One year ago, at our Earth Day beach cleanup in Vancouver, she was already among us.
That day, by the ocean, we wore gloves, held litter pickers, and kept our heads down as we picked up bits of trash from the beach, one by one. Perhaps we had passed each other. Perhaps we had stood in the same sea breeze. Perhaps, not far from each other, we had both bent down to do the same small thing.
But at that time, I did not know her yet.
To me then, she was simply a quiet figure in the crowd. I did not know who she was. I did not know what her smile looked like. I did not know that one day in the future, she would slowly come closer to me, become part of our little community, and find a place in many people's hearts.
We truly became familiar with each other near the end of last year.
At a gathering close to Christmas, she carefully prepared small holiday gifts for everyone. She also brought nuts she had roasted herself, along with a little hand-care gift. One by one, they were small, simple, and warm.
They were not just snacks or gifts picked up casually. They were little pieces of care, prepared with her time, her thoughtfulness, and her heart.
She did not say anything overly sentimental. But those carefully prepared gifts seemed to speak for her:
I remember you.
I treasure the time we spend together.
Later, through each gathering and each small moment together, I began to see her more clearly. And little by little, I realized that her kindness was never just on the surface.
She makes cupcakes that are both beautiful and delicious. But what touches me even more than the cupcakes themselves is the care she puts into every detail. To keep them fresh and intact, she layers ice packs carefully, then places everything into an insulated bag, as if she is protecting something precious. She even chooses forks that match the cupcakes, thinking about details as small as their metallic finish.
Sometimes, you do not need to hear someone say whether they truly care about others.
You only need to see how they prepare a box of cupcakes.
She is also always doing her best to help members who need support. She prints all kinds of promotional materials herself, quietly taking on the small, tedious, easily overlooked tasks one by one. She once gave me a transparent hard-shell case for holding a doll, like a little display capsule. It was beautiful, sturdy, and just right.
That moment touched me deeply.
Because it was not something given casually. It was something that showed she had truly noticed what I needed, and had truly kept it in her heart.
Some people's kindness is bold and dramatic. Hers is gentle and detailed, like a small lamp in winter: not dazzling, but always glowing.
At first, you may not notice it. But when you look back, you realize that she was there in so many moments when someone was quietly cared for.
On the day of the Sun Run, she happened to be with me.
My knee hurt. My foot hurt too. As expected, I really could not run at all, and could only walk slowly. She could have run faster. She could have gone farther. She had the energy, and she had the ability.
But that day, she did not leave us behind.
She stayed with us and walked slowly.
Step by step, she completed a route that could have been lighter, faster, and more exhilarating for her.
Even now, when I think about it, my heart still softens. Because real companionship is sometimes not someone saying, "I support you." It is someone who could have gone faster, but chose to slow down for you.
Her work is not easy, and she often has to work even on weekends. But every time I see her, she carries that sweet, optimistic smile, like a bright, living beam of light. It feels as though she keeps the hardship for herself and brings smiles to others; hides her tiredness behind her, and places warmth in front of everyone else.
At Vancouver Shengmi, we often say that we hope to turn shared love into kindness, and turn connection into action.
She is exactly that kind of person.
She may not always stand at the front. She may not always be the one who speaks the most. But she appears when people need her. She takes care of small things with quiet thoughtfulness. She remembers needs that others may have only mentioned casually.
With a box of cupcakes, a small gift, a stack of printed materials, a transparent case, and a slow walk completed together, she quietly tells us:
I am here.
I see you.
You are not alone.
I hope that next time she joins the Sun Run, she can run more freely, more lightly, and more joyfully. I hope she can care for herself as gently as she cares for others.
And I hope she knows that what she has brought us is not only nuts, cupcakes, gifts, and help.
What she has brought us is something deeply precious: the feeling that in this city, amid the rush of everyday life, there really is someone who is willing to keep you close to her heart.
And that is what a community feels like at its warmest.