I want to begin by acknowledging that I live, work, and learn on the unceded and traditional territories of the Semiahmoo, Kwantlen, and Katzie First Nations. These lands have been home to these Nations since time immemorial, and their relationships with the land, water, and spiritual world continue today.

I offer this acknowledgement as part of an ongoing reconciliation journey. It is a process rooted in who I am, where I come from, and where I hope to go. As a second-generation Chinese Canadian, I carry with me a cultural legacy that emphasizes respect, modesty, and family. These are values I have also seen reflected in Coast Salish teachings. My presence on these lands is shaped by a history of migration, settlement, and opportunity, but also by colonial systems that have privileged some while displacing and erasing others.

Recently, I had the privilege of hearing the story of P’Quals, the namesake glacial deposit that sits on the beach of what is now called White Rock. The story was shared by Chief Harley Chappell of the Semiahmoo First Nation. He spoke of a time before the world was "made right"—a time when humans, nature, and spirit were deeply connected. P’Quals was placed there by higher beings as a reminder of love, legacy, and responsibility.

What stayed with me after hearing this story was the invitation to listen to the land. Not just with our ears, but with our bodies and spirits. To understand land not as a backdrop to our lives, but as a teacher. We are not separate from the land or the people who have cared for it. We are part of a much longer story, and we need to learn our place within it. Stories like the one of P’Quals are not relics of the past. They are living teachings that offer guidance on how we carry ourselves, how we relate to others, and the importance of staying humble.

At many points in my life, I have reflected on my understanding of humility. Growing up, my Chinese culture taught me not to seek attention, not to boast about my accomplishments, and always to let my actions speak for themselves. Humility was a sign of respect—for others, for elders, and for the community. I was praised for being humble, and it became a core part of who I was and who I aspired to be.

Over time, I began to see how unconditional humility could morph into self-erasure. In Western education systems and professional spaces, confidence, assertiveness, and visibility are often rewarded. My instinct to downplay my contributions, to wait to be invited, to defer to others even when I had something valuable to say, often felt out of step with what was expected. I found myself continually being overlooked or underestimated. What began as a virtue sometimes became a potent barrier, and eventually I started to internalize that. I struggled to find the line between staying grounded and standing up.

In my work as a researcher and human-centered design practitioner, this tension is especially clear. I am trained to listen closely and elevate the voices of others. I aim to collect and follow the guidance of evidence. Design is a practice that requires humility. But too much humility can lead to hesitancy, delayed decisions, and a kind of invisible leadership that is hard for others to recognize. In workplaces that expect speed, clarity, and direction, this can create friction and make it more difficult for people to trust the design process and those leading it.

Even so, I am learning and evolving—as a designer and as a person. I am still figuring out what balance looks like in practice, between humility and confidence, between listening and leading. I am beginning to understand that humility does not mean holding myself back. It means being a steady presence. It means stepping into responsibility at the right time. It means showing up with confidence that is grounded not in ego, but in care. I am learning to speak with clarity, not to centre myself, but to ensure space for others. I am finding that it is possible to lead quietly and firmly, without compromising who I am or where I come from.

Recently, Indigenous teachings have helped me with this search for balance. Just as P’Quals stands rooted on the shore—constant, quiet, and powerful—I am learning to value my humility not as the absence of voice, but as the presence of intention. The intention to share my hesitations, my cultural background, and the way I move through the world. A way of holding space that is attentive, relational, and responsive to what is needed in the moment.

And so, in offering this acknowledgement, I am not just recognizing whose lands I live on. I am also acknowledging how I want to live on them. With humility, yes, but also with confidence. With gratitude, and also with responsibility. I commit to listening more deeply, acting more intentionally, and continuing to learn from the land, from the communities who have cared for it and continue to do so, and from the teachings that invite us into a deeper relationship with them.

HÍSW̱ḴE

Thank you in SENĆOŦEN language