by Jasmine Hina Yates
San Diego
The dance studio was my second home—the place I felt safe, happy and free. My actual home felt rather chaotic to me, the youngest of seven. Five children, my mother had married into, while bringing two of her own. One daughter moved in and out of juvie, another stole her things. My father stayed up late each night with friends, partying in his hip-hop studio out back. My mother, in her wisdom, put me in ballet, hoping I’d stick to a path of value. And for a long time, I did—all the way through high school. And then, I graduated. I left home to attend my first year of dance academy in New York.
That first year was incredible—I reached top form and the top of my class. But away from my mom and the SGI community I’d grown up in, I lost touch with what was truly important. I began staying out late, partying and chasing highs. I slept very little and ate even less, and was harming my mental well-being. At the end of the year, I went home for spring break, along with the rest of my peers. But unlike them, I didn’t come back—for half a year, I was not seen in New York.
What happened was this: I took a pill at a party, some drug that gave me a “bad trip.” I ended up having to spend ten days recuperating in a psych ward. I could not immediately return to dancing, however eager I was to get back. I took off the semester, and only then returned, dead set on making up for lost time. But back in New York with the rest of my peers, it became clear I was not the dancer they remembered.
My fine motor skills had vanished, while my medication caused sporadic vision blurring and weight gain. I found myself fumbling through even simple pieces of choreography.
Every morning, I lay with a stone on my chest, dreading the day ahead. I’d just lie there until my mother called to say, “Hina, c’mon, let’s chant.” Then I’d drag myself to the Gohonzon for gongyo, which gave me the strength to face every day, even as I fell further behind.
That year, my scholarship was not renewed, and I returned to San Diego and sank into my mother’s couch. I could hardly bring myself to move. The only thing that got me up were SGI activities, which had always felt like a second home.
Deep in my life, I knew it was to my benefit to join these activities, though I did so often without speaking, unable to read cues or expressions or follow the mood of the room. Now and again, I’d have auditory hallucinations—nothing negative, thank goodness, but odd and distracting whispers that required me to excuse myself to wait it out in the car. Even then, I continued to go, because I knew there was no judgment, and people genuinely cared.
In the evenings, I sat with my mom watching movies and sitcoms and gameshows. She’d chuckle and nudge me at the punchlines, but I’d just sit there, no laughter in me at all.
In the mornings, I’d sit beside her for gongyo and there feel something—a flicker of life.
The young women began taking me out to activities. I’d get in the car, and we’d drive as far as Yuma, Arizona, the farthest eastern reaches of our chapter. Though I didn’t contribute much to the conversation, they brought me along and showed me I was wanted and cared for—that they would not give up on me, ever.
Eventually, the women’s division members encouraged me to support behind the scenes as a Byakuren, which proved a major benefit for my life. Taking responsibility for the success of an activity gave me a sense of confidence and pride. In September 2018, I supported the 50,000 Lions of Justice Festival as a Byakuren, directing busses and participants. That day felt both long and short—at the end we chanted three times—all the behind-the-scenes members together. I felt an incredible sense of unity during those three daimoku—of having taken responsibility, uniting solidly as a team to take one step forward together. This, I felt, was what is meant by the oneness of mentor and disciple. After this, I continued to move forward with growing confidence and speed.
At the end of that year, I sat down with my mom for our regular evening TV. We put on something ridiculous—a Japanese boy band gameshow—and for the first time in a long time, I found it funny. In fact, I couldn’t stop laughing, doubled over, me and my mom. And it occurred to me that this was how this ought to feel, and that two long years of winter were slowly giving way to spring.
I took on greater leadership in the SGI and began meeting up with the young women, chanting with them at their homes and going out for coffee on the town. Speaking with them about their dreams, I began to chant in earnest about my own. At the end of 2018, I’d taken a first step by applying to nail technician school, where I realized something important—I loved being in service. I soon applied for school again, this time for an associates in allied health. In May of 2024, I received my degree with honors, becoming the first in my family to graduate college. I also received my Certified Nursing Assistant license, immediately got a job in the field and am now enrolled in an accelerated two-year course to become a Registered Nurse. And, what’s more, I’m dancing again, not competitively but for the joy it brings—to me and to others.
My father had been heartbroken when I’d had to stop dancing back in 2017. But before he passed away last year he saw me dance again, and I’ve never seen him so happy. He was also able to meet (and approve of) my wonderful boyfriend, Owen, who’s been my partner nearing five years now.
The field of care has brought me to intensive care units, senior living homes and a psychiatric ward. I’ve seen people experience things that challenge their sense of dignity. Every day, I chant for the happiness of myself and others, and never judge a person in my care. We will all experience every aspect of life—there’s nothing shameful about old age or illness or dying. Because I went through winter, because my friends saw me through, I know that what people need most is respect and real care—never pity. People need someone who’ll stand by their side in the rain, to assure them: I’m here. You’re precious. You’ll win.
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