Learning Chinese Hurts. Not metaphorically. It genuinely hurts. Sometimes it’s a headache, sometimes it’s a blow to the ego—and on certain days, it even aches in my phonetic soul. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so clumsily frustrated with a language... and that includes trying to learn French in high school with a scratched CD.

And I’m not speaking from the comfort of a pre-recorded course with magical subtitles and ever-smiling teachers that only exist in marketing videos. No. I’m on the frontlines: formal classes at the Confucius Institute, native teachers, characters that look like hieroglyphs with a bad attitude, tones that change EVERYTHING (yes, everything), and a memory that plays hide and seek exactly when I need it the most.

I keep going—not because I love knowledge (though I respect it), nor from some noble urge to expand my cultural horizons. I keep going because I’m stubborn. I started for cultural reasons, sure, but at this point, I continue out of a dangerous mix of pride and academic masochism.

And because, unlike a few years ago, we now have tools that—if you’re willing to use them with some brainpower—actually help.

This is the part where, if this were an infomercial, I’d sell you a miracle chatbot. (But no. Well, if you’re curious, here’s my referral link anyway: https://go.davila.uno/ai-llm

👀)

Most people use AI for the basics: “translate this,” “how do you say that,” “explain this to me.” And that’s fine. But I wanted to take it a step further (or a step deeper into the spiral).

I created a project where AI doesn’t work alone (though it kind of does in the end). I trained it with my writing style—irony, light drama, existential questions—and with the actual textbooks I’m using to study Chinese. In other words, I shaped the tool to fit my learning style, not the other way around.
The result? A tool that responds the way I like to think: simply, but with personality.

We no longer have to adapt to teaching methods—now we can make the methods adapt to us.

Learning isn’t just about memorizing vocabulary. It’s an awkward, sometimes ridiculous, but deeply human process. Has AI made me bilingual? No. Has it stopped me from sweating bullets when I see new characters? Also no. But it has accompanied me through the process—without judgment, without rushing me, and, most importantly, speaking to me in a way I actually understand.

Understanding another language is, in the end, another way of understanding ourselves: confused, stubborn, curious. Every word we memorize, every tone we get wrong (but with conviction), every character we try to sketch like it’s abstract art—each one is a tiny X-ray of our patience... and maybe of our insecurities.

Learning another language isn’t just expanding vocabulary. It’s expanding our tolerance for looking ridiculous. It’s accepting that we won’t always have the right answer or perfect pronunciation—but that we’ll keep asking anyway. Because mistakes, when embraced with style, are also a form of progress.

I’m not Just studying chinese—I’m rewriting how I learn

And if we’re going to fail at this, let’s at least do it with our own style—an AI trained on our personal doubts and a cup of green tea to pretend we have things under control. Even though we know perfectly well that we don’t.
And maybe that’s why we’re actually doing it right.