Find that secret space that is just yours...
Belonging is one of the quietest yet most powerful human needs.
It is the feeling of being seen without having to perform, of being accepted without having to explain. It is not simply being present — it is being able to participate, to influence, and to feel that our presence makes a difference.
But belonging is not a privilege handed to us like a chair at the table. Because even when we are seated, if we cannot speak or be heard, our voices still go unheard.
True belonging begins not from what is given to us, but from what grows within us — from self-confidence, self-worth, and the courage to show up authentically.
Below are little moments captured in words at
Little Saigon San Diego
Silent protector
There is a volunteer who helps Little Saigon make mooncakes for the community every year.
Because she doesn't speak English, she often relied on a young man who lives next door to help her read letters, call the bank, take care of everyday matters, pay bills, and assist with many little things. She always compensates him for his help.
Recently, she discovered that money had been withdrawn from her bank account—first $50 a month for many months, then $100, and eventually $1,500. She asked Little Saigon to help her change her online banking password to protect her account.
She does not want to report him to the police. She said he is still young, and she does not want this incident to affect his future.
What do you think?
Perhaps there are many people around us who are quietly protecting us without our ever realizing it. There are acts of forgiveness that go unseen, sacrifices that go unnoticed, and kindness that is never spoken of.
Would you take a 7 year-old child?
A few years ago, we had a volunteer who helped remodel our office, build storage cabinets, and collect trash during the Lunar New Year Festival.
He was Amerasian.
Growing up in Vietnam, he was discriminated against because he looked different. He was never given the opportunity to receive a formal education and remained unable to read or write, even in his own language.
He immigrated to the United States nearly 50 years ago. But because he could not read or write, he couldn't even get a driver's license, let alone pass the U.S. citizenship test.
Then, during a recent period of increased immigration enforcement, he asked if Little Saigon could take in his seven-year-old child.
No.
Morally or legally, we could not take in a child.
Later, we learned that he had left town. Perhaps he was in hiding.
Healthcare Enrollment
One of our volunteers worked at the same manufacturing company for many years. She didn't speak English.
Every October, a coworker helped her renew her health insurance. They did this together year after year.
Eventually, that coworker retired.
Not knowing how to complete the renewal on her own, her health insurance was canceled.
Some time later, she became very sick. Her body began to swell. She went to see a doctor but was unable to receive treatment because she no longer had health insurance.
She went home and endured the pain until she couldn't anymore.
One day, her sister walked her into our office.
The moment we saw her, we told her to go straight to the emergency room.
She was hospitalized for nearly a month.
Doctors discovered that she had a chronic disease that had severely attacked her kidneys.
Today, she is much weaker than she used to be. Yet every year, she still comes to help make mooncakes and volunteers at the Lunar New Year Festival.
Chinese New Year
Last year, while we were setting up the Lunar New Year Festival, an older Caucasian man walked over and told us that we should not be celebrating the Chinese New Year here.
"This isn't China," he said.
Some of our volunteers became upset. They argued back.
As I listened, I realized we were having two completely different conversations.
We were thinking about a cultural celebration.
He was thinking about geopolitics.
To him, this wasn't about food, music, or traditions.
He believed China was expanding its influence around the world. In his mind, he wasn't confronting a community festival. He believed he was protecting his country—our country, our home.
A funny story
During the first days of the COVID-19 pandemic, when everyone thought the 2 weeks shutdown, while Little Saigon was busy sewing facial masks, we also operated a small call center.
One day, a husband called us and said he couldn't breathe.
His wife believed the virus was in the air and insisted that every window and door in their home remain tightly sealed. They had been living that way for several days, and he felt like he was suffocating.
We tried to explain that they needed fresh air. A doctor from the community also called to speak with her. After four or five phone calls from different people, she finally agreed to let him open the window just a little.
Another COVID story
During COVID, one of our volunteers came to us because she was worried about a friend.
Her friend lived alone and had become very sick. She had gone to see a doctor, but the wait was nearly three hours, so she went home instead.
The volunteer had been bringing her food, but she noticed that her friend was barely eating anymore. Both women were in their seventies. Neither of them drove or had reliable transportation.
We decided to go straight to the emergency room.
As suspected, she had COVID.
A man with no teeth
A few years ago, there was a homeless man who would occasionally appear in front of our office. He had no teeth.
Unlike many people living on the streets, he didn't push a shopping cart or carry bags of belongings. He seemed to own almost nothing at all. Some days he wore a T-shirt. Other days he wore a dress. Sometimes he wandered the streets wearing only his underwear.
Most of the time, he appeared mentally unsound, often living in his own world and speaking gibberish. But every so often, there would be a brief moment of clarity. During those moments, I could make out a few words and catch a glimpse of the person he might once have been.
He was gentle and well-mannered. His vocabulary was thoughtful—like that of a highly educated, well-respected man.
The first time we met, he was sitting in front of the only entrance to our office. I asked if he would mind moving so I could get inside. In return, I gave him a bottle of water.
The next time he came by, I gave him some cookies.
Another time, I noticed he wasn't properly dressed, so I found him a clean T-shirt left over from our Lunar New Year event.
A few days later, he returned. We had just finished a children's outdoor field trip, so we had a few leftover items. I gave him two bottles of water, three bananas, and a few muffins, knowing he had no teeth.
As I closed the office door, I glanced at the surveillance camera. I saw him eat a little, then share the bananas and muffins with another homeless man who happened to walk by. The second man was Vietnamese, mentally sound, and spoke only Vietnamese.
I once heard a speaker say:
"No one is too poor to give, and no one is too rich to receive."
You would think a homeless man with no teeth and an unsound mind would have nothing to give.
But he did.
He still had kindness.
And he gave it away freely, expecting nothing in return.
Sometimes we, who have a roof over our heads, food on our tables, and clothes on our backs, forget that kindness is often the easiest thing we have to offer.
The next time he came by, he asked for a sandwich.
Since this is an office and didn't usually have food available, I walked down the street and bought him two cheeseburgers.
That became our little ritual.
This was winter, whenever he stopped by, I bought him two cheeseburgers. He also loved coffee. He didn't seem to like tea or hot chocolate.
One day, I watched him bow to an inflatable Santa Claus and feed Santa coffee.
Around that same time, he brought me two bags of expensive chocolate, still sealed in their original packaging. I looked them up online later. 😊
I refused at first--worried he might have felt obligated to take them from somewhere.
But he insisted.
So I accepted one bag and shared it with everyone at our Saturday Coffee & Friends gathering. I asked him to keep the other bag for himself.
Then one day, he came while we were hosting an event at the office. There were many people inside. Afraid the attendees might not understand him, I gently asked him to come back later.
He did.
One day, I was working against a deadline. I had locked the office door so I could focus without interruptions.
He came.
He knocked.
Then he pulled aggressively on the door handle.
I heard him.
But I didn't get up.
I didn't open the door.
That was the last time he came by.
I still keep one piece of the chocolate he gave me, hoping that one day he might come back.
Sometimes, I revisit that moment and ask myself:
What if I had opened the door?
What if I had chosen to stay in the discomfort just a little longer?
Would our little ritual have continued?
Would anyone be willing to listen?
About ten years ago, when the San Diego Lunar New Year Festival was still held at Qualcomm Stadium (now Snapdragon Stadium).
It was during festival setup. Everyone else was at the festival site while I stayed behind at the office, working alone.
A man in his thirties or forties walked into the office. He said another local nonprofit had referred him to us.
He told me his wife would not let him see their daughter.
A simple family dispute, I thought.
Then he began to explain.
According to him, everything started after a car accident.
The accident, he said, awakened a hidden memory. He had discovered a secret about the world of the gods—a truth that had been hidden from him his entire life. Before the accident, the gods had used their powers to block that part of his memory. But once he remembered, they sent their soldiers to Earth to take his life.
Then he told me what had happened at work.
It began with what sounded like a cultural misunderstanding. A joke offended one of his female coworkers, and his supervisor instructed him to apologize.
But when he approached her, he realized she was no longer his coworker.
She had been replaced by an imposter.
So he violently attacked her.
He was fired.
Later, he went to his daughter's elementary school to pick her up.
He saw a woman sitting in a car.
He immediately recognized her as another imposter.
He believed she had come to kidnap his daughter in order to get to him.
So he grabbed a baseball bat and attacked the car.
By then, the police were looking for him.
At that moment, I thought:
What if, at any moment, he decided that I was an imposter too?
I tried everything I could think of to keep the conversation calm. I offered him water. I offered him snacks. I did everything I could think of to increase the chances that I would walk out of that room alive.
Then I remembered. My phone! It was charging under my desk.
I secretly sent a text message to a friend, asking him to come to the office. I even asked him to bring something that could be used for protection.
He came with an umbrella.
Fortunately, the moment my friend walked into the office, the man quietly decided to leave.
Before he walked away, I asked for his contact information.
He refused.
Two days later, he came back.
This time, the office was full of staff and volunteers preparing for the festival.
I asked if we could continue our conversation outside in the parking lot.
Instead, he simply turned around and left.
I never saw him again.
By pure coincidence, I had attended a medical conference not long before this encounter. I recognized that some of what he described could be signs of a serious mental health condition.
But I only recognized that after spending a long time listening to him.
In the world he described, he truly believed people were trying to kill him.
He believed he was protecting his daughter.
He believed he was fighting to stay alive.
What if tomorrow he confronted another person he believed was an imposter with a baseball bat?
If the police arrived, would he be given the chance to tell his story?
Would anyone be willing to listen?
Or did we simply fail him?
A Stormy Saturday
Many years ago, when Monica was first running for office, we invited her to be a special guest at the opening ceremony of the San Diego Lunar New Year Festival.
That Saturday, however, a powerful storm swept through San Diego. For safety, we had no choice but to close the festival before it even began.
Our core team stayed behind beneath a small canopy at the entrance, letting anyone who arrived know that the festival had been canceled.
Then Monica drove in.
She stepped out of her car and walked through the rain toward us.
Together, we stood beneath that little canopy, looking out across the festival grounds. As we talked about life, community, and culture, we watched the storm unfold before us. The wind rolled potted plants onto their sides. Empty canopies strained against their anchors, while decorations that volunteers had spent days hanging danced helplessly in the wind. Months of planning were slowly being unraveled before our eyes.
There was nothing we could do but witness it together.
Someone brought pizza. We stood there talking, sharing a meal, and watching the storm. I don't think Monica ate any. But what I remember is that she came.
She said she would be there.
And she was.
Years later, after she had been elected to the San Diego County Board of Supervisors and returned to our festival, I reminded her of that stormy Saturday.
Of all the ceremonies, meetings, and public appearances she had attended over the years, that quiet afternoon beneath a small canopy was the moment I remembered most.
Sometimes, the simplest touch of kindness could leave a mark on the heart.
Belonging...
In August 2025, we held our second family camping trip, which grew significantly to more than 200 participants—families, grandparents, parents, and children—spending two and a half days together in nature.
It was one of our most memorable camping trips. We had the entire campground to ourselves—just our group surrounded by nature.
During those 2.5 days, we experienced something unexpected: a culture clash within our own group.
Many of the younger generation, having grown up in the United States, viewed camping as an opportunity to enjoy the quietness of nature, gaze at the stars, listen to the wind, and embrace nature.
Many of the older generation saw camping through a completely different lens.
Away from work, schedules, and the expectations of everyday life, many of our older participants slowly began to let down their guard.
They laughed louder.
They spoke more freely.
They shared stories, opinions, and humor that might never have surfaced in their daily routines.
Watching them, I realized that this camping trip had become more than a weekend getaway.
For many, it had become a place where they finally felt safe enough to be themselves.
Perhaps this is why we do not always notice these cultural differences in everyday life. Many people quietly adapt to the expectations of the society around them, finding ways to navigate different cultural worlds without drawing attention to the differences. It is only when they feel completely at ease that another side of themselves begins to emerge.
During the trip, we also received a few noise complaints from neighboring campsites. The laughter and conversations carried farther than we expected.
There were moments when we could have stepped in and asked everyone to quiet down.
Instead, we chose to let those moments continue.
Because what we witnessed was more than noise.
It was joy.
It was freedom.
It was belonging.
Seeing our elders feel safe enough to laugh without hesitation, speak without self-consciousness, and simply enjoy being themselves was both beautiful and bittersweet.
Sometimes, the greatest gift a community can offer is not a program or an activity.
Sometimes it is simply creating a place where people no longer feel the need to hide parts of who they are.
Pure Vietnamese
This happened during our Mid-Autumn Festival many years ago. As part of our preparation, we held weekly planning meetings for about six weeks before the event. These meetings were open to the public. Anyone could come, volunteer, listen in, share ideas, and have fun.
That year, a new volunteer, who appeared to be in his thirties, began attending our meetings. After about three meetings, he stood up and said he could no longer support this organization because we were not "pure Vietnamese."
Everyone reacted.
At the time, one of our staff members was Chinese and didn't speak Vietnamese. We had several Cambodian members. Our secretary was of Japanese and Spanish heritage. Our program manager was Caucasian, adopted and raised by Vietnamese parents.
And then, the rest of us—those thought to be Vietnamese—started questioning our own level of purity.