Written by Margaret Nie English Translation by Christina   When I was young, we lived a very poor life. I remember that at primary school, we used the kerosene lamp. Back then, there was only one available, my brother and I tried hard to study under the dim light through the charred glass. My mother sat at a corner of the bed, holding needle and thread, either working on shoe soles or sweaters. After decades, that scene still lingers in my head. Our bed was old style, a handmade, red-wooden structure with three sides of fence. That was my mother’s dowry. The two sides of the opening were engraved with patterns, the old, rude flowers. The carpenter’s skills were not as delicate. It adopted the mortise and tenon joint. The header was engraved with patterns, the details of which I can’t remember clearly. But what I do is that there was a footboard under the bed. I could make it to the bed with its help. My cousin said once she came to our home, seeing the little me laying on the footboard asleep, which made her feel sad.   Back then, I was always jealous of the girls in my class wearing all sorts of sweaters. Because its diverse patterns best represented the craftsman’s skill and aesthetic level. Many classmates’ mothers were very good at knitting. At that time when supplies were scarce, females were mostly knitting professionals. They were able to make slippers, gloves, scarfs, sweaters and pants at home. I can’t remember how many sweaters my mother made me. During idle winters, women at countryside would sit together to make cotton shoes and sweaters, while my mother was not a skilled one. She sometimes took the needle to neighbours to learn how to knit, then started all over again back home. One year, a few classmates gradually wore rainbow-coloured sweaters, which was made from mohair of seven colours, furry, bright and so beautiful. I cried to my mother to get one too, but she didn’t have enough money to get yarns of so many colours. Then she torn down my father’s brown pants, adding another colour, and roughly made me a dual-coloured sweater. When I saw the completion, it didn’t have pretty patterns, neither bright colours. I felt it very ugly and didn’t even want to wear it in front of my classmates. When it was quite cold, I wore that piece inside plus a jacket outside to hide it, because it was barely worth of bragging about for an eight, night year old girl. I even wanted it to be worn out quickly so that I didn’t need to wear it any more. Then I learnt to knit myself, gloves, scarfs, and even vests and sweaters. I also inherited my mother’s capability, starting all over again, without any satisfactory works. When I was 18 years old, my fellow workers also loved to knit shoes and sweaters in winter. Some of them did it for boyfriends. I learnt to knit a sweater for my father. It had odd sleeves and smaller collar; anyway, I completed it. Then I brought it to him; my mother said he was very happy about it and talked to others about his girl being able to do that. I knitted a pair of slippers for my mother, which was made from red yarns. It was also barely good; however, after over 10 years, it is still there back home. Then my mother bought a lot of slippers, while only this red one remains impressive. With sweeping wind in autumn, cold becomes noticeable. This season in Shenzhen is always back and forth. It will get hot again once you think the autumn is already here. No matter how short autumn and winter are, I would always keep a cardigan sweater in my closet. It can be a good back-up in AC-ed rooms. Its softness is always next to the skin. To get a fashionable sweater is very easy nowadays, any style, any colour, any texture, hundreds of choices out there. But I know that it is impossible to go back to the days when every knitting held warmth. In that dim room, there was my mother knitting, my father bantering with my brother – should you not study well, I would buy you a cow to breed…  and myself…

Photo / Jing's work time Interviewed by Jane & Zhang Qingyu Finalized by Jing English Translation by Eva, Wang Yiman From Jingdezhen to Finland My name is Wang Jing, born in Chengdu, Sichuan. In 2012, I came to Aalto University in Finland to pursue a degree in Applied Art and Design . It has been nearly thirteen years since I first set foot in this northern land. Before that, I studied Industrial Design at Jiangnan University in China. Upon graduation, I began to wonder which path I should take. The traditional route of an industrial designer didn’t quite attract me — I preferred working with my hands, creating objects that carried warmth, where art and design intertwined. At that time, I was deeply drawn to ceramics, so I went to Jingdezhen, the ancient porcelain capital of China, and spent a year there crafting ceramics. Yet, after a while, I found it less inspiring . The atmosphere was becoming overly commercial, and I longed for something new. I decided to apply to schools abroad, using my ceramic works from Jingdezhen as my portfolio. I chose Aalto University because, during my junior year, I had spent half a year as an exchange student in Denmark, where I fell in love with the Nordic design philosophy — functionalism infused with artistry, bringing beauty into everyday life . The program in Applied Art and Design turned out to be exactly what I wanted. It encouraged exploration — from ceramics, glass, woodworking, to textile and fashion design. The school gave us both freedom and resources, along with creative workshops, to discover our own direction.   Exploring Sustainable Design While studying in Finland, I noticed that many design brands and startups were highly committed to sustainability. The materials they used were often recycled or made from dead-stock fabrics. Even their packaging tended to be plastic-free. I was amazed — every brand was living by the principles of sustainability! That realization inspired me to pursue something related to sustainable design. I turned my attention to plastic. The idea for what later became Upcycle with Jing  began when I saw a YouTube video teaching how to make flowers from plastic bottles. I tried it myself, and the flowers turned out to be full of life. During my student years, I would sell these plastic-bottle floral jewelry pieces at Christmas markets, and they were well received. Buy products from Upcycle with Jing After graduating in 2018, I officially founded my sustainable design brand — Upcycle with Jing. Today, it has two main product lines: one featuring jewelry made from recycled plastic bottles, and another using fabric scraps from factories to create hair accessories.   My First Startup with My Husband I met my husband at Aalto University — he was a programmer, I was a designer. Together, we founded a digital agency, taking on web and graphic design projects. It was exhilarating — no more rigid 9-to-5 hours, and we could choose our own clients and projects. This experience taught me patience and gave me a deeper understanding of Finnish society and its business ecosystem. Our startup began quite casually — one time we designed a poster and website for a school party, and then realized: why not do this professionally?  Finland supports entrepreneurship strongly; we received an €800 monthly startup grant, which helped us get on track. At the start of our venture, we brought in a mutual friend as our accountant. He also ran a startup incubator at a Finnish technical school and quickly became one of our biggest supporters. Maybe it was because we worked with devotion and finesse, polishing every project to near perfection—always over delivering, as if excellence itself were our unspoken creed. In Finland, the startup support policy is very inclusive. As long as you want to start a business here — whether you are a local or a foreigner — you can apply for support. When we applied for the government’s startup grant, we spent two days writing our business plan. There is an official website with many detailed questions that must be answered one by one. After submitting it, government officers will review your plan and invite you for a one-hour interview. If your application is approved, you first receive a six-month startup allowance, which totals €4,800. After six months, the government will schedule another meeting to check your business progress. If things are going well, they will grant you the remaining six months of support, making it a total of twelve months of subsidy. For us, this financial support was very important at that time — it helped us purchase equipment and get our business off the ground.   The Habit of Painting Shaped Who I Am Since primary school, my mother had forced me to learn the electronic keyboard, but I really didn’t like it. She was very strict with me. I told her I didn’t want to learn anymore — I wanted to paint. She agreed, saying, “Alright, I won’t make you practice the keyboard anymore. Let’s focus on painting.” She enrolled me in an art class, and I’ve been painting ever since. This hobby has accompanied me all my life. After giving birth, I went through a period of low mood, and it was painting that helped me get through that rather dark time. Even now, I paint regularly with a friend — we meet twice a week, while the dads take care of the kids, and we paint together in a café. At present, I really enjoy developing derivative products. Apart from Upcycle with Jing , I also have another brand called Art by Jing , which mainly focuses on stickers and other cultural and creative items. I like to capture small Finnish habits that people can relate to — for example, Finns love drinking coffee and eating cinnamon rolls. I designed a sticker that says “Powered by kahvi ja pulla”  (meaning “powered by coffee and cinnamon rolls”). It sells very well at the Finnish Design Museum and in our store. Many people see it and think of a family member or colleague who fits that description — it resonates with them, and they buy it right away. Many tourists also love it and feel that it represents Finnish culture. My inspiration often comes from the hope that my works can create emotional resonance with others. I am also designing some stickers that are partly humorous and partly encouraging. I draw some with messages like “Stay strong,” “Keep going,”  and “You are good enough.”  In Finland, people love putting positive stickers like these in their notebooks. Depression in Finland is partly related to the climate and partly to the culture. Finns value personal privacy and tend to keep a certain distance from others. Many live alone, and once you live alone, it’s easy to feel lonely and depressed. In addition, the unemployment rate is relatively high, so people often feel that it’s hard to find a job, and some become somewhat discouraged and give up easily. They need encouragement. I also pay attention to what competitors are doing. I often collect stickers from designer brands sold at MUJI, and sometimes I exchange my jewelry for them. I collect them in my own notebook. From this, I try to design products that are different from others, to find my own unique point. I also absorb some good elements from other people’s works and then look for differences based on that foundation. I have a personal principle: Stay inspired.  When I was in China, I felt that a 9-to-5 job didn’t suit me very well. I was more suited to freelancing. The environment I was in back home wasn’t particularly inspiring. I preferred the kind of design found in the Nordic countries — pure, refined, and aesthetically pleasing. I was naturally drawn to it. At that time, I felt that staying too long in Jingdezhen wasn’t sustainable for me. I might have had to work just to make a living instead of devoting my energy to creating inspiring works. If I had stayed longer, I might have lost myself. I wanted to keep improving my sense of design and artistic aesthetics, so I knew I had to go somewhere better. That’s why I left and went to Aalto University in Finland.   The Difference Between Finnish and Chinese Education In Finland, graduate studies require strong self-motivation. The Finnish master’s system is actually better suited for local students, because Finnish students have already developed a general direction from a young age, and teachers simply help them go deeper in that direction. It’s not like in China, where you take one course today and another tomorrow. Here, it’s more of a free-range approach. When I first came, I found it quite hard to adapt. Later, after observing my Finnish classmates, I realized that they all had their own opinions and a very mature sense of aesthetics — something cultivated since childhood. Aesthetic sense must be accumulated from an early age. University provides a platform for you to shine, but you must already be an excellent person to begin with. I wasn’t a very self-driven person growing up. My high school was one of the top schools in Chengdu. At that time, our grade had about twelve classes, each with sixty students, and there were always rankings. The pressure was intense, and everyone was constantly competing with each other. One influence that Chinese education left on me is that I love writing to-do lists — it’s a habit carried from middle school or high school. Every day before doing things, I like to write them down on paper. Crossing out many tasks at the end of the day gives me a strong sense of accomplishment, as if the day hasn’t been wasted. Even now, I still have nightmares about taking the college entrance exam. My high school education affected me in two ways. First, in my second year, I went to Tsinghua University’s School of Continuing Education to study art for two semesters as part of art exam training, so I missed two semesters of regular classes. When I returned, I found my academic performance had dropped sharply. In our class of sixty students, my rank fell to around fiftieth. Before going to Beijing, I used to rank around twentieth or thirtieth. I felt so down — I suddenly found myself among the lower-performing students. My chemistry was especially poor, and I often dream of taking chemistry or math exams in my sleep. Another influence was that my close friends from before no longer talked to me after I returned. Perhaps because I had been away for so long, they already had their own small groups. I could understand that, but it still hurt. One of my best friends stopped talking to me, and I was really sad at the time. Fortunately, our relationship has been repaired since then.   Marriage, Children, and Career Choices For me, whether to get married or not doesn’t really matter anymore. After living in Finland for a long time, I found that many couples are simply partners who have lived together for twenty years without getting married. I thought, maybe I’ll do the same. I had no special feelings about marriage and was actually afraid of holding a wedding — the kind where both families meet and everything is formal. I didn’t want that. I just wanted to keep things simple, to get the marriage certificate and be done. My husband and I only had a small ceremony in India. Having a child wasn’t planned either — it just happened naturally, without any preparation. My husband is Finnish. He’s 35 now and still hasn’t finished his master’s degree. He thinks Aalto University’s courses are too easy. He told me that if necessary, he’ll turn one of his projects into a master’s or doctoral thesis someday. That’s his choice, and I respect it. In Finland, work focuses more on experience, ability, problem-solving, and communication skills. Educational background is only one factor. Finns are guided by interest when choosing jobs. Being able to do the work you love is considered success. I believe that if you are to do one job for a lifetime, it must be something you truly enjoy — something that keeps you motivated. In Finland, children’s interests are nurtured from kindergarten. For example, my son started kindergarten when he was one and a half. After his first semester, during the parent-teacher meeting, the teacher told us, “Your son really enjoys painting. You should encourage him and prepare more art materials at home so he can draw.” This semester, the teacher found that he also likes singing, so we’re encouraged to let him sing more. From kindergarten on, they observe what a child likes, and parents are expected to support and prepare accordingly.   Gender Differences in Family Life When our child was small, I often complained to my husband that I was doing more childcare. At first, he helped quite a lot, but over time, he began staying up very late and waking up late, so in the mornings, I was always the one with the child. I felt it was unfair. Later, we went together to Finland’s family counseling center, and by this year, we’ve gotten used to it. My husband and I reached an agreement: at the beginning of each week, I tell him which days I’ll be going out with my friends to paint or to socialize, or when I need to work — for example, taking photos or running a workshop. On those days, I can’t take care of the child; he has to do it. Making this schedule in advance has helped us balance things better. At first, I wasn’t used to it. When I needed him, he couldn’t come immediately, and we often argued about it. Over time, we got used to each other’s style, and things gradually improved. Now that our child is older, my husband has also become more engaged as a father, though it took him longer than me to adapt. He really enjoys playing with our son. When I face difficulties, I’m not ashamed to seek help. I have many friends in similar situations — after having children, we all complain about our husbands sometimes. We often vent together, and after that, we feel much better. We also share information about good or bad psychologists. This kind of exchange is very important. In the first three years after having a child, almost every family goes through something similar. Our family counselor once mentioned that postpartum hormonal fluctuations can last for several months. In our first counseling session, my husband wanted more intimacy and couple time, while I wanted time for myself. He felt I was giving all my time to the baby and none to him. I told him, “I need time for myself first; then I can think about other things.” He eventually adapted. I told him, “Without my own time, I would die.” He understood and stopped insisting. The counselor also suggested that the father and mother should regularly discuss how to divide household and childcare duties, and reach an agreement. Both my husband and I practice yoga and meditation. Although we had conflicts at first, most issues were gradually resolved, and I came to see that he truly wants to be a good father. Becoming a mother is actually a wonderful thing. There is joy every day with the child. The beginning is difficult, but it can be overcome — the key is communication. Children give you a fresh perspective on life. To new mothers, I would say: “Seize every opportunity to rest, and practice self-care. Only by taking care of yourself can you take care of your family — especially your mental health. Don’t pursue perfection. Being an okay mom is enough. You don’t need a perfect home — if the house is messy, that’s fine.” Read Chinese Version https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/2m2Zml9rcxh1byctjOEKzw

Photo / Ziwei's daily life in Canada I’m a 32-year-old mom from a small town in China, and a new immigrant to Canada. I’ve been out of the workforce for five years. I have no local connections, no resources, and no prior experience organizing exhibitions or events. For a long time, I deeply doubted my own abilities and often felt anxious in social situations. So when I first tried to make an exhibition happen here, I almost wanted to give up every single day. But in the end, I did it. Even though it wasn’t as perfect as I imagined, I truly believe that with the right support, every mom can achieve what she dreams of. Timeline December 2024: The idea of bringing The Mom Story Exhibition from the GlobalMoms Initiative (GMI) to Canada came to me. The founder helped form a small volunteer team. January 2025: I started searching for venues online, contacting galleries, and submitting an artist statement and exhibition proposal. The second gallery I reached out to responded! I also wanted to seek sponsorship or partnership opportunities, but unfortunately, that part didn’t work out. January–April: I joined brainstorming meetings with the GMI founder and co-curators. Volunteers helped with translation. I oversaw story selection, revising translations, and collaborating closely with the design volunteer. May–July: The designer and I worked on exhibition text and image layout design. Then I contacted a fabric manufacturer for printing, collected my family keepsakes, and wrote captions for each item. 2025 August: I brought all materials back to Canada, sourced local supplies, gathered tree branches, and hand-assembled the exhibition using natural rope and fabric. The captions were written on cardboard, to make sure everything as eco-friendly as possible. Moments of Doubts In 2024, I joined a nonprofit organization focused on empowering mothers. In the same year, they held MomStory Exhibition in Tianjin, which deeply moved me. Since then, I’ve had a quiet thought: Could I make something like that happen here in Canada? But I’m the kind of person who’s full of ideas but often struggles to act. Luckily, with strong encouragement from the GMI founder, I finally decided to go for it. In the beginning, I simply Googled the term “art gallery” to look for inspiration. Most of what I found were grand, high-end art exhibitions. I was terrified that my small, humble project would be rejected, so much so that I barely dared to contact anyone. The exhibition setup process was also exhausting. As I stitched fabric and tied threads, I could barely breathe from the pressure. Many times, I thought about giving up the eco-friendly idea and just buying ready-made scrolls. But in the end, I made it. The Magic of Been Seen Finally, we were accepted by the city hall’s window display area. And as it turned out, the art coordinator in charge of the space was also a woman who had previously curated an exhibition about mothers. See? Women help women. I always thought I wasn’t good at expressing myself and struggled with verbal communication. But while writing the stories behind each keepsake, I found that people genuinely loved my captions. I even received heartfelt encouragement from the founder. At that moment, I realized that writing, might be one of my small gifts. In my childhood and adultescence, I could not afford to learn anything such as playing piano, dancing, etc. Therefore, the encouragement was unexpectedly comforting. It reminded me that everyone has their own unique strength that they might not know of. The Power of Leadership Throughout this curating journey, what struck me most was the importance of leadership. Our volunteer team wasn’t built on a traditional top-down hierarchy, but rather on flat, collaborative teamwork. No one assumed what others could or couldn’t do. Whenever someone said, “I’d like to try this,” the rest of the team, especially the founder would offer genuine encouragement and practical suggestions. This supportive, trusting atmosphere helped me overcome my hesitation to ask for help. Instead, I learned to communicate proactively. I learned the importance of “housekeeping” and regular “check-ins”. This became one of the most valuable collaboration strategies I’ve learned. When progress slowed down, I would clearly and respectfully realign the timeline and tasks with my co-curator, without any assumptions and always believing in her capabilities. I’ve come to understand that leadership isn’t about control; it’s about creating a space where everyone can shine. Final Thoughts From self-doubt to persistence, from meltdown to being seen, this journey taught me one of life’s most important lessons: Never underestimate yourself, and never underestimate the power of small actions. If you’re also a mom, or you often feel like “you’re not good at anything”, I want to share my story with you: Even if it’s slow, even if it’s imperfect, just take the first step. You’ll discover that you can go much further than you ever imagined.  After Story The days are long, But the years are short --Reflection on my 32th birthday & 4th birthday for my son Turning 32, I’ve come to feel the Years slip away before we know it. On my birthday, I spoke with two women in their seventies. Both said the same thing almost identically, “Enjoy your time with your kdis. Spend as much time as you can – really engaging with them. Because before you know it, time just flies.” And that struck me. Because at seventy, What truly remains? Money? You can't take it with you to the grave. Ego? Reputation? You may enjoy them for a season. But they will fade eventually as you grow old. When the stage lights dim, what stays? Only memories. At the end of life,  when everything begins to rewind, what will we see? A childhood wrapped in love, "someone,"  a youth striving to become and then,  the long middle stretch, the juggling between work and family, ambition and exhaustion, dreams and diapers. In those final moments,  perhaps we'll regret not spending more time leaving good memories for our children. Not taking that trip with our family. Not doing the things we longed for but postponed, always telling ourselves we were just. "surviving." At the most recent gathering with my middle school classmates, one of them, also a mother, laughed and said to me, "Even with your education degree, you still end up taking care of kids." That comment stayed with me. Many people are confused about this: there is no dichotomy between being highly educated and being a mother. Yet people insist there is. It assumes that people with education and intellect should sit in offices, earning money, producing, achieving. But not staying home, not slowing down. But what if the real wisdom lies in understanding that life's value isn't measured by output, but by presence? That raising a child, nurturing a home, or simply being here attentively might be the most profound form of education there is? The days are long, but the years are short. And when we finally stand at the end of our own story, we might realize that the things that truly mattered were never the things that made us "successful," but the moments that made us alive. About the Writer Ziwei,  a typical “small-town striver” turned journalist in Beijing for three years, I later saved up to pursue a graduate degree in Education—specializing in Leadership Studies—in Canada. I am now based in Victoria, British Columbia. Having spent a year studying in the Middle East, I developed a deep understanding of intercultural communication. In recent years, my interests have expanded to sustainability and feminism. Currently, I’m on a gap year, embracing full-time motherhood. LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/ziweiluo/

On the 15th September 2025 - Beijing, "I was Born a Girl", a poetry and portrait exhibition jointly presented by the Embassy of Finland in China, the GlobalMoms Initiative (GMI) and Genesis Beijing, held the VIP reception and the opening ceremony, and unveiled the first East Asian female portraitist of this world tour exhibition.   Mr. Mikko Kinnunen, Ambassador of Finland to China, delivered a welcome speech and thanked the guests for their support. Ms. Yang Yang, China's first Winter Olympic Gold Medalist, Member of the 14th National Committee of the Chinese People's Political Consultative Conference and the first East Asian female portraitist of the exhibition, delivered the keynote speech, she told the stories of her championship career and explorations and achievements in different public spheres, on how to break through gender stereotypes, fight for opportunities for women, and as a mother, how to influence children with social actions.   The exhibition is also a cultural diplomacy initiative patronized by the current Finnish first lady, Ms. Suzanne Elizabeth Innes-Stubb, and a follow up event after the President and first lady's state visit to China in October 2024. Ms. Jane Li, the founder of GMI, was invited to a tea party with Ms. Suzanne, where the participants discussed who should be nominated for the portrait subject for the exhibition's arrival in China, which would be its first footprint in Asia.   Among the vip guests are Ms. Smriti Aryal, UN Women Representative in China; Ms. Sophie Muller, United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees Representative in China; Mr. Per Augustsson, Swedish ambassador to China, and representatives of the Chinese Ministry of Foreign Affairs; diplomats from other embassies; the exhibition sponsors Ms. Zhou Mingming and Daniel Zhou, founder of Jinghua club; And many other leaders from different fields.   Besides the role of co-organizers, the GMI Design Innovation Center also provided spatial and visual design support throughout the exhibition preparation, the stories and poems for the exhibition are translated by Ms. Fei Yang, senior editor of GMI's MomStory100 program, who is also a mother of three children.   Every day and every step of GMI is aiming to contribute to the mission of Investing Women and Empowering Mothers, and to close the gender gap for all. Download Bilingual Exhibition Brochure Here. Art and Poetry: Minna Pietarinen Co-organizers: Embassy of Finland and GlobalMoms Initiative Factual Texts: UN Women Finland & Peppi Stünkel Chinese Translation: Fei Yang Executive Director: Peppi Stünkel Venue Support:Genesis Beijing -THE END-

August 27 – October 13, 2025 | Saanich Municipal Hall Gallery The GlobalMoms Initiative (GMI) is proud to present the Mom Story Exhibition , an international project amplifying the authentic voices and lived experiences of mothers from around the world. Running from August 27 to October 13, 2025 , at the Saanich Municipal Hall Gallery, the exhibition brings together powerful text narratives and intimate family artifacts to shed light on motherhood’s struggles, resilience, and transformations. This exhibition gives visibility to the unseen. The stories and objects on display remind us that behind every statistic or polished façade is a mother carrying immense love and immense weight. Two Sections: Stories and Objects The exhibition is divided into two complementary parts: Text Story Display  — Written testimonies from mothers across diverse backgrounds highlight themes of caregiving, advocacy, and survival. Each story is printed on cloth and suspended with tree sticks, handknitted together using natural fibers to create a sustainable, rustic presentation. Visitors will encounter stories such as: Photo by / Ziwei Luo Balance  — A reflection on the invisible struggles mothers face while meeting professional expectations. Chairman of the Disabled Persons’ Federation  — A mother’s account of years of advocacy that led to Beijing opening its first preschool class for visually impaired children. Life’s Darkest Hours  — A 37-year-old mother of twins recalls her battle with postpartum despair, and the fragile hope that pulled her back from the brink. Old Objects Display — A personal collection curated by Ziwei Luo, showcasing everyday family artifacts carried from China to Canada. Each item holds intergenerational memory and care, including: A swaddle wrap  sewn by a grandmother in rural Guangdong, carrying the scent of love and tradition. A wooden abacus  that symbolized a working mother’s role in 1990s China. A baby pillow  and knitted baby boots , each marking intimate passages of caregiving across three generations and two continents. Photo by / Ziwei Luo A Collaborative Curatorial Effort The Victoria edition of the Mom Story Exhibition  is shaped by the reflections of curators Ziwei Luo , Jane , and Xiaoyu Wang , who bring different lenses to interpreting the stories. Their contributions invite visitors to not only witness but also reflect: What does it mean to support mothers more fully—in our homes, workplaces, and communities? About the Co-Curators Ziwei Luo is a Chinese settler in Victoria, BC, a mother to a spirited four-year-old, and the City Chapter Lead in Victoria, at GlobalMoms Initiative. She is also a Master of Public Administration student at the University of Victoria. Ziwei aims to leverage her diverse expertise to drive impactful social initiatives, with a strong focus on promoting environmental sustainability and social equity. She is the exhibition coordinator, organizer and project manager. Jane Li is the founder of GMI. She holds her master’s degree in Nonprofit Management from The University of Hong Kong (passed with Distinction and awarded Madam Lo Ng Kiu Ying Anita Memorial Scholarship), and bachelor’s degree in laws from Fudan University (awarded the Excellent Graduate of the Year 2007). She is the project lead, responsible for conceptualization, direction, and volunteer recruitment. Xiaoyu Wang is a postgraduate who graduated this year with a degree in Environmental Art Design from the Central Academy of Fine Arts (CAFA). She contributed to the visual design of this exhibition. She also volunteers at the GlobalMoms Initiative Youth Design Center.   A Global Journey The Mom Story Exhibition  has previously been presented in cities such as Shanghai, Beijing, and Tianjin. Its arrival in Victoria continues the mission of amplifying mothers’ voices worldwide and building bridges across cultural, generational, and geographic divides. Event Details | Mom Story Exhibition Dates: August 27 – October 13, 2025 Location: Saanich Municipal Hall Gallery, Victoria, BC Admission: Free and open to the public For media inquiries, interviews, or additional information, please contact GMI MomStory Exhibition global coordinator Ms. Ziwei Luo through: 📧 [ Vienna.ziwei@gmail.com ] 📞 [7786781055]

Photo / Gao Fangxia, a Chinese Paralympic Champion Archer Story told by Gao Fangxia in May, 2025 Edited by Qingyu Zhang, Jane Li English translated by Qiran Zhang Choose Independence: My Earliest Decision   My name is Gao Fangxia, a former Chinese Paralympic archer. Although I am still an active athlete, I first encountered archery when I was 24 years old. Even though I’m now a bit older, my love for the sport remains undiminished. When I was four, I injured my leg, and by the age of nine, my parents had divorced. From that moment on, I felt that, in the end, I could only rely on myself. After my parents’ separation, my primary school headteacher showed me great kindness. She never treated me as a disabled child needing special care; instead, she encouraged me greatly, urging me to participate in speech competitions and inspiring me to excel in writing. Once, my essay even won a national prize. Her support and opportunities made me feel no less capable than any other child. I am especially grateful to her for helping me cultivate a positive outlook on life and strong values. Growing up, I made almost all my decisions independently, from what to do after graduation to decisions about my marriage. I’ve always handled major life choices on my own. Perhaps because of my childhood injury, I never saw my disability as a source of inferiority or deep harm. I simply accepted that my leg was gone but refused to let it define or limit me. Determined not to rely on others, I mastered as many life skills as possible to avoid burdening anyone. Since childhood, this mindset shaped me into someone who could tackle almost everything independently. As I grew older, I developed clear goals for every decision I made. For instance, after finishing middle school, I chose not to take the college entrance exam. At that time, my father was raising me and my brother alone, and our family was under significant financial strain. I wanted to graduate early, start working, and ease my father’s burden so that I wouldn’t add to his worries. Therefore, I decided to attend a technical school. In the 1990s, technical school graduates were guaranteed job assignments, making it a practical choice for our circumstances. “Dad, I Want to Go to Beijing” It was probably during my internship in 2004 that I heard on the radio about “sports for people with disabilities”. That was the first time I learned such a thing even existed. Before that, I had never even met another disabled person like me. When I heard the broadcast, I was very curious. I went to an internet café to look up more information and finally learned what disabled sports were all about. Some things in life really are a mix of chance and opportunity. When I first learned about disabled sports, the sport being introduced was archery. Later, when I had my own first experience with disabled sports, it also happened to be archery. For me, archery was love at first sight. When I saw it, I talked to my father and said, “Dad, I want to go to Beijing. I don't want to spend my whole life in Datong. I want to see the world.” I longed to see a bigger world, to meet more people. At the time, I was young and full of big dreams, not overly concerned about whether they were realistic. I simply told my dad how I felt. He said, “You know, if you go to Beijing, you’ll lose your job, and you’re still just an intern.” The job I was assigned to would have become permanent three months later. I was just ten days short of that milestone. But I told my dad, “It’s okay. I’ve made up my mind. I just want to give it a try.” My dad, as always, was incredibly supportive. Since I was a child, he had always stood behind my decisions. That made me feel very lucky. Although my family wasn’t very happy overall, having my dad’s unwavering support made me feel truly fortunate. He said, “Then go. If it doesn’t work out, come back. No matter what, I’ll always be here for you.” Maybe if my dad hadn’t said those words, this decision wouldn’t have felt so significant. But because he did, I became even more determined to go, to see for myself, and to give it a try. At the time, I also felt uncomfortable being the only disabled person in the office. I didn’t want to seem special or be the one constantly receiving help. “Why should I have to stick to a nine-to-five job?” I thought. I wanted to carve out my own path, so in 2005, I went to Beijing. Back then, I didn’t think too much about whether I could succeed or not. My only thought was to give it everything I had, to exhaust every possibility, and to do my best. I Won a Bronze Medal in My First Competition When I joined the disabled archery team, I didn’t expect everything to go so smoothly. Even the trial period passed without a hitch. However, my first competition was quite challenging. When I started practicing archery, there weren’t training bases or the kind of facilities we have now. At that time, disabled sports in China were far from developed. We didn’t even have a coach in 2005—there were just about a dozen of us on the team. Later, the archery team faced disbandment due to its lack of results and a coach. In the end, only two people remained: me and my now-husband, Brother Dong. Both of us really loved archery, so we decided to stick with it. After practicing for over six months, we thought, “Even if we participate in just one competition, it will be worth it.” That was the mindset we had at the time. By then, it was just the two of us left on the team. Back then, unlike today, information about competitions was scarce. Someone gave us a poster of a Korean archer. The two of us studied the poster intensely, analyzing the archer’s form. We even imagined the static image coming to life as if it were dynamic. Every day, we practiced while referencing the poster’s movements. Many people said there was no hope for the project, and many team members switched to other sports. But the two of us remained unwavering. Even without proper equipment, I used a domestic practice bow and arrows in my first competition, while others used imported ones. In my first competition, I won a bronze medal, which was completely unexpected. As for Brother Dong, he won a gold medal in his first competition. At that time, we didn’t know much about national-level achievements or how we would perform—we simply focused on doing our best. Unexpectedly, in our first National Games, I didn’t perform well, but Brother Dong excelled. He broke multiple world records and won two gold medals. Coaches and athletes from other provinces, even seasoned veterans, were stunned. They wondered, “How could such a talented athlete suddenly appear in Beijing?” At the time, I wasn’t as skilled, but having someone like Brother Dong by my side gave me a role model to look up to. Sometimes, it feels like certain events are guided by fate. Thanks to that competition, both of us had the opportunity to join the national team, step onto a larger stage, and compete against even more outstanding athletes. When we participated in the World Championships for the first time in 2007, Brother Dong became the first Chinese male world champion in archery. At that time, I hadn’t thought much about joining the national team. Looking back now, I feel that getting in and achieving some success validated my decision. But if I hadn’t achieved results, I might have wondered, “Why did I quit my job for this?” Before making the decision, I believed that I wouldn’t do too poorly and that I could achieve good results. This wasn’t arrogance—it was confidence in myself. To this day, I believe that having a clear understanding of oneself is especially important. Knowing what you’re good at and what you’re not is crucial for personal growth.    After Having a Baby, the Dream Continues By 2012, I had already competed in two Paralympic Games—Beijing in 2008 and London in 2012. At 32 years old, I had achieved great results, including an Olympic gold medal and a world championship. It felt like the right time to start planning for my family. So in 2012, we bought a house in Beijing. After buying the house, we decided to have a baby, and everything went smoothly. However, as a mother, I felt I might not be a very good one because I returned to training just four months after giving birth. At that time, I wanted to push myself further. I was 33 or 34 years old and eager to compete in Rio in 2016, so I trained hard. But I didn’t recover well postpartum and felt I had already given my all. I earned a quota spot for the Chinese team in Rio, but due to changes in that cycle and the need to train new athletes, I couldn’t participate. At that point, I thought I’d retire after Rio. In my heart, I still loved archery and held onto a small dream to keep trying. During training and competitions, I was always worried because my mother-in-law was taking care of my child. Many people criticized me, saying, “You’ve already had a child. Why aren’t you staying home to take care of them? Why are you still out there practicing?” They believed I shouldn’t have returned. But for us athletes, without formal jobs, we cherish opportunities like this to prove our worth and create value for ourselves. In the beginning, I doubted myself when people said, “You’re not spending time with your child.” I also felt I wasn’t a good mother. But later, I realized, I’m a great mother, too. Now, my child admires me. He thinks I’m amazing and gives me timely encouragement. For instance, when we swim together, and I can’t swim as well as him, he guides me, which makes me feel so proud. Just as we affirm our children, they, in turn, affirm us. When he was little and needed more of my time, I wasn’t always there. I felt I wasn’t fulfilling my role well. But there was no way to do both—I could only focus on one thing at a time. Later, during training, while trying to maintain my strength, I’d sleep in a bit, and my son would come to my door and say, “Mom, bow and arrow!” He was so funny and adorable, and those moments meant so much to me. I deeply admire my mother-in-law. Her philosophy is: “We’re a family. Everyone should focus on their responsibilities. I can take good care of your child while you focus on your work. If we each do our part, our family will only get better and better.” During training, her support gave me confidence. I thought, “If she could raise Brother Dong to be such an exceptional person, there’s no doubt she can take good care of her grandson.” Of course, my mother-in-law’s background in early childhood education reassured me as well. She’s also someone who loves learning and embodies the idea of ‘living and learning.’   One Must Have Love Because my parents divorced when I was young, I rarely had the chance to call someone “mom.” When I got married, I called my mother-in-law by her title, but she said, “You should call me Mom instead.” Even then, I couldn’t bring myself to say it. It felt like I didn’t have the concept of a mother. When I was very young, in the winter, my classmates all had gloves, but I didn’t. At that time, I used a crutch made of iron, and my hands would turn red from the cold. One of my classmates’ mothers noticed this and knitted a pair of gloves for me. So you see, I wasn’t lacking in love. Back then, I thought, ‘It’s as if my own mother knitted them for me.’ But in my heart, I felt deeply for my father. I thought he had it particularly hard, but he never said anything. He never told me about his struggles. My father wasn’t good at expressing himself, and I’m not very good at expressing my feelings either. For me, a very important life lesson is this: One must have love! And beyond that, one must have a passion for something and hold oneself to a high standard. It can be said that archery made me who I am, but the effort and determination I poured into this journey also shaped me. I hope to always guard my original intention, to remain content, and to keep an open and inclusive attitude toward myself and others. When it comes to my personality, I think I was born this way. As a child, I didn’t understand much and hadn’t experienced a lot, but I was clear about certain things. For example, when my parents divorced, my teacher told me, “Don’t let your mother leave. If she goes, your family won’t be complete. You have to cry, hold onto her, and not let her go.” I replied, “Why not let her go? They argue every day. Isn’t it better for them to be apart?” The teacher was stunned and said, ‘This child is simply unbelievable.’ I didn’t think I was wrong. I just thought, “That’s how it is.” When people saw me as a child, they would say, “Poor little girl.” But I would respond, “I’m not pitiful. I lost my leg, but look, I can do everything now.” As a kid, I even played jump rope and climbed onto rooftops with my classmates. (Laughter)   - End -

GMI was awarded "Friend of Africa" by Appreciate Africa Network, 2025 The Journey with Africa The Friend of Africa Award is an unexpected gift for 2025, but not unreasonable. My journey with Africa began in 2015, when I was working for an international organization and had to travel to Nairobi, Kenya for the job. The nearly 20-hour flight from Beijing was exhausting and unsettling (I had read a lot of safety tips for Nairobi before leaving) . But when I first got a birdview of Africa from the airplane, the continent hit me hard. Although the infrastructure is yet well built, but to retain the natural purity of the landscape, the worship from my heart naturally emerged.   In the years that followed, I were fortunate enough to go to the University of Hong Kong, where Sammy and I were classmates, and I heard a lot of stories and ideas about her, her country, and the African continent, which prompted me to reflect on the mainstream international development perspective of poverty alleviation and intellectual empowerment, and start to think of a new development perspective of putting people first and learning from local culture and knowlege. I am very confident in the innate wisdom and development capacity of the African people themselves, which might be summed up in the concept of“Africa for Africa”. The best and earliest support is not massive funding or technology coverage, but a simple act of respect and acknowledgement, listening to the inner voices and development needs of the African people themselves.   Dr. Samantha, a mother of two, who raised up her two children on her own, said: “My son graduated from university in China and now is working in Thailand, while my daughter has returned to Zimbabwe to continue her studies.” She has been using her savings, efforts, diligence and continuous accumulation of social resources and support, adhering to the concept of “Appreciate Africa” and“Pride of Africa”, carried out various forms of creative and innovative events year after year in China, to reach out every African people in China, and every international friend who are connected with her, wherever she goes.   I sincerely admire her courage, especially her indomitable spirit, and her uncompromising vision.   Her vision and actions have also been inspiring to me, and motivate me to strengthen my commitment to the mission of investing women and empowering mothers without borders, in another word, closing the gender gap for every women and every mother through #GlobalMoms 's ecosystematic efforts.   Thanks again to the Appreciate Africa Network (AAN) for its acknowledgement of the GlobalMoms Initiative (GMI) and myself's goodwill to her and to African people, I was so honored to witness AAN founder Dr. Samantha's year-to-year efforts to repeatedly pull herself out of the mud and find inspiration and creative ideas from a lack of resources, to further her mission unwaveringly. After the event, I sent my message to Dr. Samantha: “Dear Sammy, you are the most resilient person I have seen in my own experience, and you made it happen again and again, you deserve the best. Cheers and thank you most sincerely. ”   Jane, 2025.06.29

photo / canva.cn Written by Margaret Nie English Translated by Qiran Zhang Qingming has passed, marking a full year since my father-in-law left us. Over these twelve months, my mother-in-law has tended the family’s ten acres of tea fields all on her own. In early spring, the buds begin to stir—tiny flecks of green pushing out with quiet urgency. As the days warm, they seem almost eager to burst forth. When the harvest outpaces her hands, she hires help. Here in Zunyi, Guizhou—famous not just for Maotai but for its sprawling tea terraces—the rich soil and layered hills gift the leaves with selenium and zinc, making them especially prized. For someone like me, born on flatlands, the sight of mist rising over ridged hills, each row of tea tracing the mountain’s curve, is something close to breathtaking. Guizhou is indeed a place of rare beauty—a place that calms the soul. But picking tea here is no gentle pastime. Each tender bud, no larger than a fingernail, must be plucked one by one, by hand. It takes keen eyes, swift fingers, shoulders that don’t tire, a back that bends without complaint, and legs steady enough to climb and crouch for hours on the slope. Of all the harvests, the pre-Qingming “rain tea” is the most cherished. Delicate and fragrant, it is so prized that it often sells itself. Each morning, as the sky begins to lighten, my mother-in-law sets off with her bamboo basket on her back. The dew has yet to dry, and the tea leaves are at their freshest. She returns with a full load, heads straight to the collection station to sell it, then rushes home for a quick breakfast. After a short rest, she’s out again, back among the rows of green. In my eyes, she’s always been quick and capable. It’s been fifteen years since I first met her, and now, at seventy-three, her mind and body are still sharp, her movements nimble. I truly admire her—so full of spirit and strength. I also feel fortunate; not many women her age is still this healthy, still this devoted to work. Fifteen years ago, during the Spring Festival, I visited my future husband’s home for the first time. It was also my first step into a mountain village tucked deep in the heart of Guizhou, remote and quiet, unlike any place I had ever known. Back then, travel wasn’t as easy as it is now—it took two days and a night, switching from plane to train to bus, each more tiring than the last. By the time we finally arrived, dusk had already settled over the mountains. My mother-in-law had prepared dinner: some meat, sausage, and a few vegetables, all laid out in small, mismatched bowls, their edges chipped with age. Where I come from, guests are welcomed with grand platters and a show of abundance. So, I couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed—this was my first visit, after all, and I was soon to be her daughter-in-law. That night, I didn’t dare call home. I knew the moment when I opened my mouth, the tears would come. Much of that trip has blurred with time, but one moment remains vivid. As we were leaving, my mother-in-law and sister-in-law filled our bags with smoked sausage, bacon, and dried chili peppers from their own pantry. I remember thinking—this home may have little, but they gave us everything they had. Their kindness was simple, wholehearted, and without reserve. Because of that, I chose to forget the pigpen just beside the toilet, or the fact that no one bathed the entire week we were there. I told myself—it’s fine. They won’t interfere in my life. I’d just come back once or twice a year, stay for a week, like a short, rustic holiday. Looking back now, I was—by all accounts—too young, too naive. I didn’t understand then that marriage isn’t just a bond between two people, but a quiet merging of two entire families. By the time I came to that realization, it was already too late. Our son was nearly one when my father’s health began to fail. He insisted on returning to his hometown, and my mother went with him to care for him. With both my husband and I working full-time, we had no choice but to ask my in-laws to help with the baby. From the moment they moved into our small home and our lives began to overlap, the differences between us, once easy to overlook, became impossible to ignore. Most of the tension centered around how to care for the child: what to feed, how to bathe him, when to give medicine. We disagreed on everything. And slowly, the cracks began to show. The conflicts were constant, draining me in ways I hadn’t expected. My in-laws were resentful; I was sinking into a quiet kind of despair. Life felt heavy, joyless. The early glow of new motherhood had faded entirely, leaving only fatigue and frustration in its place. There were no dramatic blowups—just the steady accumulation of small things. Should the baby be bathed every day? Should bottles be sterilized? Should we medicate at the first sign of a fever? I believed in evidence-based parenting. My in-laws, however, were convinced that daily baths would wash away a baby’s natural defenses and lead to illness. Where they came from, going an entire winter month without bathing was nothing unusual. So when our son caught a cold, they pointed fingers at me. I, in turn, blamed them for giving him fever medicine without understanding what caused the fever. We mistrusted each other, spoke past one another, and took turns complaining to my husband. He, caught in between, made things worse—passing along messages instead of helping us find common ground. Bit by bit, the tension snowballed. Fortunately, neither of us is the type to hold onto anger for long. After each argument, we’d cool down, exchange apologies, and carry on. Then life offered us an unexpected pause—my husband was transferred overseas, and I followed, stepping into the role of a full-time mother abroad for three years. Distance, as they say, softens the edges. With an ocean between us and the past tension, things slowly eased. Even when my mother-in-law occasionally hinted—or outright urged—us to have a second child, I gently but firmly declined. She would sigh, but let it go. The truth was, the weight of pregnancy and parenting had already worn me down. I couldn’t imagine walking that path a second time. Yes, another child might mean a lifelong companion. But it also means twice the responsibility and twice the weight, especially in a city where time is limited, housing is tight, and education comes with a heavy price tag. By the time we returned home, I was already past thirty-five, struggling to find my footing in the workforce again. My mother-in-law, citing my father-in-law’s declining health, refused to help this time. With no other option, I turned to my own parents, coaxing and pleading until they finally agreed to come care for the child so I could keep my job and stay afloat. Thankfully, my father’s condition has remained stable, which has allowed my mother to step in and support us. Whether it’s her or my mother-in-law, both have shouldered enormous responsibilities in their later years—giving far more than they should have had to. As for my father and father-in-law, all we can really hope for is that they’re able to take care of themselves. I’ve come to see that as women grow older, their strength in managing a household and raising children often becomes more pronounced—it quietly gives them the upper hand at home. Older men, by contrast, seem to grow more reliant on their wives. Perhaps it’s just biology. From the moment I met my father-in-law, he was already dependent on medication, his health always fragile. Maybe it was due to limited access to proper healthcare in the remote mountains of Guizhou. There, people still turn to herbs and folk remedies passed down through generations. But I’ve always been wary of such treatments. I remember once, he insisted that carp soup could cure a cough and gave some to my one-year-old son. Not long after, my son broke out in hives, his tiny face swelling like a balloon. They had simply forgotten how delicate a child’s digestive and immune systems still are. In the second lunar month of 2024, my father-in-law passed away after a stroke, the result of his steadily failing organs. Just a month earlier, during the New Year, we had gone to visit him. He had ventured into the mountains to gather wild Ganoderma mushrooms, and sent us home with bags of them, saying they’d make a nourishing soup. A few weeks later, just before his 74th birthday, he quietly left this world. At the time, only my mother-in-law was by his side. She called us home with a steady voice, asking us to return and take care of the funeral. For the first time, my husband and I stepped into the role of hosts. My mother-in-law, though newly widowed, guided us through every detail—welcoming guests, preparing offerings, observing the old rites. She stayed composed throughout, her strength never wavering. That night, as I struggled to stay awake during the vigil, she remained alert and tireless. When we gently urged her to rest, she simply shook her head and said, “I’m not sleepy at all.” After the funeral, we asked her to come live with us in the city. She shook her head without hesitation. “The spring tea is about to sprout,” she said simply. “If I leave, who will look after the house?” Her words tugged at something deep in me. A woman in her seventies—slight, alone, tucked away in the mountains—yet her heart seemed forged from steel. I asked gently, “Aren’t you afraid? The woods are thick, the nights pitch black, and the nearest neighbor is far. Don’t you ever feel lonely?” She looked at me with calm eyes and said, “What is there to fear? I like the quiet.” Our son loves to tease her, calling her a “big eater.” Every year when we return for the New Year, she cooks non-stop, one dish barely finished before the next appears. And if we can’t finish, she does, happily. Her appetite is impressive, her energy even more so. She never seems to tire. All I hope is that she stays healthy, that she continues to eat well, sleep soundly, and live with the same quiet strength. Because as long as she’s well, we will always have a reason to return to Guizhou. There will always be a light on, waiting for us in those mist-covered hills.

AI generated photo / a Chinese mom is cooking pancakes. Original by Xiaying Huang English translation by Christina Ren Moms Are Super Kids would naturally believe their moms are super; nothing in the world can beat them. When reading Sans Famille  at about five or six years old, I sympathised the helpless protagonist who was bullied by people. Luckily though, his adoptive mother treated him wholeheartedly, even if she was living a poor life and still tried to borrow ingredients from neighbours to cook pancakes he craved for.     Upon reading this, I suddenly wanted to have the same pancake, thus unreasonably pled my mom for it, “Mom, come and see this. It sounds so delicious. Could you please make one with eggs and powder?” After that, I was able to have mom’s tasty pancakes for over ten years, plus various modified versions, such as adding apple, carrots, pork mince… Since someday, the little myself got addicted to the story of Santa Clause. Then I repeatedly urged my mom to put the cute sock at the bedside at the Christmas Eve, so that Santa will put a gift in it. Next day I approached the sock, and shouted excitedly, “Santa did gave me a gift!” Taking it out and I found, wow, it’s my favorite dried pork snacks. This Santa is just way too thoughtful. Later I gradually got it that it was my mom who bought it at supermarket in the evening to surprise me.  It is difficult to tell if Santa really exists in the world; but there are millions of moms who are willing to protect their kids’ naivety.   Moms Are Not Super After andolescense, I had more and more fights with my mom. I couldn’t understand her, neither did she. We believed in ourselves, and didn’t give in. The family was like a volcano which might erupt anytime, so I always wanted to escape. At junior high school, most classmates came from wealthy families; comparatively, I became more and more sensitive and inferior. “Mom, my classmates are picked up by car, and they’d travel around during vocations. Why don’t we have a car? Why don’t you take me to travel?” I kept asking with depression.  Mom said, there are way more poor families in the world than us; you should compete with classmates in grades, not materials. At your age, I was a waitress at a restaurant, washing dishes. It is a blessing having the opportunity to study, and you should treasure it.” But I was so sad; why did my friends laughed at me wearing fake “Chanel” short sleeves with an untied thread; why did they point at me saying the “tick” on my shoes is fake Nike? You wouldn’t have thought of that. You lived on wholesale clothing business, thus barely had any knowledge about those fancy brands; while just thinking as long as they fit me. However, for an adolescent with strong self-esteem, how come it wouldn’t leave any psychological shadow with peer’s laughs?       I detested you, detested your old-fashioned dressing, primary school graduate to-be, and non-decent job compared to my peers’ like doctors or teachers. Your efforts seemed to be a natural thing, like getting up early to purchase wholesale goods, cooking various desserts for me after evening classes, taking me to the Disneyland when it first opened…   Having No Mom Is Not Super    After university, my mom and I had a less tensive relationship, maybe because of the beauty of distance. But that didn’t last long; I still pitied myself as someone who came out of a poor family. I’ve wanted to pursue graduate study at the very beginning, and put lots of efforts into multiple things, like grades, English, essay and competition, for postgraduate recommendation. To achieve that, I worked hard at the library while others were having fun; even though, my GPA was at the edge of postgraduate recommendation at the junior year, which was quite risky. By that time, I came to know that some other classmates paid for essays and even for patent points. I had no advantage over that while worried about wasting money.   Apart from reflecting on my limited efforts, while seeing close peers went for overseas study or travelled around not worrying about jobs, my world seemed to be collapsing. Wasn’t it? Kids from poor families tried whole life however still cannot make to the start point of the wealth. I was not mature enough, and aimed “the arrow” onto you. I cried crazily at phone call, “Don’t have kids if so poor! Your life has been difficult already, and still married to someone who can’t make good money. Why did you have a child to suffer in this world?”  I only give vent to anger, without noticing any of your tears nor grey hair. Later you said, it was also your  first time being a mom. You were born in the mountains in Fujian. Your parents couldn’t support too many kids, thus sent you to your adoptive mother. She was not good nor bad; the adoptive father passed away as no money for illness, let alone for your study. You went out by yourself to work as a teenager. I laughed at you for believing in Buddhism, however the truth was you had no one else to rely on. After being slandered for stealing necklace at work, you could do nothing but to kneel down in front of the Buddha. Good thing is, I now can understand it. Human beings, can we really choose our birth? For anyone reasonable, he or she would have to play whatever cards in hand, right? Those who can live a better life from a poor background would never keep complaining about their mom nor birth! When saying the cold words that the poor shouldn’t have any child, have I denied, from a ruthless prospective, the ungraded, fair and great motherhood. It was not perfect, but sincere and hard-working enough.   Mom, please forgive me, because it was also my  first time to be your daughter. In the future, we may still have fights; but for mother and child, we will never get apart. Let’s learn to rely on each other and forgive our limits. This is a lesson to learn for life.

photo generated by AI, town of Scunthorpe Written by Joanne English translated by Wang Yiman (Eva)   I am someone who clings to the past. As a child, I couldn't bear to throw away the handmade crafts, the toy cars I assembled, or my notebooks. Back then, the concept of nostalgia hadn’t settled in my mind; I didn’t understand why I felt this way. I simply thought that if I discarded them, a part of me would vanish, and just the thought brought tears to my eyes. There was no space for them at home! My mother would inexplicably scold me, mocking me as if I were Lin Daiyu (A tragic and sensitive heroine from the classic Chinese novel 'Dream of the Red Chamber,' renowned for her poetic talent, intricate emotions, and tragic fate) . I hadn’t read Dream of the Red Chamber ; I only knew that Daiyu was a good girl, so I didn’t hold it against her. My father understood me; whenever he heard my mother planning to throw away my things, he would reprimand her: “These are memories! When she has children, she can share her stories with them.”   At those moments, my mother would soften, transforming from a mother into a woman, responding with a gentle “Alright, alright.” Eventually, I did have a child and found myself sharing my stories with him—stories in which my mother had a happy, joyful childhood. Sometimes he would ask, “Mummy, why are you crying?” I never knew when to tell him that those weren’t just my stories.   At sixteen, I decided to leave home.   Why? No reason, I just wanted to go. In hindsight, I could conjure countless tragic justifications for my escape from my father’s violence and my mother’s indifference. But sixteen-year-old me told me, in my mind, it wasn’t that complicated—I simply wanted to leave. I believed her; she was always so certain, and I liked that about her.   That summer, packing became a torment. What do English people wear? Would the school provide notebooks? Whose letters should I take? I thought I should hold onto something tangible when I felt homesick. It sounds silly, but she kept all her most cherished items filled with memories, and in the dreary town of Scunthorpe, she spent countless nights crying while clutching a plastic bag with “Carrefour” printed in Chinese characters from her mother, which held her slippers. She carefully folded that bag and placed it on her bookshelf. This noisy book would rustle when she took it out, its pages filled with her sobs, yet she read it over and over.   She firmly believed that England was just a temporary refuge. The perfect exam scores, the medals from camping trips, and her most treasured art portfolio—she eventually brought them all back home, to that singular home. Her parents didn’t understand, constantly asking why she needed to bring back such important things! She couldn’t explain; this was the home she wanted to escape from, yet also the place where she held her hopes and her cherished memories. She felt frustrated, her eyes reddening again. “Oh dear, she’s just like Lin Daiyu,” her mother would say. She began to dislike Daiyu, thinking she must be a girl just as sentimental as herself.   At seventeen, she walked home one night, chased by a group of thugs wielding pipes and beer bottles. “Dying far from home,” this phrase appeared vividly before her for the first time. She didn’t want to die far from home. The unfamiliar place must become her home.   At twenty-eight, she achieved that; England became her home. She lived in a little house she decorated with care, held a respectable job, distinguished accents from various regions, and even learned some Latin from her colleagues. Her English was timeless, genderless, and full of confidence. Her Chinese, however… she didn’t like the version of herself that spoke it; it felt like the voice of a sixteen-year-old girl. Shouldn't home and memories be kept at a distance from the “now”? She asked herself. Colleagues joked that she spoke like a Welsh princess. Indeed, in English, her gestures seemed as though she were a white woman.   She thought, now I can rest easy and be buried here.   The life of an expatriate is a performance; she couldn’t fit into the old role nor fully embrace a new identity. When would this absurd act come to a close? She didn’t know. She silenced the Lin Daiyu within her, donned ill-fitting Shakespearean garb, and danced, sang, and performed on this stage of immigration, which had no audience.   She no longer clung to objects; while traveling, her husband would often ask if she wanted to buy souvenirs. “No need,” she would say, “there’s no space at home…” In her mother’s voice, what was there to commemorate? Managing a private museum was too much trouble. Dusting was a hassle, and moving was inconvenient. She feared they would break, shatter, and in the end, she lost her sense of feeling. Yet, she was happy for several years. Following a script we all know, she became a wife and a mother. An actor who performs according to a script and lines deserves praise.   But over time, the ill-fitting costumes began to chafe, and the lines became increasingly convoluted; it wasn’t her language…   At thirty-three, her husband hoped she would accompany him to Canada, while she wanted to write a chapter of her own story—just a small chapter, about her career and passions. The mysterious playwright of life remained silent as ever, offering no answers. She and her husband argued, ultimately compromising for the sake of the child. I asked her, “Did you concede?” “I don’t know,” she replied. “If I made a decision, it must be what I wanted.” Her words softened, yet still carried the certainty of a sixteen-year-old. I liked her.   Can you guess if that mysterious playwright knew that by thirty-five, the word “divorce” had grown like a virus in her mind? She said, “When I stand alone, it’s no longer marriage.” But her mother said, “You’re ill.” Knowing her temperament, and understanding her resolve, her mother only inquired about how the assets would be divided before hastily hanging up. “Well,” she thought, “it’s good that my mother doesn’t ask…” But her mother was right; perhaps she was unwell, suffering from a similar ailment as Daiyu. She began to weep over things—a forest, the moon, photographs, words, caterpillars, even strangers brought her to tears. I asked her, “Do you like the person you are now?” “I don’t know,” she replied, “but I know you will always love me, just as you would love a stone, a gust of wind, a season, or a stranger. I love the honest and brave life I pursue, a life that is the simplest for every woman.”   I believe her.

Photo provided by Charmaine Told and Finalized by Charmaine Interviewed by Qiran Zhang and Liqing Pan Proofread and Edited by Liqing Pan When Jane invited me to take the interview, I jokingly said that she would probably be disappointed as I don’t see myself as a woman of fascinating stories. I lived a generally speaking smooth and peaceful life, without significant ups and downs.   Although my story might not be that exciting, my life is not without passion, joys and sorrows. I have a profound passion for education and communications and have loved working and in education and being an educator myself for most of my working life. I try to stay positive most of the time, and I feel I have been lucky and very blessed.   Throughout my life I have lived in many different places: South Africa, the USA, Malaysia, and now China. In each country I kept learning new things and sharing them with others. At the age of 57, I am still guest-lecturing and teaching part-time, and this time in a new country, a new culture, which is quite exciting although challenging. I like this adventure, but more importantly, I see it as me fulfilling the meaning of life and answering my call of passion. I hope my story will inspire some of you and lighten your heart a little bit.   Passion for education    My hometown is Johannesburg, in South Africa, the country often described as the“rainbow nation”. I was born and bred in a white middle-class family, and my parents have always been very supportive. As I grew up, I realized just how privileged we were as white South Africans. We attended good schools and received the best education, but many South Africans didn’t have that same privilege. And it wasn’t about bad parenting—it was about not having a choice.   Many parents didn’t have an education themselves (then), or the financial means (now) to send their children to school. And this formed a vicious cycle: without a good education, it’s hard to earn money, and then the kids also can’t afford school fees for their kids, in turn poverty gets inherited. It had to do with the social injustice, which was a problem in the past, but as reforms are taking place, hopefully things are changing. But it’s something that has always bothered me because, without proper education, it’s hard for people to reach their full potential.   I didn’t fully understand this until I was older, but now I see that education isn’t just a passion for me—it’s a core belief. I truly believe that education can change lives.   Even when I was working for corporations in my early career days, I enjoyed lecturing on the side.    Before I started my career in marketing communications, I first studied Corporate Communications, and then went on to do a postgraduate degree in journalism and public relations. Eventually, I also completed my master’s degree in cultural diversity, which is something I’m passionate about.   I’ve always been very aware of diversity. In my work, especially in communications and education, I’ve had to deal with people from many different cultural backgrounds. For example, in all my years lecturing in South Africa, I’ve never had a class with just one group—it was always a mix. So, being mindful of cultural differences is second nature to me. That’s why education and communication are so close to my heart, and I’ve always tried to combine the two in my work.   The university where I worked at the time when I considered my master’s studies, underwent a merger with another university - a technical skills college. The culture of the two schools were very different, which led to significant management issues. Although I joined about five years after the merger, things were still messy. That experience inspired my master’s research, and it’s part of the reason why I wanted to go to the U.S. to learn more about higher education and administration.   So, when I was elected for the Fulbright Hubert H. Humphrey Fellowship, I had the chance to study in the U.S. for a year, in Pennsylvania, where I studied Administration in Higher Education.    I remember the stark contrast between my experiences in South Africa and those in the United States. In South Africa, I had become accustomed to teaching in classrooms filled with students from all walks of life—students who brought with them their own unique perspectives and challenges. But in the United States, the focus seemed to be more on individualism, on how each person could stand out and make their mark. This was both inspiring and, at times, disheartening. I realized that while cultural diversity was celebrated in many places, true understanding and inclusion required more than just tolerance. It required action, empathy, and a willingness to learn from one another.   After my year in the United States, I returned to South Africa, eager to apply what I had learned. The country was still grappling with the legacy of apartheid, and Black Economic Empowerment (BEE) policies had been introduced to address the economic disparities caused by decades of racial segregation. While these policies were necessary and long overdue, they also made it more challenging for people like me—white professionals—to find permanent employment.   Black Economic Empowerment (BEE) has made it difficult for any white South African to find work. For example, many women I know didn’t return to work after having children. Some of them just accepted that, and luckily, their husbands could support them financially. For women who wanted to work and needed jobs to provide for their families, it was a huge challenge.   Regardless, getting back into the workplace is tough for everyone. That’s why I am glad I could choose lecturing as a career of choice—it gave me more flexibility. I could lecture after hours or manage my schedule differently. But not everyone has the qualifications or ability to teach or lecture. For many mothers it is not an option.   And this could only be harder for a mother.   Motherhood: my priorities   Parents have great influence on children, and the mother in a family usually has a stronger bond with the kids, therefore they play a key role in children’s upbringing.   This perception is drawn from my personal experience. When I grew up, our family was very close-knit, and my mother played a big role in who I am today. She has a strong personality - determined and persistent. I see a lot of my actions and beliefs a reflection of hers. She taught me perseverance and creative thinking. My father provided stability, and looked after us financially, but my mother provided us with the driving force of living. She wanted us to always be striving for improvement, stay curious and be a life-long learners. That has all been inherited by me, and thinking about that, I can see some similarities in the pattern how I raise my kids and maintain my family relations. It is never easy being a mother, and there were definitely difficult times, especially when my kids were young. For example, I’ve always struggled to sleep well – I never seem to get a good night’s sleep. It was manageable when I wasn’t working, but once you start working, you realize just how important sleep is. Unfortunately, it’s not something you can control. For me, that was one of the hardest things to manage, but somehow, we learn to cope. My kids are two years apart in age, so they were both toddlers at the same time, which made it even more challenging. I decided not to work until they started school, and even after they started school, I was still looking for half-day work, so I could be home when they finished school each day.   The funny thing is, you still end up doing eight hours of work, just crammed into four hours because you know you need to get home. So being a part-time worker does not mean you work less—you just work faster and take work home to do after hours, even though you’re paid half the salary, you’re still doing all the work.   And when I was teaching night classes, I would still have to do all my day work and get the children sorted out first before I left the house. So, I end up doing two jobs without even thinking about it—extra work, and you don’t really get paid for that job (motherhood). I guess that’s why they invented Mother’s Day! Only one day a year is definitely not enough, though.   Being a mother also means constant emotional involvement. I have one son and one daughter, and unfortunately, both my children struggle with depression. The cause for their depression is genetic - it runs in our family. They didn’t start showing symptoms until adolescence—around 16 or 17, both. Maybe it was there earlier, but that’s typically when young people begin to find things harder. At that age, they need to find themselves and to start working through their own problems. As the parent, no matter how concerned or worried, you must give your kids freedom to find themselves while still being there for them - you can never fully switch off. I don’t know if you’d call it ‘tough love,’ but that’s one approach. It’s draining, though, because no matter where I am or what I do, they’re always my priority, and a mother will always only be as happy as their unhappiest child.   There have been times when I had to drop everything, take leave, and go to support them, which I always do. As I’ve said before, you make up the work later—it never takes priority over your children. In terms of my career, I made sure being a mother didn’t hold me back in the corporate world. I just worked twice as hard. I’d do my work at times when I should’ve been sleeping.   So, I’ve always believed I need to be the strong one. My husband takes care of us financially, but I’m mostly responsible for my children’s mental wellbeing. I have to stay positive, show them that I never give up, and be an example of perseverance. My kids are now in their 20s, and they are much stronger, but still, I want to set a good example for them. When I first found out that we would be relocating to China for a couple of years, I struggled with the idea of coming here without my children, but I realized they are young adults, and I must trust and believe that they will be fine because of what we’ve taught them and the example we’ve set for them. I think a big part of why I’m so determined is to show my children that no matter the challenges, I’ll keep going.   Yes, being a mother is not easy, and I must admit that women do carry a much heavier weight than men in that regard. But I am a very positive person, and I don’t have a ‘victim’ mentality. I have never regretted having children and being a mother, or pursuing a career while having children. It is so rewarding that I am quite content in this role, and even in an afterlife, I would not want to trade roles (with my husband).   I love working! Honestly, I’ve always loved working. I wouldn’t say I’m a workaholic, but I enjoy it so much that it’s never felt like a burden to me. It’s almost like my hobby, which helped me keep a balance. As I mentioned before, finding a job in South Africa is very difficult. So, I feel extremely fortunate to be able to work in a field that I am passionate about. No matter how ambitious I am careerwise, I have never felt it necessary to do it at the expense of my children.  I took breaks with the birth of both my children, and I prioritized my children when they were young, but I also felt I need to work for intellectual stimulation. The one doesn’t have to replace the other. It could both be present if society allows.   In South Africa, women are allowed maternity leave, but should they decide to stop working or take additional time off work, there are no guarantees that you will get your job back when you return after a long leave of absence. And the same goes for the current job market - when you give up a job, you pretty much know that you’re not going to get the same one back again. It’s not like they hold it for you, or you can just jump right back into the workforce. Every time I took a break from working full time, it took me years to find another job, literally. As I already mentioned, I didn’t work until my kids started school, and then I was working half days. Once the children started doing more activities, I went back to full-time work. I sometimes also worked after hours if I needed to attend to mentoring or coaching assignments. For some people, that might be a problem, but for me, it was a pleasure because I was doing what I loved. The work is rewarding enough to make up for the time and effort I put in. In terms of balancing life and work, mothers make the best of difficult situations to find balance. I can tell you; my bosses never knew about my struggles at home—whether it was the fact that I didn’t sleep or the issues my children were facing. To employers, it didn’t matter. You just have to deliver. You have your deliverables, and the outcome must be there, no matter how or when you do it. And I think, speaking for other people too, that’s what we do. Women, in particular, just absorb everything that needs to be done, and we deliver on both fronts. People often don’t realize what you’re sacrificing until they experience it themselves. You make it look easy, but in reality, you compromise—whether it’s sleep or other aspects of your life—to deliver at work while also being there for your children. I think it’s just in our nature. We don’t overthink it; it’s survival. You just do what you have to do.   Despite the difficulty of job hunting, I can barely remember it now because, in the end, I was able to find another path forward. But the experience of job-hunting also made me realize how important it is to educate people beforehand, to help them adapt to the corporate environment and succeed in their job applications. Even something as simple as teaching someone how to put a CV together or prepare for an interview can make a huge difference. For us, it feels normal because we’ve done it before, but for someone who hasn’t been in an interview situation for a while, it’s a game-changer.    A couple of years ago, while still in South Africa, I participated in a leadership program where people from the corporate world, like me, were paired with headmasters (principals) of schools in rural, underprivileged areas. The idea wasn’t to give them money—in fact, you weren’t allowed to help them financially. Instead, you were there to mentor and coach the headmaster or principal. What often happens in these rural schools is that a regular teacher suddenly gets promoted to become the leader, but they have never been taught any leadership skills. And thus, having to run an entire school without any guidance on how to lead.   In this program, you’d work with them for a year, meeting every month to coach them on leadership skills, team building, and other important aspects of running a school effectively. To me, that kind of support is way more valuable than financial aid. Financial donations can only go so far, but empowering someone with skills—that’s something that lasts and makes a real difference. I did that for a year, and it was an incredible experience. I think more is to be done in that aspect.   Before I left South Africa, I was the Chief Marketing Officer (CMO) at a private higher education institution, and I worked there for three and a half years. When my husband got transferred to Beijing, I had to leave my job, which was tough because I loved my job and working.     Adapting to new life in China   The decision of coming to China was not simple or easy for me.   I had never envisioned that I would be here in China, and moreover, coming to China means I had to give up my job, which, given the BEE, would not be waiting for me there when we return to SA, not to mention I am already in my 50s. Lastly, the field of marketing is very competitive, and always evolving, with many younger people having more up-to-date skills.    But I was hopeful that I could find something in China where I could use my skills, experience, and knowledge. And you never know until you try! Also, when I’m old, I would like to look back on all these memories as great experiences. That would be incredible! I never want to be bored. I also want to encourage my children in this way, so that they bravely take on the challenges in life.   I think my friends might think I’m a bit crazy for taking this path at this stage in my life wanting to still work instead of just retiring and socializing. But I have nothing to lose; it’s all about gaining experiences, meeting new people and intellectual stimulation.   And now I can say with certainty that I don’t regret my choice to come to China! Every day is a new experience! I’ve been here for two years, but there hasn’t been a day when I don’t see something new or different. I wouldn’t say it’s easy and I definitely don’t take anything for granted. It’s hard to even pinpoint examples, but every day brings something unexpected. I’m enjoying my time in Beijing, and I’ve traveled quite a bit across China. We’ve visited the pandas and the Terracotta Warriors, and there are just so many amazing things to do here.   Yet I am not ready to give up on working yet. After we moved to Beijing, I applied for many vacancies. I was keen to find a way to use my skills, but it’s tough, especially in marketing—you need to understand the market and, of course, the language. So, what I did was to reach out to international universities, offering to do guest lectures for free. Through that, I got a few opportunities to guest lecture (pro bona) at a couple of local campuses as a subject matter expert. It’s been an amazing chance to experience Chinese culture and connect with local students.   I’ve had the opportunity to meet with students in Hangzhou, Shenzhen, as well as young professionals pursuing their MBAs in Beijing. It’s incredibly rewarding because I get to share my knowledge while also learning from them. Honestly, that’s been the highlight of my time in China so far!   While I was still looking for job opportunities and realizing that I will probably not be able to work in China – for many valid reasons, I decided to enroll in an art therapy diploma course. I thought, if I can’t find work, I can at least study something meaningful, like art therapy, which I could one day apply either in the corporate world to help executives manage stress or with underprivileged children who don’t have access to therapy. Mental wellness is crucial for a quality life, and so many people struggle with their mental health.   I figured that by focusing on studying, I’d take my mind off the job hunt. And I believe something will eventually come through for me. If I can’t find a job, then I’ll use my art therapy skills to work with people in underprivileged communities. I’ve always been someone who sees the glass as half full. If one door doesn’t open, I’ll find another way and give back to the community in the process.   Of course, like anyone, I do get discouraged when I don’t hear back from recruiters or get rejected. It can be demotivating. But I still try to see it as an opportunity to learn something new. In my spare time, I read books. I love historical novels. The last book I read was about women in medicine throughout Chinese history, exploring how they passed down knowledge through generations. It was fascinating. I also love biographies and various academic/non-fiction books on marketing, critical thinking, and leadership.   Moving forward   Although I have not found any formal job yet, I am adjusting myself to enjoy this “leisure time”. When I was working full time, there was definitely no balance for me. During my full-time employment there were hardly any time for my hobbies or interests. Now I can pursue these interests – art, art therapy and reading all the books that I’ve always wanted to read but never had time for.   Work is still important to me. I need purpose in my life. I look for ways to utilize my skills and experience, and to pursue my goals and interests. That is how I ended up connecting with Jane through the U.S. Embassy—she was also part of an exchange program. I felt like maybe this (GMI) was a space where my experience and skillset could make a difference, and where I can collaborate with GMI, under the guidance of their amazing founder Jane, on some projects to help woman cultivate career skills and be better positioned and prepared for the workplace.   Living abroad, like in Beijing was not without its personal challenges. As a mother of two young adults—my daughter studying in the Netherlands and my son working in South Africa—the distance between us is often hard to bear. My husband and I have always been close with our children, and the time apart is difficult for all of us. We make it a priority to visit them as often as we can, and we stay in close contact through calls and messages. It is not the same as being together in person, but we make it work.   Now, I find myself at new crossroads. My children are (young) adults, my husband’s career continues to take us to new places, and I am constantly looking for new ways to contribute to the world around me. Whether through art therapy, guest lectures, or mentoring, I know that my story is far from over. There are still so many more things to explore, so much work to be done, and so many opportunities to make a difference.   As I look to the future, I am filled with hope. My journey has been anything but linear, but that’s what makes it so exciting. Each new chapter brings with it new challenges and new possibilities, and I am ready to embrace them all.

AI generated photo to resonate with Monica's Chinese Name   Story Told by Monica Interviewed by Margaret Nie & Jane English translated by Qiran Zhang / English Proofread by Liqing Pan   I am a very simple person. Now 37, I was often labeled by my manager as naive and innocent. Actually, I suppose I am not that innocent after all, but spiky. In these thirty-some years of life, I feel both lucky and unfortunate, which probably is just like everyone else.   I have a spiky personality and have been fearless from an early age. My family often said I was as stubborn as a donkey. I used to run away from home, as there were too many things I couldn’t stand. I just live a life full of edges and corners. One of my teachers particularly admired me, and he told me that "You must hold on to your individuality and never simply follow the crowd." However, more voices around would tell me that this prickly nature would only get me into troubles. They would warn me against being spiky and never like other girls, who would talk softly, compromise easily, and act obediently.   I was given a Chinese name that embodies resilience and toughness, and I do things like a man, which means I don’t give up easily and always have high standards for myself. Speaking of which, I lived the first half of my life relatively smooth.   Although I was not gifted at studying, I got admitted to a prestigious 211 university because I learned art. The ‘turning point’ in my life probably is year 2006. That year I was a junior in college, when my father passed away unexpectedly. After handling his funeral, I returned to the college and back to my studies in Beijing.   At that time, I was not yet aware of the striking impact his death would have on me.   My father left me on November 29, 2006. This November 29th will mark the 16th years since then. It still deeply hurts whenever I think of him, for the drastic change of our life after his departure, living like a footless bird, endlessly drifting from one place to another, and never rest...     My Father in My Memories   My dad, according to my memory, wasn’t the kind of man you would call “great”, and would not be called meticulous either. But since he passed away, most of what I could remember were his former kindness, although also a few not-so-good moments, due to his bad-temper.   One childhood memory stands out. One evening, he came home after drinking a lot of alcohol and found me playing with a friend. He asked my friend, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" She replied immediately with confidence, "I want to be a doctor." Then he turned to me, "And you?" I said, "I don’t know."   We were munching on a snack called Halihali, and upon hearing my uncertain response, he snatched the snack from my hand in a sudden burst of anger and throw it to the top of our woody cabinet. I had such a clear memory of that day. My friend was let go, and my dad took off my pants and gave me a spanking – I didn’t even know why I got beaten. After that, he probably sobered up, and regretted, so he apologized to me and handed me two Yuan to make up for what he had just done. That money was enough to buy a treasure trove of treats in those days. I was dazed, and unable to make sense of all that.   My father was not a frequent drinker. I’m not sure what troubled him that day, but it was the first time I got beaten. As I grew older, I wondered for years why he did that – I couldn’t stop thinking. As I become a mother myself, I find myself looking back with a new perspective, and with that I try to grasp what once eluded me. Now I believe that he must have had harbored great hopes for me to become a successful person, or at the very least, a person of value, but my response probably disappointed him, making him ashamed for my lack of ambition.   But there are also moments he treated me well. When I was in high school, I had to leave home at a bit over 5 am to take a bus to have classes, and the bus station is 10 minutes- walk distance from home. He rode his bike to take me to the bus station literally Every Day - from summer to winter, then from winter to summer, regardless of weather. Till today, I still can see that moment in the flashbacks of memory, of him riding that bike as I look from behind him, from the backseat. Another memory etched in mind is of him waiting for me in a long and dimly lit alley after my evening classes, hands clasping behind his back, holding a teacup. He was always waiting for me there to walk home with me, especially in the winter. I was a bit rebellious then, and I said to him, “Dad you don’t have to wait for me! I am familiar with the place, and I can go back very soon.” Then he replied:” If I don’t see you back, I would always wait for you here.”   He ran a small business, and the burden of supporting our family is heavy on him, especially as he was an overly nice person. I remember on one particular New Year’s Eve, after he got the payment for his project with the government, he handed out every last penny to his workers, forgetting that our family is almost out of money for the new year. I complained and said  “Why do you leave us in such a miserable state, you could have kept the money but you gave them all away!” I muttered, feeling deprived of the usual treats and new clothes that marked the holiday.“Do you have any idea how tough life is for folks in Zhangjiakou?” he asked“They only  have meal of plain potatoes, while we, at least, can afford steamed buns.” Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he added quietly, “They workers need money more badly than us. They can only wear clothes with patches.”   He was too kind to be a good businessman. Because he was not ruthless enough, his business was never a success.     My Father's Sudden Death   Years before he passed, I often saw his room with lights on till two or three in the morning. As I quietly pushed open the door, I found him huddled over his desk, meticulously going through a stack of invoices, calculating something over and over. He was always like that, working late, often pushing himself.   The day he died started off like any other. He was with his business partner, discussing the usual things, and had a little bit of wine over lunch. On his way back home, he began to feel sick. My mother was out at the market stall, as usual. By the time she returned, he was seen lying on his cot, which upset her, since she had to be out to make a living because of his incompetency in supporting the family. Frustrated, she glanced at him, thinking he was just sleeping off the alcohol.   She called his name, but he didn’t respond. She noticed some vomit in the toilet and the lingering scent of heart medication in the air. She tried to wake him again, but by then, he had already slipped away.   When I got the news that something happened to my family, I rushed home, not knowing what exactly had happened. I called the boy who later became my boyfriend, and he picked me up from the train station. The fog that day was thick, almost surreal, as if the world itself was clouded in mystery. At first, I thought it was my mom who had an accident, since her health condition was always not good.   The boy didn’t say much until we almost reached home, he turned to me and said, "There’s something wrong with uncle... your dad."   I paused in a shock. "What do you mean? Is he in the hospital?"   He hesitated, "It’s worse than that."   A chill ran through me. "What's that? He is in the ICU or what?"   He looked down, unable to meet my eyes. "Worse than that. Your dad passed away."   I dropped my school bag right there and ran as fast as I could, my heart pounding in my chest.   When I got home, I found him lying there alone. In our Hui ethnic tradition, we keep the body at home, not in a hospital or a funeral parlor. It was November, and the cold had already settled in. But in the room where my father’s body was kept, the heating had been turned off. The furniture was moved out, and he lay there on a wooden board, supported by two legs underneath, covered by a simple white cloth. I couldn’t bring myself to lift that cloth and look.   My thoughts flashed back to the last time I spoke to him before leaving for school, when he promised me to buy me a Motorola V80 cellphone. The first thing that came out of my mouth when I saw him was, "Dad, you promised to buy me that phone... haven’t you bought it yet?"   But he lay there, still and silent, and I knew I would never have his answer.     Returning to Beijing to Finish My Studies   After my father’s funeral, I returned to Beijing for school. Strangely, I didn’t feel much at the time.   I am a huge fan of Leslie Cheung, and when he passed away in 2003, I was utterly heartbroken. I even wrote letters to him, which were tied to balloons and released, hoping they’d somehow reach him in the sky.   On the day of Leslie Cheung's funeral, I was desperate to watch the live broadcast on Phoenix TV. I made up an excuse at school, claiming I had left a pot of water boiling at home. I rode home on my bike in a rush, and unlike usual, I left it outside the room instead of locking it in the room that day, which caused it to get stolen.   My mother would often make joke at me about this, saying that the funeral cost me a bike. I have a deep memory that my dad asked me then "if I am gone, would you also be like this?" And the fact is, when my dad passed away, the pain didn’t hit me the same way it did when Gege died (Our fans like to call Leslie Cheung Gege). Probably the loss of Gege only brought me nostalgia, while losing my dad became a lingering ache, a wound that never really heals—a pain that stays with me for a lifetime...     Leaving Beijing and Returning Home   I often felt like a speck of dust drifting in the air, never truly finding a place to settle. My father’s death didn’t greatly impact my physical life, but with my mind it left a deep sense of instability, which worn me out. Maybe it was this very situation that eventually forged my resilience.   Things went on well for both my study and career. In 2008, I had the privilege of participating the Olympic torch relay all the way across China for three months, leading the cheerleading team of the organizing committee. After the opening ceremony is over, I returned home. I originally didn’t plan to go back to hometown after graduation, since I had already secured the job as a teacher in a primary school in Haidian District, Beijing. But what happened at home drove me make the decision of returning to hometown. My younger brother was only 14 when our father passed away, and I am the eldest daughter, so I had to take more responsibility than before.   At graduation, I packed up everything by myself and sent them home. While my classmates celebrated their triumphant graduation surrounded by family, I was alone and returned home silently taking a free ride from a fellow student. I used to hold a grudge against my mother for not attending my graduation ceremony, but now I understand—she had to work to earn the money, which although meager, is all that she could make to support the family.     I Had a Quick Marriage   Once I’m back, my mother urged me into marriage, driven by traditional values that favor males over females. My mother was born in a low-class worker’s family, and the traditional value that girls should marry early resonated with her, especially so after the death of my father, which made the family difficult to support anyone other than my younger brother. After numerous failed matchmaking attempts, I eventually made match with someone through family connections. My mother had always hoped I would marry into a family with better financial standing, and this man seemed to fit the criteria.   On the day of our blind date, I heard a message on the radio that said, “You should only marry someone you truly want to spend your life with.” The words struck a chord deep within me. Still, I chose to marry him—not out of love, but because he checked off most boxes I thought were important.   I had a flash marriage. One month after meeting each other for the first time, we got our marriage certificate, and the wedding ceremony was held only three months after we met. I barely knew anything about his family. He treated me kindly, but there was a big issue with his family, the fraught relationship between him and his parents, which I only found out later. When we just got married, he would frequently curse his mother by name, and I tried to stop that, naïvely believing I could help mend their bond somehow.   Now, over a decade into our marriage, his relationship with his parents remains as strained as ever. No one, not even I, could fix it. He carries a deep resentment towards them, convinced that they are dragging him down. I didn’t fully grasp the impact of this tension until we had a child, eight years after our marriage. Before that, I had very limited interactions with my parents-in-law, mostly only in occasions of family dinner on New Year’s Eves. Even after our child was born, I once thought I could manage without their involvement by hiring a nanny.     First Job After Graduation   After graduating, my first job was as a teacher at the local media college, a position I held for 12 years. I quit that job the year before last. I started to think quitting because every day felt like a rerun of the one before. I could predict exactly what the next few years would be —each day a mirror image of the past. I had become so skilled in teaching that I no longer needed to prepare for classes; I knew the routine by heart.   Even when I was in college, I knew I wouldn’t want to have a plain and dull life, since I only have one life to live. And at that time, an opportunity came to knock at my door—to join a foreign language education group as the course director for the art department of student elective classes—I took it. For about a year, I immersed myself in that new challenge, but then, life threw me a curveball: I found out I was pregnant, and not just with one child, but twins. This reason, together with several others, led to a pause of my job.   During my pregnancy, I didn’t work in the office anymore, but I kept myself busy by tutoring art students, helping them get into their dream colleges. It was a smooth period in my life, with everyone in the family pitching in. I’ve always been independent, so even when I got married or became pregnant, I didn’t expect any special treatment. I never saw myself as someone who needed to be catered to.   I never had the thought that I should be given privilege for pregnancy, but I surely miss that time, because it was 2019, and it was before pandemic.     Giving Birth During a Pandemic   After I’m pregnant and before the baby was born, I didn’t worry much about my family, for instance my husband. He was busy running his company, and I rarely involved myself in his business affairs. He’s always been a strong-willed person, and I mention him now because of his influence on me later on--very negative influence.   My husband was of same age as me, only one month older. The pandemic took a toll on everyone’s mental state, and our family was no exception. I gave birth to the twins on January 10, 2020, just 5 days before the outbreak in our hometown. The situation in Wuhan was growing dire, but we were still largely unaware of just how serious things were.   As I held my two newborns, I posted on social media: "I’m going to make peace with the world!" Before they came into my life, I was headstrong and fiercely independent. But with my children’s arrival, I became willing to compromise in ways I never imagined, accepting things that I never would have tolerated.   The pandemic brought tremendous financial hardship to our family, and my husband was under immense stress. The past three years have been a nightmare that I can hardly bear to remember. There were moments when his frustration turned violent—he would take a knife and threaten me, the children, even my mother. He once said he would kill the baby, and even took actions, which freaked me out. I didn’t know how to deal with the world anymore. We fought fiercely when he directed all his anger and resentment to our baby, and our relationship is at the edge of the cliff.   I thought I would be given care and support after giving birth to the babies, but rather, I experienced the most difficult time of my life. I would wake up every day in tears, overwhelmed by despair. The thought of ending my life together with my babies often came to my mind in those days, as I assumed no one else would ever take care of them if I’m gone. The thought even went concrete to include details such as where and how – jumping from a certain building with one child on my back and the other in a carrier in the front. But fortunately I eventually gave up those thoughts.     Life's Darkest Hours   When my babies were six months old, our home had become unsuitable to live any longer. I told my husband, “I’m taking the babies and leaving.” Since my auntie still got an empty place, I moved there with a nanny. During that time, my husband rarely visited; he just paid for the nanny.   I almost felt I was the most miserable person in the world, until I met two incredibly nice nannies, who gave me enormous encouragement and were like my family. They weren't just tending to my child—they were my biggest emotional support. They filled the gap left by my mother, who was on completely different wavelengths with me and could not communicate well with me.   When the twins were two and a half years old, my husband told me he could no longer afford the nannies, and that‘s when my parents-in-law started to took over caring for the children.   Throughout this time, I kept a diary. In this thick diary, the words “almost suicide” appeared in a daily frequency. But amid the darkness, a new perspective started to grow insides me. I often told my friends and the nannies, “I have a very good friend who gives me advice on doing this and that.” And my nannies would echo “She is right! You must cherish this friend. She’s guiding you to the right path.”   When I finally had to say goodbye to my nanny, I say to her, "I need to tell you something." She asked, "What is it?" I said, "Actually, I never had this friend."   I saw the fine hairs on her arms erects on the backlight of the sunshine. This was how I survived the most depressed time of my life. I told a friend who was a psychiatrist about the imaginary friend thing and asked, "Do you think I’m schizophrenic?"   He replied, "Technically, yes. But it was good for you—it was your mind trying to save you from despair."     Finding My Way Out   When my children were six months old, I went back to work. My nanny, wise as ever, urged me on that, “You’ve got to get out. You can’t keep carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. How’s your mom? How your brother lives and how your mom lives is not your business. You can’t live for them. You need to live for yourself and your kids.”   So, I took her advice to heart. Later I found a job related to performance art, and I worked there till September of this year. Then I had a new job opportunity, introduced by some very nice and elite people, filled with creativity and energy, and I joined the insurance company and work there till today. I’m genuinely happy every day, because I’m surrounded by people who radiate positivity, helping me find my direction and purpose.   I’ve stopped wasting my energy on pointless worries. It’s like a ray of sunshine finally broke through the clouds of my life. I no longer struggle to find out what kind of person my husband really is. The three years since I had my babies have completely transformed me. I’ve learned not to look to anyone else for validation, not to rely on anyone but myself. The only person I truly trust now is me.   Recently, I initiated a program of Swing Musical, where we indulge in the joy of swing dancing. Through this activity, I’ve met so many like-minded friends, and I’ve come to realize that sometimes, the people who at first are total strangers could also end up being providing huge support. As a Muslim, my faith is in Allah, and I believe He knew my family couldn’t be my anchor, so He surrounded me with friends who could. People like Sister Yuan, who introduced me to GMI—I feel truly blessed.   My children are turning three now, growing up so quickly, and they’re incredibly understanding and well-behaved. Life doesn’t feel so daunting anymore. When I look back at everything I’ve been through, I’m actually grateful for those three tough years. They forced me to grow in ways I never imagined.     The Day My Family Unraveled   After my dad passed away, our family was never the same, but at least I still had a place to call home. But then my brother, who used to be a good kid, started to drift. I attributed that to a great part to my mom’s way of education but have to admit my dad also played a part in it. He spoiled my brother, and even offering him cigarettes when smoking sometimes. By the time my brother was 14, he already learned to smoke.   After Dad’s death, my brother would often say, “Mom, I’m going downstairs for a bit.” When my mom asked “what for”, he’d answer, “Tell you what, I’m going down to smoke.” I told my mom she should not have let him but should instead taking the death of our dad as a lesson and talk him into focusing on forming good habits as a young and prospective pal. But instead, she only said to him, “Don’t go outside and let the neighbors then, just smoke at home. ”   After I got married and moved out, my brother’s behavior worsened. He started staying out all night, and before long, he got into drugs. It was also me who found he was using meth, because I noticed how erratic and irritable he’d become. Before, when I talk to him and he got impatient he would say, “Sister, I know,”  but then he was yelling, “Shut up! Don’t you talk to me like that!” I felt strange and wondered what has changed him, so I searched his room and found his drugs. These drugs surely made him broke and owing a lot of money. My mom sold our family’s old house, our only home, with the original plan to buy a new one near my home, where the environment is good, and price is also good. But before I knew it, she gave half the money to my brother to pay off the debts. My mom rented a small house instead of buying, which didn’t bother me too much at first—after all, as long as we were together and I still get a place to go to, I still have a home.   But until I got pregnant, my mom always talked about her finding a new partner, something I couldn’t understand. I often voiced my frustration directly to her, and she would get defensive, saying, “I’m doing this for the family, for you and your brother. It’s hard to support everything on my own…”   Eventually, my mom remarried. She met someone before I got pregnant, and after they got married, she moved into his place and ended the lease of the other house. That was the moment I realized I no longer had a home to go back to. The feeling of being a floating puffball that had begun with my dad’s death intensified. My mom’s remarriage made it clear—I had nowhere to go. If something happened between I and my husband, there wouldn’t even be a place for me to retreat to.   I don’t harbor resentment toward them—my mom or my brother. I just didn’t know how to face them for a while. My brother, despite everything, had always been good to me. I remember one time we had meal together, and he drank a bit, he turned to me and said, “Sis, you know what? If not because of the law and order thing, my brother-in-law would have been taken care of, by me.” He was talking about my husband, who had been almost entirely absent in childcare for the three years after the babies were born. My brother saw it, and he had a lot of sympathy for me.   I always tried to keep him grounded, telling him, “Don’t ever do anything rash. The one who deals the first blow loses out.” Things have not reached that point, but I knew if push came to shove, my brother would definitely stand up for me.   Now, my brother has been clean and out of drugs for a long time, also working normally, which I have great admiration for.     Living in the Moment   Sometimes, separation is better than staying together and torturing each other. My husband and I haven’t divorced, and neither of us has brought it up. He focuses on his business, and we live our own lives without interfering each other.   It’s been three years since the pandemic, and three years since my twin sons were born. When I married my husband, part of the appeal was that he didn’t smoke or drink. But somewhere during these three years, he picked up smoking. My friends tried to console me it’s probably his way of coping with stress, and I’ve tried to understand. After all, it’s not like he has done anything worse.   This current state of separation is the best thing for us. He usually stays at his parents' house, and when we do see each other, it almost always ends up with quarrels. We’re both so on edge that we can’t get through a conversation without it turning into a fight. That kind of tension isn’t good for the kids, so it’s better for me to live on my own. Even the kids don’t like going to their grandparents’ place because they sense the constant conflict.   Right now, all I can do is pull myself out of the shadows. I’ve become the manager of the first local swing music club, and it’s been a lifeline. Combining swing dancing with drama and musicals, the club is finally taking shape. Working with people who share my passion has brought new joy and inspiration into my life.   I’m also working as a life insurance financial planner. My team leader is a fantastic person who told me something that really stuck with me. He said, “You’ve got an aloof personality, and that might not be the easiest fit for this industry, but please don’t change yourself. You’ll attract people who are on the same wavelength as you, and you just need to make friends with them. Don’t try to change yourself just to fit in.” That advice resonated with me. I am never willing to change my edges and corners, I even use this lyric from my brother’s song as my social media signature: “I am me, a firework of a different color.”   Motherhood has changed me in so many ways. I’ve always had spiky personality, but having kids somewhat altered it. I’m made more empathetic, more able to put myself in others’ shoes. I’ve become more understanding, more open-hearted. Where I used to see things only from my perspective, I can now approach life with a sense of calm and tolerance that I never had before. My children have made my heart softer, and I’m grateful for that.   These past three years have been incredibly challenging, but I’ve made it through.   What storm could possibly shatter me in the future?