My Story

The seed of inspiration for Everything Compassion came from a tiny teacher: a ruby-throated hummingbird.

When I was four months pregnant with my daughter and halfway through a 10-day silent Vipassana meditation retreat, I noticed a rustling on the ground one afternoon as I walked to the meditation hall. I stepped closer to investigate.

There, to my surprise, was a little hummingbird covered in cobwebs, struggling to fly.

I looked up and saw a small roof overhang connecting two buildings. Above it was a skylight window draped in cobwebs. It was clear the hummingbird had tried to fly toward the light, only to hit the glass, become tangled in the webs, and fall to the ground.

I bent down and gently scooped it into my hand. It sat in the heart of my palm as I carefully swept the debris from its wings. Then I carried it to a flower garden near the edge of the forest, where the afternoon sun shone hot and bright.

The hummingbird ruffled its iridescent feathers. Then, in what felt like a flash, it flew up and over the trees toward the sun.

Free again.

As I continued walking to the meditation hall, I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened. It felt surreal. I thought about how we are all, at times, like that hummingbird.

Who among us has not been trying to move forward, with the best of intentions, only to find ourselves knocked off balance by our choices, circumstances, loss, pain, or life itself?

Who has not, at some point, ended up on the ground, struggling to fly?

At the end of the retreat, my roommate asked if she could speak with me. Although we had never spoken before, our shared silent encounter with the hummingbird had created a bond between us.

What she shared with me that day touched me deeply and has stayed with me ever since.

She told me about her daughter, who had married and had children with a man she did not approve of because of his religion. After the marriage, she disowned her daughter and never saw her again.

Years later, her daughter’s marriage was in trouble, and her daughter became deeply depressed. My roommate never reached out to offer help. Her daughter never reached out to ask for it.

Her daughter ended her life.

My roommate wept as she wondered whether her daughter might still be alive if she had not turned away. If she had been there. If she had reached out. If she had offered compassion.

I had no words. I listened. I hugged her. My heart hurt for her.

In that moment, I saw my roommate, too, as someone not unlike the hummingbird we had found days earlier: wounded, tangled in grief, and struggling to fly.

When I returned home from the retreat, I felt compelled to create something focused on compassion. The hummingbird, my roommate’s heartbreak, and the insight that came from both had opened something in me.

I wanted to create something that would help multiply compassion in the world.

It occurred to me that suffering is a shared human experience. And if suffering is universal, then perhaps the antidote must also be universal: compassion — the choice to turn toward suffering and take action in response to it.

At that time, the idea for Everything Compassion was still prenatal, not unlike my unborn daughter. It had not fully formed yet, but the seed had been planted.

Life, however, carried me in another direction for a while. A few months later, my husband and I became focused on helping my brother through a crisis as I prepared to give birth to our daughter.

Then, six and a half years later, shortly after my daughter started Grade 1, my husband died suddenly.

I remember that day vividly. It was the day he had given our daughter the first of what was supposed to be a series of lessons on how to tie the laces on her new big-kid sneakers. My last living interaction with him was a text I received that afternoon while I was in a meeting at work. He told me he was feeling short of breath and asked me to come home right away.

When I got home, it was too late.

He died at the hospital of heart failure a few hours later.

There are no words that adequately describe the pain of losing him without warning, or the horror of having to tell my daughter that her Daddy had died. For many years, I could not face the memory of that day. The suffering was immense. At times, it numbed me. At other times, it opened into a frightening depth of sorrow.

And yet, in the darkest weeks and months after losing him, I was saved by others.

I was saved by compassion.

Friends, family, acquaintances, colleagues, and even strangers brought us food every day. A community fundraiser was organized to help with unexpected costs. People showed up again and again. For almost a year, we were never alone.

Because of the compassion of others, we were able to keep going.

Because of compassion, we were able to fly again.

Like the hummingbird.

That is why Everything Compassion exists.

It was born from the understanding that every one of us will suffer. Every one of us will fall. Every one of us will, at some point, need someone to notice, come closer, and help us find our wings again.

Everything Compassion is my way of honouring that truth — and helping create a world where more of us turn toward suffering with courage, caring, and action.