(Minghui.org) Greetings Master. Greetings, fellow practitioners.
During the 17 years I practiced cultivation, I wrote many experience-sharing papers, most of which centered on how I utilized my skills to assist Master in Fa-rectification. Today, I’d like to share my experiences of cultivating through interactions with those around me.
I was never close to my mom. She was consistently negative and frequently complained, rarely offering praise or encouragement.
Shortly after I began practicing Falun Dafa, my mom was diagnosed with late-stage colon cancer. She later miraculously recovered by reciting the two phrases, “Falun Dafa is good, Truthfulness-Compassion-Forbearance is good.” While visiting me in the U.S., and with my dad’s encouragement, she decided to practice Falun Dafa.
But her understanding of the Fa remained at a perceptual level. She approached the question of whether to take medicine superficially. Whenever challenges arose, she reacted as if the sky were falling, repeatedly calling me for advice. I was often left speechless when she said, “You have no idea how I feel because you haven’t gone through it yourself.”
I convinced my parents to move from China to a home only five minutes away from me. Soon after they settled in, my mom began urging me to apply for Medicare for them; take them to see various doctors; and even persuaded my dad to have all his remaining teeth pulled. Afterward, my dad stopped making truth-clarification phone calls, explaining that speaking without teeth made it hard to understand him, let alone being able to clarify the truth to people in China. As a result, amid my mixed feelings toward my mom, resentment grew. I resented that her limited enlightenment pulled my dad deeper into ordinary human society.
For a long time, whenever I visited them, I only spoke with my dad and avoided my mom. Diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, she sat on the couch, unable to turn her head or walk up to us. She felt sad and helpless, but I didn’t feel guilty—I believed I was already taking good care of their daily needs. What else could be asked? With our vastly different personalities, we were like oil and water, unable to blend.
One day, a practitioner came with me to visit my parents. During our discussion about cultivation, my mom said something that struck a nerve, and I couldn’t help but respond with a condescending tone. Before I could finish, the practitioner firmly interrupted me. On the way home, she sternly criticized my behavior, saying I showed neither the compassion of a cultivator nor the filial piety expected of an ordinary person. I was stunned.
Looking inward, I recognized my prejudice toward my mom. Yes, her enlightenment might be limited—but so what? She never opposed the Fa. Limited enlightenment is relative. Compared to diligent practitioners, didn’t I also have limitations? Master teaches the Fa to ordinary people, some with higher enlightenment, some with lower. Yet Master shows the same compassion to everyone, regardless of their higher or lower level. Who am I to be so arrogant?
Condescendingly speaking to my mom—doesn’t that show a lack of compassion? Her life in China was far more vibrant than the simple one here. So why did she agree to move? Wasn’t it because she trusted me and held high hopes? How could I treat her that way?!
I began visiting my mom more often. When my dad was busy with household chores, I tended to her daily needs. Once, she froze in the middle of the hallway while walking. I wrapped my arms around her from behind, guiding her forward inch by inch, like a toddler learning to walk. When we finally reached the bedroom, I lifted her up onto the bed to rest. She looked at me with a rare, gentle gaze.
One day, just as I was about to leave their home, my mom suddenly said in English, “I love you.” I was so taken aback that I froze, unable to respond. She had never said anything like that to me before. Even decades ago, at the airport when I was leaving for the U.S. to pursue my education, all she said was to hurry so I wouldn’t miss my flight. This time, with tears in my eyes, I hugged her, kissed her forehead, and told her I loved her too. From that moment on, there was nothing left between us.
Later, my dad also needed care, and I hired a live-in nanny for them. My dad could get along with anyone, whereas my mom was the opposite. This pained her deeply, and she could only confide in me. I did my best to comfort her, lift her spirits, and mediate the tense relationship between her and the caregiver.
Caregivers came and went—all because of my mom. Each time, they would bid my dad a tearful goodbye, and each time I had to bear the stress of uncertainty, pushing myself to find the next one with more grit. I felt exhausted—both physically and mentally. But I no longer complained, because I had come to understand my mom’s pain.
Sometimes, I had to step in as the caregiver myself. Once, while I was cleaning her after a bowel movement, she unexpectedly passed stool into my hand without realizing it. I calmly washed my hands, as I would when changing my own baby.
A few months ago, my mom fell into a coma at home. During her five days of deep sleep, I often played the Dafa music Pudu by her side. In the end, she passed away peacefully, with a faint smile on her face.
I wrote, in both Chinese and English, about how the principles of Truthfulness, Compassion, and Forbearance purified my cold and selfish heart, giving me the opportunity to elevate myself and accompany my mom—without regret—through the final stage of her life. I distributed this story to my mom’s nursing team, neighbors, relatives in China, and friends around me, and it served as a very effective way to clarify the truth.
After my mom passed away, my dad’s physical and mental health gradually declined. I went to see him almost every day, to encourage him, reminisce about old times, and share updates from my work and life. It was not easy to keep this up day after day.
My daughter came back from the East Coast for a week and suggested the entire family spend time together at a vacation home in Oregon. I was really looking forward to that precious week with her while working remotely.
The day before my departure, I went to visit my dad. To my surprise, his condition worsened so much that I wasn’t sure whether I would be able to see him again when I returned. Tentatively, I asked, “Dad, what if I don’t go?” Unlike his usual polite refusal, he simply replied, “OK.” My heart sank—I knew the time had come for me to face a difficult decision.
During COVID, like many teenagers, my daughter began struggling with mental health issues. One day, she solemnly told me she wanted to cut her wrists with a knife. Seeing no signs of injury, I thought she was just seeking attention. After all, we had just returned from a girls’ trip that I had carefully planned to lift her spirits. I couldn’t help but think, I’ve done so much for you; are you pushing your advantage? So, I brushed it off with a few comforting words. Little did I realize that my response deeply hurt her. From that moment on, she started drifting away, becoming distant and even counting down the days until she left for college.
Her changes left me both disappointed and confused. At the time, I thought it was just typical growing pains—especially for kids raised in the U.S., where teenage rebellion is common. During her final semester of high school, my daughter developed anorexia. My husband didn’t understand and believed she was making excuses to avoid track meets, since she was on the school’s track team. Feeling helpless, she turned to me for support. My understanding and encouragement finally moved her. Weeks before leaving for college, she revealed the real reason for her estrangement from me. I was stunned. I sincerely apologized. She was a bit surprised that her usually stubborn and proud mom would humble herself and ask for forgiveness.
She left for college thousands of miles from home, but had a rough start. Within just a few months, she developed depression. During her darkest, most helpless moments, I was there on the other end of the phone, offering support. After switching three flights from Europe, I finally made my way to her campus. She ran up to me and gave me the longest hug I’ve ever had—lasting a full 60 seconds. From that moment on, we became best friends.
Now, as a cultivator, I must make a choice between family and duty. When I returned home, I updated my family on my dad’s condition. My husband kept asking if I was certain about my decision—reminding me that I could always fly back alone if an emergency arose.
What I found reassuring was the support of both my children. The next day, before she left, my daughter gave me a big hug and reminded me to take care of myself. Her understanding and care eased the lingering pain in my heart.
My Husband’s Family
Now, let me tell you about two women on my husband’s side of the family. My mother-in-law, Kathy, is a loving soul but also strong-willed. Her family nicknamed her “The Queen.”
A few weeks after I obtained the Fa, I bought Shen Yun tickets for the whole family. My in-laws attended first. Although they found the performance beautiful, they couldn’t fully grasp its profound message. Their reaction influenced my husband, who then decided not to watch it. That incident planted a seed of resentment toward Kathy in my heart.
Later, she was also diagnosed with Parkinson’s, like my mom. Out of compassion, I introduced Falun Dafa to her. But she quickly declined. Her refusal deepened the resentment I felt toward her.
As I continued studying the Fa and watched my mother-in-law’s condition worsen, my compassion began to emerge. My attitude shifted—from initial superficial care to genuine understanding, and finally to volunteering to share the burden of her family duties.
Kathy valued family gatherings deeply and loved hosting holiday parties for families, relatives, including cousins, friends, and neighbors. But as her health declined, she was no longer able to do so. Out of compassion, I offered to take on the hosting duties. It went against my nature—normally, we’d often plan trips during the holidays so we could avoid invitations. But this time, I chose not to.
Last Thanksgiving, I prepared a traditional turkey feast, and everyone was happy. Suddenly, Kathy looked at me and said, “Thank you.” After a brief pause, she added, “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
At my in-laws’ 60th wedding anniversary, I took the stage to share a story: when my daughter was just a few months old, Kathy would drive three hours each way to spend a day with her granddaughter—no fuss, no demands, just pure love. I looked at Kathy and said sincerely, “Mom, if I’m ever lucky enough to be a grandmother, I hope to be as elegant, fun, and loving as you.” The room erupted in applause, and tears welled up in Kathy’s eyes.
My sister-in-law, Kelly, is warm-hearted and has a large circle of friends, but she tends to exaggerate things. Throughout junior and senior high, she lived in the shadow of her older brother’s achievements. My husband supported himself through college without taking a penny from his parents. In contrast, Kelly has continued to accept financial support from her parents—even to this day.
One Christmas, Kelly called her mom, claiming she couldn’t come home because she was traveling in Africa. When the phone was passed to us, she jokingly said, “It’s nice and sunny here in San Francisco.” We found her attempt to involve us in her deception both rude and appalling. Eventually, we couldn’t tolerate it and told Kathy the truth. After that, Kelly unfriended me on Facebook.
I was furious. I was the one who had every right to cut ties with someone like her, yet she made the first move. How ridiculous!
But I’m a cultivator. After I calmed down, I realized that although on the surface, my feelings toward Kelly seemed shaped by my husband’s influence, beneath it all, I was harboring a deeply hidden jealousy of my own.
Since marrying my husband, Kathy has insisted that the whole family travel hundreds of miles to her vacation home to celebrate a white Christmas every year. She also suggested that, out of respect for my culture, I prepare a Chinese dinner on Christmas Eve. But there was a problem—her daughter Kelly was four years older than me. Why was I the one who had to gather all the ingredients, drive nine hours to her house, and, after a full day of skiing, spend hours cooking while everyone else rested? Kelly didn’t have to lift a finger.
Moreover, we had to witness Kathy handing Kelly a large check, along with additional money to support her annual international travels. Whenever Kelly dined out with us, it was always us who ended up paying the bill.
But why was I jealous of her? It’s true there were many things about her I couldn’t stand. Yet, the cause-and-effect dynamics within her family weren’t something I fully understood. Wasn’t her presence meant to help me improve my xinxing and elevate myself through the conflicts? What good would come from urging my husband to tell his mother the truth? It would only hurt Kathy. As cultivators, don’t we emphasize forbearance? So, where was my own forbearance?
I let go of my preconceived notions and tried to see the positive side of Kelly. Once, she stopped by our house after visiting friends, hoping to talk with my husband. But he wasn’t home, so I greeted her warmly. During our conversation, she became emotional while discussing some issues with her brother. I listened, quietly, without judgment or letting her emotions sway me. I tried to put myself in her shoes and truly understand her perspective. In the end, I said, “Trust me, your brother would never try to manipulate you.” She was stunned for a second, then burst into tears.
Later, Kelly said to me, “We should really hang out. When you’re in town, please stop by.” In the past, I would have thought she was just being polite in front of Kathy. But now, I no longer saw her that way. I accepted her invitation with a nod. Later, I made time to have dinner with her and her girlfriend. They were touched by my sincerity and inclusiveness. After I shared an introduction to Shen Yun, her girlfriend earnestly promised they would go see it.
Closing Remarks
I have to drive on a winding mountain road to commute from my home to the office. Sometimes, at each sharp turn, I’d suddenly get nervous—palms sweating, eyes fixed ahead, fearing that one wrong move might send me crashing into the guardrail or tumbling down the ravine. The more anxious I became, the more it felt like the steering wheel was working against me. But when I stopped overthinking and just went with the flow of the road, the car would naturally glide through the curves—and my heart would unwind along with it.
Isn’t our cultivation the same? No matter how difficult the path, if our minds are clear and focused—filled solely with the Fa—we will remain calm and composed. Because of the path Master has arranged for us, no matter how daunting it seems, it is truly the best.
The above is my sharing. Please kindly point out anything inappropriate.Thank you, Master. Thank you, everyone.
(Selected article presented at the 2025 San Francisco Fa Conference)
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