Inspired by My Parents’ Kindness
"What we have only matters if it helps others"
I remember when I was seven, I came home and saw my old toys and clothes packed into boxes. Furious, I yelled, “Mom! Dad! Why are you taking my things?”
My mom knelt and said gently, “Sweetie, you already have plenty of toys. Besides, there are children who really need this.”
Three days later, I went with my parents to a charity for the first time. I crossed my arms and pouted the whole trip, refusing to talk to them. Walking beside my dad, carrying a small box of supplies, I felt out of place and annoyed. I noticed some of my old books being packed into another box. “Those are my books…” I muttered.
When we arrived, I watched a little girl open a dress I used to wear, and her face lit up. She hugged it like it was the most precious thing she’d ever had. Another boy grabbed my old toy car and ran around laughing. Then I saw kids flipping through the books I had once used for school, eagerly reading and sharing them.
My dad knelt beside me and said softly, “What we have only matters if it helps others. Money, awards, houses—none of it means anything unless it makes life better for someone else.” I felt a mix of embarrassment and wonder. In that moment, I saw my parents weren’t just giving things—they were giving hope, comfort, and joy. What I thought was “my stuff” could actually change someone’s day.
That day, standing beside them, I felt truly inspired—not just by what they did, but by how they lived. Their courage, kindness, and compassion became part of who I am.
Seeing, Hearing, Understanding
I still remember that birthday vividly. We had filled the house with balloons and streamers, expecting laughter and excitement. But when the first balloon popped, the sudden noise startled him, and he ran to his room, overwhelmed. I sat there, frozen, tears welling up, feeling helpless.
I realized something I hadn’t understood before: "fun” doesn’t mean the same thing for everyone. For my brother, happiness meant calm, predictability, and safety.
I began noticing the little things: he didn’t like scratchy fabrics, so I skipped my fuzzy sweater; he preferred quiet moments to loud parties, so birthdays became calm dinners with tiny yellow cupcakes. These weren’t grand gestures, just small acts of awareness and love, ways of saying, “I see you. I hear you.”
That same understanding guided me when I planned our first autism friendly Lunar New Year fair. What I learned from my brother applied to many children—creating a space where they felt safe, respected, and valued meant thinking in their world, not ours. Every detail, from soft fabrics and gentle lighting to quiet corners and carefully chosen games, reflected that same intention to truly see and hear each child.
Communication isn’t about demanding others to meet you where you are —it’s about meeting them where they are. A child focusing on a puzzle instead of looking at you, a small smile at a gentle activity—these were conversations in themselves. Every detail became an expression of respect, care, and love.
My Art, My Anchor
"You can be more than what you were made for"
When I moved to America at 11, in the midst of the COVID pandemic, everything felt strange. Quiet streets and masked faces made me feel lost and alone. I was ridiculed for wearing a mask, for how I looked, for being Asian, so I hid in my hoodie, wishing I seemed less "different".
I tried to fit in like other American tweens: reading Harry Potter nonstop, eating cereal instead of my mom’s fish sauced breakfasts, pretending to love Oreos more than matcha Kit Kats. I laughed at jokes I didn’t understand and followed trends I didn’t care about, thinking blending in meant belonging. But every mirror reminded me of the self I was trying to erase, and I felt like a ghost in my own life.
I realized that hiding who I was didn’t make me belong—it made me vanish. I turned to art, the one language that never asked me to change. I danced, I painted, I created, and in doing so, I found what I had lost: my voice, my self, my worth.
True connection begins with self-acceptance. Every dance, brushstroke, and note became a way to listen, claim my identity, and honor the part of me the world tried to make small.
Art as
My Sanctuary
"Every soul is a melody with its own beat"
I’ve danced since I was young in Vietnam, from cheerleading to contemporary. On the floor, the world slows. Dance keeps me connected—to my body, my joy, and the memories that anchor me. Every stumble teaches resilience, every leap shows I can grow stronger, brighter, better.
Music became my secret companion. Words on a page never felt like me; grammar and structure only reminded me of my limits. So I sang instead—about small, silly things, a crush, or even a melody to memorize a math formula. Each song carries a piece of me—frustration, joy, longing, curiosity—all the messy, beautiful fragments of being alive.
