For Mother’s Day and AAPI Heritage Month, I’ve been thinking about the way my mom put things together. Not just outfits. But a life.

My mom, Yim Ling, is a Chinese immigrant. Like many women of her generation, she came to the U.S. with very little and built a life through work—first in garment factories in New York City's Chinatown, then in restaurants and at a fruit stand. Her path wasn’t about chasing passion. It was about survival, stability, and creating something better over time. But she was always creative. Fashion became her outlet—her way of playing with shape, color, and texture.

In the early years, she made her own clothes out of necessity. Later, when she had the means, she invested in pieces she could hold onto—designer accessories that marked a shift in her life. That’s when I first learned about Louis Vuitton and Gucci. I was around ten.

What stayed with me wasn’t the labels. I was watching her get dressed. She didn’t dress up often—she was always working—but when she did, it meant something. She took her time. She thought about color, proportion, and how everything came together. There was an intention behind it. And there was joy.

She would show me. Explain why something worked. Why these colors made sense together. How an outfit could feel complete. I didn’t realize it then, but those moments stayed with me.

Then came the jewelry. And her mink coats. Those were her pride. She treated them like something incredibly valuable—carefully putting them away after each wear, protecting them, preserving them. Nothing was careless. Everything had meaning. I was just a kid, watching with wide eyes, absorbing it all without knowing I was learning anything.

She doesn’t dress up like that anymore. But I remember those moments so clearly.

What’s interesting is—I didn’t grow up thinking I wanted to be a designer. It wasn’t a dream I had or something I planned. I only considered it when I had to choose a path for college.

But looking back, it feels obvious.

I grew up around intention. Around resourcefulness. Around a woman who found a way to express herself—quietly, creatively—no matter what stage of life she was in. She never framed it as a design. But it shaped how I see everything.

And now, when I think about why I care so much about detail… why I believe clothing should be intentional…why I’m drawn to pieces that last, that hold meaning— I think of her. I think of the way she stood in front of the mirror, taking her time. The way she showed me how colors worked together. The way she cared for what she owned, as if it mattered—because it did.

I didn’t know it then. But I was watching someone build a life, and a sense of self, through what she wore. And without either of us realizing it, she was shaping mine.

P.S.: Love you, mom!