My Mother, Her Legacy, & Me

I grew up watching my mother build Shanghai Sunny Textiles from the ground up. To the outside world, it was a story of triumph: a once-humble operation transforming into a thriving business with a reputation for precision, reliability, and community impact. But to me, it was more than just a business—it was the lifeblood of my family, an entity that sustained not only us but also countless employees and their families. The factory walls were not just walls; they echoed with stories of ambition, hard work, and survival.

I remember the sweltering heat of summer days when I accompanied my mother to the factory. Even as a child, I was mesmerized by the sound of fabric slicing beneath industrial blades, the hum of sewing machines, and the rhythmic chatter of workers, their hands moving deftly as they crafted textiles destined for international markets. My mother was always moving—examining fabric rolls, speaking with team leads, and meticulously running the numbers. She was a force of nature, blending business acumen with the raw determination of someone who had lived through scarcity and learned to carve out stability with her own hands.

But it wasn’t just her work ethic that left an impression. It was the weight of responsibility she carried—her decisions didn’t just affect profit margins; they shaped lives. The women who worked in the factory called her “Laoban” with a mix of respect and endearment. Some even brought their children to meet her, saying, “Your mother gave us more than jobs—she gave us a future.” At the time, I didn’t fully understand the magnitude of her work. All I knew was that my mother was the backbone of an entire ecosystem, a legacy built not just on business but on trust, relationships, and a deep sense of duty.

As I grew older, I began to see the cracks beneath the surface of this legacy. The textile industry is an unforgiving beast. It demands speed and efficiency, often at the expense of sustainability. The piles of scrap fabric at the end of each production cycle felt like an indictment. The smoke from the dyeing processes felt like a stain on the air. And yet, questioning these practices felt almost sacrilegious. How could I challenge the very systems that had sustained our family for generations?

There’s a certain unspoken pressure that comes with inheriting a family legacy, especially one rooted in tradition. The decisions my mother made weren’t arbitrary—they were survival mechanisms honed in a different era, a different world. It wasn’t just about making money; it was about ensuring that dozens of families in our community could put food on their tables. To challenge that felt like challenging her entire life’s work.

I vividly remember sitting across from her in our family’s Shanghai apartment one evening, nervously broaching the subject of sustainability. I had been reading about the environmental impact of the textile industry and couldn’t shake the guilt I felt about our contribution. “Mama,” I said carefully, “have you thought about making the factory more eco-friendly?”

Her expression softened, but I could see the weariness in her eyes. “Xiaohai,” she said, using the term of endearment she reserved for me, “it’s not that simple. Do you know how much it would cost to change everything? To use organic fabrics, to recycle dyes? The margins are already thin. If I make those changes, people will lose jobs. Families will suffer.”

Her words stayed with me for days, weeks even. She wasn’t dismissing my concerns—she was showing me the complexity of the problem. It was the first time I truly understood that legacy is as much a burden as it is a gift.

That conversation with my mother planted the seed for a deeper question: Could I honor my family’s legacy while steering it in a new direction? I didn’t have all the answers, but I knew I needed to try.

My first step into this evolution came through land conservation. My family owns parcels of land in New York, inherited from an era when my grandfather saw land as an investment in stability. These plots, rich with towering trees and rolling hills, had largely been overlooked—until I started asking questions. What could we do with this land? How could it contribute not just to profit, but to purpose?

It began with research. I dove headfirst into the world of sustainable forestry, learning about timber harvesting practices that prioritized regeneration. I studied zoning regulations that allowed for environmentally conscious development. I worked closely with my Uncle Sean, who had been managing the land, to implement small-scale forest restoration projects. These weren’t just experiments—they were my way of reconciling my values with the weight of tradition.

For the first time, I felt like I was doing more than questioning the past. I was building something for the future. The work wasn’t easy, but it was deeply fulfilling. I saw firsthand that sustainability and profitability weren’t mutually exclusive—they were two sides of the same coin when approached thoughtfully.

The more I delved into this work, the more I realized that balancing innovation and respect for tradition isn’t about choosing one over the other—it’s about finding harmony. For me, this meant acknowledging the sacrifices and wisdom of the past while embracing the possibilities of the future. It meant having difficult conversations with my mother, not as a critic but as a collaborator. It meant understanding that change doesn’t happen all at once; it happens incrementally, with patience and persistence.

I’ve learned a few key strategies along the way:

1. Start Small: Change doesn’t have to be revolutionary to be impactful. With my family’s land, we started with modest restoration projects before scaling up.

2. Frame Change as Continuity: Instead of positioning sustainability as a departure from tradition, I framed it as an extension of my mother’s values—her commitment to community and long-term stability.

3. Respect the Past, But Don’t Be Afraid to Question It: Innovation requires courage, but it also requires humility. I’ve learned to approach these challenges not with defiance, but with curiosity and a willingness to listen.

   
   

Working to evolve my family’s legacy has been one of the most challenging and rewarding experiences of my life. It’s taught me that tradition and innovation aren’t adversaries—they’re partners in creating something meaningful. My mother’s textile business gave me an unshakable foundation: a respect for hard work, a sense of duty to others, and a deep appreciation for the impact of leadership. My work in sustainability is my way of building on that foundation, of ensuring that our legacy doesn’t just endure but thrives in a way that aligns with the world we want to live in.

As I look to the future, I’m filled with cautious optimism. The path isn’t always clear, but I’ve come to embrace the uncertainty as part of the journey. My family’s story has shown me that legacy isn’t something you inherit passively—it’s something you shape actively. And for me, that means weaving together the threads of tradition and innovation into a future that honors the past while embracing the possibilities ahead.