoon-style scene of a stern man in gray traditional Chinese robes gripping a sword, with another man in the background. The setting is a palace courtyard with mountains visible.

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And me?

This one hits hardest. I know what it’s like to never be enough for your father. I won martial arts medals for Canada—his response? “That’s just stage performance. You’re blind. Anyone can beat you in a real fight.”

I had my name in films and documentaries—he said, “That’s just novelty. It won’t last.”

I became a professional musician—he shrugged and said, “So what? You’re not Mozart or Beethoven.”

Cao Pi spent his life trying to prove himself to a man who never looked back. So did I. But I’m still here. Still rising. Still choosing to become better, not bitter.

Why I Didn’t Become a Tyrant

[BECAUSE YOUR DAD WASN'T AN EMPEROR.] - Touche :)

I could’ve walked the same path. I had every reason to.

Instead, I turned to martial arts—not for domination, but for discipline. For control over the one thing that mattered: myself. I didn’t want to rule with fear. I wanted to survive, to grow, to build, to protect.

And now? I create. I fight for others. I teach. I tell stories—not to erase pain, but to transform it.

Image: night strike group photo-Shot of the whole class standing.

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History is full of broken boys who became dangerous men. But sometimes, broken boys become warriors, teachers, artists, and guides. I didn’t become a tyrant.

I became Johnny Tiger.

👉 Watch the video: johnnytiger.com

🎨 Feel the art: tigertactile.com

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