ECHOES OF EMPATHY:
SERENDIPITOUS ACTS OF KINDNESS

I’ve always felt fortunate to have been able to surround myself with people who  were so loving, kind, and generous. It was something that became even more apparent to me… when I decided to remove myself from every single one of those people and fly across the ocean to live in the Netherlands.
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The exciting sparkle of being in a new place had me under a spell. I felt determined and invigorated to really integrate into my new home. During my first week, I decided to try and find things I’d ordinarily do back home, so I signed up for a fitness membership and took a modern dance class one evening at a studio near my apartment.

On the day of the dance class, I walked into the building and was greeted by an empty lobby with the exception of one other woman sitting at a table. I quietly sat across from her, trying not to draw attention to myself. She looked up and asked me something in very, very fast Dutch. Flustered, I responded that I didn’t speak Dutch – a response I’d get too comfortable saying in my years living there. She politely switched to English, “Are you also here for the class?” I told her I was, and we started to chat.

“Where are you from?”
“I’m from Toronto!”

Her eyebrows raised after hearing this, and raised a little bit higher when I told her I had arrived only a few days prior.

The conversation came to a halt when we were invited into the studio by our dance instructor. We then proceeded to have the strangest hour in what was basically a private dance lesson, as nobody else joined… The artistic soul who taught the class kept us after the allotted time, insistent on teaching us the rest of the choreo, hoping that these two random women were going to bring her creative vision to life.

After wiggling around in a quiet dance studio with this stranger, some sort of bond formed between us. When the class ended, we chatted a bit more outside the studio. She told me her name, and offered to exchange phone numbers in case I had questions about Rotterdam, or if I wanted to take another class in the future.

My heart soared. I felt like I’d hit the jackpot. I’ve been here for three days and I’ve already possibly made one friend?! Living here is gonna be so easy. I agreed, trying to temper my enthusiasm so as to not scare away this potential new friend. When she returned my phone back to me, I noticed she’d forgotten to put in her phone number and had only given me her name. I panicked.

Do I play it cool and just let this go? Should I ask her again? Do people not give their phone numbers here? My mind raced. Without trying to seem too desperate, I scrunched my face up into the most casual but confused expression I could muster. “Oh, I think you forgot your phone number?”
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She looked at the phone, “Ah, I’m so sorry!”, and punched in her phone number before handing it back to me. I looked at the new contact information and gleefully thought to myself, Did I just make my first friend?!

I am so grateful to this stranger who allowed herself to be open to this random person from Toronto… because little did either of us know, after that modern dance class, a beautiful and special friendship was blooming.

When the sparkle of being in a new place settled and each day felt less like a holiday, the shadow of loneliness crept in a bit closer. It was a confusing balance of emotions – being vulnerable and putting myself out there to make new friends, while also feeling isolated but unable to communicate with anyone as it felt too personal.

I consistently saw my new friend from the dance class almost weekly. We’d take different fitness classes around the city (never taking that modern dance class again), getting to know each other a bit more after each 60-minute session. Eventually, we started having dinner after some classes. Then a little after that, we’d go to each other’s places to make dinner together. During those meals, we began to talk more openly about ourselves and sharing stories from our lives, connecting about shared experiences and feelings. Before I knew it, our friendship grew and we were fixtures in each other's lives.

Cultivating friendships as an adult is special – choosing to spend time together because you acknowledge your life is better with them around, not just because they happen to be there. It inherently requires kindness to welcome someone into your already full and complete life.

This friendship became a central part of my life in the Netherlands. I am so fortunate for that small moment of kindness, where she took a chance and gave a stranger in a new place the opportunity to connect. Despite that moment of naivety where I thought things would be easy, the rhythm of life is relentless and I experienced my fair share of ups and downs in the years I spent there. However turbulent things became, my friend, that sweet person from that dance class, was always steady and loved me consistently.

Emotionally supporting me after having my heart broken, driving me home from the hospital after I was in an accident, inviting me to holiday dinners with her family, taking long walks to ruminate about life, indulging in all sorts of foods that were bad for the body but good for the soul (for the Dutch, vadsig), down to those final days where we packed up my apartment in tears, and our even more tearful farewell at the airport before my flight back to Canada.
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I’m so glad I took that random modern dance class and our paths crossed. She has left an indelible mark on me, and our friendship is one I hold very close to my heart. I am so thankful for that small gesture of taking the time to exchange numbers after class. She could have easily hopped on her bike to head home after a long day (and bizarre dance class), but instead stayed to chat with a stranger. That gesture has led to years of mutual care and love for one another, a friendship that now endures the test of borders and time differences. That act of kindness has encouraged me to give time and warmth to those who may be trying to find home in a new place. Because that same kindness and warmth welcomed me into someone’s life, which is a gift I’ll never take for granted.

The rain poured down in relentless sheets as I sprinted toward the yoga studio after a work meeting ran late, my umbrella forgotten in the rush of the morning. By the time I reached the door, I was drenched, my clothes clinging uncomfortably to my skin. I rushed inside, feeling the weight of my lateness and knowing I would likely miss the start of the class.
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Inside, the studio’s warmth was a welcome relief from the chill outside. As I hurriedly changed, I realized my damp clothes and work backpack wouldn’t fit in the locker. Panicked, I tried using two lockers, but one wouldn’t lock, and my anxiety grew as time slipped away.
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Frustrated, I gathered all my belongings and approached the front desk, sheepishly asking if they could store my things. The young woman working at the reception was around my age. She smiled kindly and agreed without hesitation. Despite her calm demeanor, I still felt embarrassed as I handed over my soggy trousers, socks, blazer, shirt, bra, and heavy backpack, apologetically expressing my gratitude. The clothes were a damp, wrinkled heap—something anyone might find unpleasant to handle.
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I dashed off to class, my mind still racing with the events of the past hour. As I moved through the poses, the rhythm of my breath began to steady. Yet, my thoughts kept drifting back to the kind stranger at the desk. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had imposed on her with my disheveled mess, and I shivered at the thought about walking home in wet clothes, hoping they wouldn’t be too smelly.
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After class, I returned to the front desk to collect my things. The young woman smiled as she brought me around to where she had stored them. To my surprise, she hadn’t just dropped my belongings on the floor in a corner out of sight. Instead, she had placed my backpack carefully on a chair, rather than on the floor, and had laid out all my damp clothes flat and neatly on top of her own duffle bag. Each item was arranged with such care, drying them out as much as possible while I was in class.
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For a moment, I was speechless. The sight of my drenched things, handled with such care, deeply moved me. This was more than just a simple favour; it was an unexpected act of empathy. She had taken what many would see as an inconvenience and had turned it into a gesture of kindness that warmed me on such a cold, dreary day.
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In that moment, the chilly world outside, still wet from the rain, seemed a little brighter. An unexpected act of care from a stranger had filled me with a sense of connection that I hadn’t realized I needed. It wasn’t just the act itself, but the intention behind it—the thoughtfulness, the understanding—that resonated with me.
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As I thanked her, I realized that this moment would stay with me, a reminder that in a world often filled with fleeting interactions, an act of empathy could leave an enduring impression—in ways I might never fully understand.

For fifteen years, I have worked at the same school on the traditional territories of Tkaronto. All my students are adults and almost all of them are newcomers to this land. As part of the commitment to Truth and Reconciliation, Understanding Contemporary First Nations, Métis, and Inuit Voices is now a mandatory course for all grade eleven students in the Toronto District School Board. This past year I was asked to think of meaningful ways to include Indigenous wisdom and stories in my classroom. 

Despite holding academic degrees and having professional careers in their home countries, my students’ credentials and work experience count for nothing in Canada. So they’re back in the classroom, studying to complete credits for an Ontario Secondary School Diploma. At the same time, many are learning to read, write, and speak in English. 

I am deeply sympathetic to my students because decades ago, my Hakka Chinese parents also immigrated to this land from Jamaica. Just like my mother and father, the people at my school are immensely grateful to be here. More importantly, they are deeply compassionate and can express love in ways I’ve never encountered before. Sometimes, when I feel the flow of generosity that comes from their hearts opening, I will cry. 

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During the first week in my English class, I paired students together who may not know each other very well. I asked them to walk around the school property and find a good view of the trees. Then they must talk to each other about any personal memories they have of trees. Before they left the classroom, I hollered at them, “Introduce yourselves to each other and the trees! Be kind! Don’t forget to talk to the trees!” 

After this exercise, one of the last couples to return to class was Paul, a young man from China, and Mariam, a woman in her fifties from Iran. They had never spoken to each other before. 


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One bright morning, I drew nothing but a huge circle and triangle on the board. Students copied these shapes in their notebooks. There are a lot of drawings in my class: pictures of animals, the rising sun, the moon, emojis, fantastical cartoons. Pages of student notebooks might be filled with drawings before you find any words recorded. 

I posed two questions for discussion: 

‍What is a hierarchy? 

What is a cycle? 

‍A Jamaican man defined a hierarchy as a ranking system and explained how the military is organized. A Colombian woman explained a cycle as a process whereby things work together toward a common outcome; a cycle’s beginning and ending repeats over and over. 

Next, I asked: 

‍Are humans more important than trees? 

‍Almost immediately the discussion became heated. Voices were raised and fists banged against tables. Cell phones lit up for quick online research. A cacophony of Arabic, Tigrinya, Persian, Spanish, Amharic, and Chinese reached decibel levels. Spoken English was abandoned. 

After a quick class survey, we found half the class believed we are more important than trees; the other half was convinced trees are considerably more important. These results prompted some students to take a tone of accusation. Others tried their best to be conciliatory and offered clarity. A few were quick to point out how the definitions of hierarchies and cycles informed our opinions. An impassioned debate lasted the entire two-hour class. 


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Robin Wall Kimmerer, a Potawtomi scientist and professor, writes in her seminal book, Braiding Sweetgrass, that The Haudenosaunee Thanksgiving Address “is at heart an invocation of gratitude, but it also a material, scientific inventory of the natural world.” In my class, when we read the Thanksgiving Address, I ask students to stand as we recite the words together. In the rhythm of knowledge from time immemorial, and with the cadence of our choral voices, everyone becomes mesmerized. 

After the final declaration, “Now our minds are one,” a woman from Afghanistan put her hand against her heart, “I can feel this here.” Eyes glistened and heads nodded in solemn agreement. 

Yet, Kimmerer is frank about the reality of the way in which we live and how challenging it is to resist the forces that support the hierarchy of our own design: “...in a consumer society, contentment is a radical proposition. Recognizing abundance rather than scarcity undermines an economy that thrives by creating unmet desires.” 

Before walking out of the room when the class was over, an Eritrean man stopped to draw a small triangle on the board. He stabbed the shape with his finger and looked at me gravely, “We’re trapped in here.” 


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Paul patiently waited beside me while I finished taking attendance. When I was done, I smiled at him. He put his hand on his chin and cocked his head. “I want to ask a question,” he ventured, “but not about school.” 

I thought he needed help making a guidance appointment or applying for a coveted parking permit. But Paul bent his head closer to mine and in a hushed voice asked, “Why do you cry so much?” With a deadpan expression on his face, he straightened his spine and he took one step back. 

In an instant, a flash of anger rose in me. How dare he ask me something so intimate. Sure, I can be a little weepy sometimes, but why not? We hear moving stories and brilliant insights every day. Isn’t it our purpose to explore ideas with our minds and hearts? 

My eyes narrowed when another thought crossed my mind. Would Paul ask such a question to another teacher of a different race? Was he entitled to take a loose liberty that existed between us because we were both Chinese? Was that the look of mockery or curiosity on his face? 

Setting aside my indignation, I decided to err on the side of caution. 

“Paul,” I began gently, “do you ever cry?”

 “Me?” he pointed to himself and shook his head, “No way! I don’t cry.” 

I asked him to pass me his notebook and opened it to a blank page. There, I drew a heart. Inside the heart I wrote one word, “OPEN.” 

“I don’t understand,” he confessed. 

“I cry because I can feel something in my heart. Show us your heart,” I implored. 

With that, Paul returned to his seat, studying what I had drawn as if it were a tricky algebra problem we just solved. 


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At the end of the term, as a ceremonial act of reciprocity, I invite students to bring a gift that symbolizes their appreciation for any person, work, or element of nature they encountered in our class. We sit in a circle and one by one each student explains their object and shares words of gratitude. 

An Ethiopian woman made artwork from traditional coffee beans and thanked the lessons learned from Haudenosaunee elders, Sydney Hill and Owen Lyons. A man from Yemen showed us a picture of the moon and sang thanks in Arabic to Sky Woman, the Indigenous creation story retold by Kay Olan. And Paul? He brought in a bottle of Coca-Cola. 

I wasn’t the only one with raised eyebrows when it was Paul’s turn to speak. He held the bottle over his head and asked a rhetorical question, “What is this?” One person shouted, “I’m thirsty!” We all chuckled. Paul went on to explain that the drink represents the top of the capitalist hierarchy. Everyone in the world can enjoy a Coke and the company gains huge profit. We, the consumers, are at the very bottom of the hierarchy, feeding a big monster that loves money. 

Paul said he wanted to rebrand the drink as a way to subvert the hierarchy of economy and reframe the product within the paradigm of cyclical reciprocity. How? He recalled the conversation he had with Mariam, the woman from Iran. They had walked around the school together and stopped at a sixth-floor window where they could see the beautiful trees along the Don Valley Parkway. Mariam told him she was undergoing cancer treatment. During the endless hours she spends at the hospital, Mariam can do nothing else but look out the window at the trees. The trees give her comfort and strength. She has seen them through the seasons, and in the winter when they’ve lost their leaves, she knows for certain that the spring will come and life will emerge anew. The trees give her hope. 

Paul walked across the room and pressed the bottle of Coke into Mariam’s open hands. She bowed graciously, took the gift, and hugged him tightly. 

“Now,” Paul said, “when you see a Coke, you will always think of Mariam and her hope. You will thank the trees.” 

There wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Paul sat down and wiped the tears from his own eyes. On the last day of class, Paul showed us his heart.


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Close to the end of term, another survey was conducted. The results changed dramatically: over 90% of the class believed trees are more important than humans. With guidance from Indigenous Knowledge Keepers, their stories and wisdom, we gained an understanding that humans and trees exist within a cycle where empathy, reciprocity, and gratitude can repeat over and over again. 

I was heartbroken and downcast, playing a loop of memories over and over
Stumbling into a bookstore to focus on anything but
You are signing books in the midst of live piano music
“Wait a minute, I’ve met you before,” I say, as I snap to the here and now. “Five years ago.”

“The book’s research checks out,” I remark, five years ago
I refrain from sharing what felt like the death of a dream
Disheartened and torn, playing a loop of decisions on end

The piano music slaps
“What helped last time?” you ask
“Time.”
“Just wait, just wait” - for it to feel better, you reply. “This book is on me.”
You scratch a note on staying awesome

Two years later, heartbroken and hopeful, I am playing a new loop

Thank you for the book on happiness
It sits on my coffee table and I will read it now

When you’re used to caring for others, whether it be friendships or family,
you forget to give yourself the same kind of attention. You get caught up in making sure that they are okay.
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“Have you eaten?”  
“Remember to drink water.”  
“It’s okay, they don’t deserve you.”  
“She didn’t have enough positive attention when she was younger, so she seeks it out in others now.” “We should feel sorry for him, he went through trauma.”
“I’m here for you.”
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You start to wonder if anyone will give you the same energy. You wonder if the people in your life are only your friends because you give them what they need, and when they’re done they disappear.
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The first time I experienced true empathy was after a tragic lesbian heartbreak.  
It was the last night of December when I finally said “goodbye”. It was snowing when I left her on the subway platform.
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Everything, from the weather to the timing, was like a Taylor Swift song, or a poorly written Korean drama from the early 2000’s. How was I ever going to move on? I didn’t know if I could, and I was stuck… I was so used to handling things by myself that I would bottle my feelings in.  
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“Other people are going through things that are more difficult.”  
“I don’t want to burden people with my issues.”
“They won’t care.”  
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But I was tired. Something inside me broke that night.  
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After years of trying to be strong and believing no one would be there for me… I was tired of fighting. I finally fell apart and allowed myself to cry in front of my friends. It was then that I felt surrounded by kindness and warmth. No words needed to be exchanged, but I was grateful.
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“Here drink some water. Hydrate, you’ve been crying a lot.”
“Did you have anything to eat yet?”
“How are you feeling?”
“Do you want a hug?”
“Honestly, fuck her, she didn’t deserve you.”
“When you get married, we’ll be the ones who are at the altar with you, not her.”
“It’s New Year’s Eve, time to let old baggage go!”
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I had an epiphany and made a sudden connection the next day after a night of drinking and munching on grapes. For anyone to receive the love and care that they need, they also need to have enough empathy for themselves to be open to receiving the same level of empathy from others. That’s why having a community around you in times of distress is so important. I had blocked off my emotions, because I didn’t have a close community around me. In turn, I didn’t want strangers to see me at my most vulnerable.  
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But it’s not strangers you need attention and empathy from.  
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It’s from your friends and chosen family, the ones who you allow into your space.
Those who are privileged enough to share your joy and sadness.
And most of all, it’s from Yourself, the one who will always be with You.
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“I can finally allow myself to receive the love and empathy that I deserve.”

“To everyone who still dreams in the city” - Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore
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        On a scorching hot summer day, the provincial government unceremoniously closed the Ontario Science Centre without warning. This move sent shock waves throughout the city of Toronto because the Science Centre has been a beloved institution for decades. It was a community hub and a much-needed recreational space for families and science lovers. The closure signals a move towards darkness, away from knowledge and enlightenment, for many in the city.
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        This loss hurts. Like many Torontonians, I carry fond childhood memories of running through those grand hallways. Watching adrenaline-rushing movies in the state-of-the-art theatre. Riding down those enormous escalators that seem to never end, as they descended deeper and deeper into the forested ravines that surround the building. There’s a sort of joyful magic that the structure holds.
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        The site is a true beauty of Canadian post-war architecture. Raw and brutalist, while comforting and organic at the same time. It was a building so well crafted to be in harmony with the surrounding Don Valley trails. It was unapologetically utopian in its vision, back from an era when it was acceptable to be boldly optimistic about the future. It’s a building whose architecture dares its visitors to dream and to dream big. In this way, it manages to be honest and unpretentious. It is an ambitious emotional affect that’s difficult to pull off without coming across as tacky.
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        There, a child could gaze at the stars in the space exhibition and dare to dream. As a teen, my friends and I even went back on youth nights to explore the halls after dark. Like many folks, I hold many fond and precious memories of the Ontario Science Centre. It was always worth the long transit trip, riding on the 25 Don Mills bus from Pape subway station. What a journey!
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        But this place serves so much more than just a museum. For me especially, it holds great emotional significance. That’s because Raymond Moriyama, the architect of the Ontario Science Centre, comes from the same place my family comes from. We are both products of the internment camp system that many Japanese-Canadians were subjected to during the Second World War. A harsh time in which we experienced being expelled to the deep interior of rural British Columbia. An event in which personal assets were seized by the government and many families were separated across different camps.
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        I think about this a lot. How my grandparents were able to arrive in Ontario after the camps, with no money to their name, and build a legacy that included purchasing a comfortable mid-century bungalow in Scarborough Ontario as well as a large loving family. The irony is that I, someone born with full civil rights*, do not live in a time in which the material conditions to buy property in Toronto is possible. I am two generations post-internment, and my economic prospects feel bleak.
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        Like-wise, Moriyama could attend both the University of Toronto and McGill to study architecture. Despite the prejudices of the time, he was able to pursue his passion for learning. Then, as a young professional fresh out of school, Moriyama would go on to design and create some of the most iconic buildings in Canadian history. I question if any civic project would take on such a bold and young architect today. Does anyone in this country still value ambition and creative drive the way they used to in the post-war years?
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        Within this context, the motif of radical dreaming becomes even more paramount. We as a society need magnificent modern architectural monuments that dare us to imagine a better tomorrow. To be unburdened by the past. To not have a violent history of segregation and internment camps define oneself. To not have to carry the psychological burden of a dark historical chapter. Instead, we currently live under a regime that is happy to tear down such monuments.
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        Like many of Raymond Moriyama’s buildings, the Science Centre was meant to be a bold symbol of progress. It was meant to be a physical representation of our country's transition from a frontier colonial, built off of stolen land and white supremacy, into a dynamic multicultural democratic nation. Although we are a nation that came from the horrors of British and French imperialism, we can dare to be so much more than that. The values Moriyama’s aesthetic represented such as social justice, democracy, multiculturalism, and community, are all virtues that present-day society desperately needs more of.
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        Why as a city do we not value our architecture? It feels as though Toronto does not care about culture or any form of historical preservation. We would call out the insanity if Paris were to demolish the Eiffel Tower, or if Barcelona were to build a casino inside the Sagrada Família. Yet, that is what’s happening in Toronto in regards to the Science Centre. It feels like so much of this city has been torn down to make way for new luxury condos. Large ugly glass buildings built off of capital speculation, with boring unimaginative architecture; alienated from any sense of history or uniqueness. This is the outcome of a cartel-like business, a small elite handful of real estate developers that gate-keep the architectural style. The result is generic-looking buildings filling the Toronto skyline. If only someone at city hall had the vision to mandate something more inspiring for the masses. We shouldn’t have to be subject to such depressing towers.
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        It’s not unreasonable to speculate on the effects this regressive trend is having on people's mental health. There’s a great austerity of depression that has blanketed our era. A sort of detached ironic nihilism seems to be in vogue right now. All over Toronto, as well as across the zeitgeist.
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        Is this not the city of Jane Jacobs? An urban hub where radical grassroots activism happens? A metropolis that is supposedly proud of its diverse multiculturalism? What happened to our political moxy?
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        I’m worried that with the rise of far-right populism and creeping authoritarianism around the world that we are entering a dark age. One that the late philosopher Mark Fisher predicted known as Capitalist Realism, a reality in which money rules all, from a personal psyche to our collective urbanism. Where the future has been canceled. The vision of modern progressivism was erased and then replaced by a detached ironic nihilism. It’s a toxic mental state that’s part cowardliness, part angst, and that does nothing but discourage human imagination. A voidful emptiness that consumes all.
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        I remember meeting Raymond Moriyama at the Japanese Canadian Cultural Centre, right before he passed away. The community had organized a public talk for the elder to give. While sitting in his chair in the community center’s large conference hall, he held a playful demeanor, yet carried a wise oriental stoicism. I asked Moriyama if he had any message that he would like to share with the next generation. His message was that of hope. He continued to encourage the youth to keep on dreaming, and not to worry so much about money. That visionary spirit of progress will be the Moriyama legacy. An architectural philosophy that centers on the dignity of human life.
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        In the end, I guess it all comes back to mourning. Saying goodbye to the Ontario Science Centre, saying goodbye to the naive dreams we have in childhood, and saying goodbye to the late Moriyama. So long to the vision of what could have been; the park within a city, the idealized utopia of Toronto that now only exists in ghostly memories. Yet, death also opens an opportunity for rebirth. The wheel of samsara keeps on turning, despite any government policy. Now is the time for the next generation to take on that ultimate challenge; the challenge to dare to hope for a better future.

*Japanese Canadians gained voting rights in 1949, the Charter of Rights and Freedoms was signed in 1982, The Canadian Human Rights Act was signed in 1985, The Canadian Multiculturalism Act was signed in 1988, the Redress Act was signed in 1988, and the British Columbia Redress Act in 2022.