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This is my observation of the Chinese Society and a reflection on my growth environment.

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This photo captures a typical scene from my kitchen — a messy sink filled with dishes after a long day. It may look ordinary, but it represents invisible, unpaid labor that sustains daily life. In my home, like many others, it’s my mom who takes on this responsibility, even after working an eight-hour day. This reflects the gendered division of labor: women are expected to perform the bulk of domestic work, with little recognition.

In Feminist Politics: Where We Stand, bell hooks critiques how mainstream feminism sought workplace equality but often ignored the value of domestic labor, which remains gendered and classed. She writes, “They could count on there being a lower class of exploited subordinated women to do the dirty work they were refusing to do.” This makes me think about how women are constantly expected to “balance” work and family, while men are praised for doing the bare minimum at home — a double standard rooted in patriarchal expectations.

This image helps me reflect on how feminist redefinitions of labor must include these everyday, unspoken efforts — the kind we often silence or overlook. Washing dishes is not just a chore — it’s a visual marker of the structural inequality embedded in care work.

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I’ve followed a charity group on Chinese social media for years, run by an attorney who supports people experiencing legal and family crises. In a recent video, he shared the story of a teenage girl who was sexually assaulted by her biological father. Her mother had divorced him years ago, and now the girl found herself trapped, scared, with no evidence, and unsure how to protect herself. She didn’t trust the formal systems around her, so she turned to the charity group for help.

The video protected the girl’s identity, assisted the girl in collecting evidence, and called for public support. In the comment section, dozens of people — especially older women — offered to fund her schooling and cover her daily needs. It wasn’t organized by the state or enforced by law. It was community care in action, rooted in empathy, protection, and survival.

In Care Work: Dreaming Disability Justice, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha writes about care webs as support systems created by survivors, disabled people, and queer folks when formal institutions and families fail. She writes, “We don’t care to be saints. We do it because we know what it’s like to need it and not have it.”

These comments reflect a radical redefinition of family — strangers becoming helpers, protectors, and kin through action. They embody Piepzna-Samarasinha’s vision of community-rooted care: imperfect, improvised, but powerful. Rather than being isolated, this survivor found herself held in a care web that refuses to let her disappear.

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I took this photo quickly at a public restroom in a railway station while rushing to catch a train. Despite the station having a “sufficient” number of restrooms, there was a long line in front of the women’s restroom — while the men’s room nearby stood mostly empty. It made me question whether both restrooms were truly designed with the same number of stalls or space, and why only women must wait.

This situation illustrates what bell hooks describes as the persistence of patriarchal design: “The vision of domestic life which continues to dominate the nation’s imagination is one in which the logic of male domination is intact.” This same logic applies to public infrastructure, where equal numbers ignore unequal embodied needs. Women, on average, spend more time in restrooms due to anatomical differences, menstruation, and pregnancy — yet public restrooms are rarely designed to accommodate this reality.

The long wait becomes a form of invisible, unpaid labor — another burden placed on women in public life. This image reflects structural sexism in design, where systems built to appear neutral reinforce male-centered norms. Feminism must challenge not only unfair treatment but also the unfair structures and environments that have restricted access, autonomy, and dignity for generations.

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This is my right hand. I took this photo to announce that I’ve finally made peace with her. I used to hate my hand — it didn’t look delicate enough, bright enough, or attractive enough compared to other people’s so-called “perfect” hands. I also felt anxious about exposing my skin in public because of the amount of body hair I had. I lost myself in the cycle of social media beauty standards, shaped by gender norms that demanded I hide or “fix” parts of myself.

But I no longer want to waste my life on meaningless comparisons. I’ve come to understand that reclaiming the body from shame is not only personal — it’s political. In The Cancer Journals, Audre Lorde writes, “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence. It is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.” Lorde urges us to make our pain visible, to name it, and to refuse silence in the face of social shame.

Like her, I choose not to conform. Instead, I claim visibility — my hand, my hair, my presence. Feminist practice means rejecting erasure, especially the kind we’re taught to perform to be accepted. Reclaiming the body is an act of survival and resistance, especially for femmes, queer folks, and people of color. This image is my reminder: I don’t need to change my body to be worthy. I only need to stop hiding it.

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A photo of blocked tactile walking path near my home

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This is a path I walk every day from school to home. I took this photo the moment I realized that even as a non-disabled person, I found it difficult to pass through — bikes and motorbikes were blocking the way. Beneath the clutter is a tactile walking path designed for blind and low-vision pedestrians. But it’s cracked, blocked, and no longer usable.

This image reflects what Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha calls “performative access” — infrastructure that exists on paper but fails in practice. In her article Care Webs, she writes that state systems are rarely built for disabled, queer, or BIPOC bodies to survive, and when they are, they are often temporary, poorly maintained, or conditional. As she puts it, “The state is not going to save us, so we save each other — not perfectly, not always, but enough.”

The broken tactile road symbolizes a broken care system — one that abandons the people it was supposedly built to protect. It shows how inaccessible design and structural neglect place the burden of survival back onto disabled individuals, especially those from marginalized communities. This image calls us to rethink who public spaces are truly for, and who is consistently left out of access.