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In Her Own Words

Since 2004, the Search for What Matters speaker series has invited one faculty member, one staff member, and one Jesuit colleague to reflect on the question, “What matters to me and why?” At its heart, the series is meant to be a spiritual moment of inward reflection. Rooted in the Jesuit tradition of seeking God, meaning, and deeper connection in all things, the series encourages speakers and listeners alike to approach these reflections with openness and interior freedom, without needing to share the same spiritual language to find resonance.

This past fall, Erin Kimura-Walsh ’98 was the latest in the speaker series. Kimura-Walsh, who has guided and grown the LEAD Scholars program since 2009, reflected on how her childhood in Seattle, her family, and her experiences as a ÃÛÌÒµ¼º½ student led her to devote her life to supporting first-generation college students at ÃÛÌÒµ¼º½. 

Here’s what matters to Erin Kimura-Walsh:

Finding deep joy across communities

My background and childhood shaped what matters to me. I was born in Oakland and raised in Seattle, the daughter of Japanese American parents—my father from the Pacific Northwest and my mother from Hawaii. I am a fourth-generation Japanese American, known as a Yonsei. In the 1980s and 90s, Seattle hadn’t yet been transformed by Starbucks, Microsoft, and Amazon. It was a diverse city that still felt like a small town. I attended diverse public schools that were predominantly white and Black, with some Asian American peers. I was closely connected to both the LGBTQ community on Capitol Hill and my Japanese American community through our Buddhist Temple, Obon festivals, taiko, and volunteering. From dancing the electric slide at basement birthday parties with my Black friends to sharing cold somen noodles at Obon in a summer kimono, I experienced deep joy in these activities, but also learned that these communities rarely engaged with each other.  

I began to recognize the ways discrimination and segregation shaped the world around me: my Black friends disappearing from honors classes, my gay teacher unable to marry, my grandparents carrying the legacy of WWII incarceration. Even before I had the language for it, I witnessed how people were prevented from reaching their potential or inhabiting their own skin without judgment. Yet the relationships I formed across these communities fostered in me a profound sense of shared humanity and a spiritual understanding of our interconnection, shaping the values that continue to guide my life and work today.

Being accepted and understood 

My ÃÛÌÒµ¼º½ journey began in 1994. I was drawn to the university’s small-school atmosphere, commitment to social justice, and comparatively diverse community. I majored in English, focusing on creative writing and multicultural literature, as well as Japanese Language and Literature. Seeking a deeper understanding of diversity issues, I joined a new program called PRISM (Presenting Real Issues Surrounding Multiculturalism), which trained students to facilitate diversity workshops. Although campus offices rarely asked us to lead sessions, I created my own “Diversity Chats” workshops with fellow student facilitators, exploring topics such as racial and gender identity, biracial experiences, and our varied K–12 educational backgrounds.

By my senior year, I was leading my own workshops, including one on the Model Minority Myth. The ill-fated session I scheduled for the same night as the Seinfeld finale, which no one attended. Even so, I was completely drawn to the work of bringing people together and creating spaces for meaningful dialogue. These student-led conversations pushed us beyond weekend plans or midterms and encouraged honest reflection: a friend pressured into STEM by her parents; another navigating life as a biracial student who felt not quite Black enough or White enough; another grappling with being a White student active in the MCC and diversity programs. Across these stories, shared themes emerged—the desire to be accepted, to make a difference, to have a voice, and to be understood—and it was in these moments that I first began to see the power of connection and conversation in building community.

Deep, authentic human connection 

Finding common ground and shared humanity matters to me because these connections can bridge divided communities, support those who are struggling, and help us understand ourselves within a larger human experience across race, class, time, and place. At times, I wonder whether connection can genuinely make a difference in addressing inequality; at other times, it feels like the only thing that can. True connection requires trust and vulnerability—showing up as our full, complicated selves and being accepted as such. When we do, we uncover our shared humanity and, I hope, a boundless love for each other.

For the past 16 years, I’ve had the honor of witnessing our first-generation LEAD students show up for each other—listening, mentoring, cheering, studying, sharing meals, laughing, crying, and caring with extraordinary generosity. In a world that often tells us we don’t belong or aren’t enough, we depend on these deep, authentic relationships and on spaces where meaningful conversations and shared experiences help us build trust, care, and resilience.

Remembrance and shared rituals

A few years ago, I committed to seeing my cousins more, but building those connections as adults required intention and vulnerability. Two of them joined me this past June for the , where our grandparents had been incarcerated during World War II. Walking the barracks, mess hall, baseball fields, and desert landscapes, our ancestors transformed into farmland, we shared our family stories and connected with other descendants, educators, and community members, reflecting on identity, resilience, and how history shapes the present.

On the final evening, we gathered around the , a traveling memorial honoring James Wakasa, who was killed at Topaz Internment Camp. Projected onto the stone were images of Obon, the summer dance festival I grew up celebrating and now share with my daughters. As the music began, we formed a circle. We danced with our ancestors—a connection across decades, trauma, and busy lives—experiencing firsthand how intentional connection, remembrance, and shared ritual can bridge family, history, and community.

These authentic connections remind us of who we are and where we come from. 

Taking risks and relying on faith

What matters to me is connection—authentic, honest, and vulnerable—reminding us that you are me and I am you, that we belong to each other. This belief has guided my relationships with my husband and children, my family and friends, and has been at the heart of my work in LEAD, where I strive to foster meaningful connections between students and within our community. It has also allowed me to reconnect with my family, past and present, deepening my understanding of myself, others, and humanity. 

I’d like to end with an invitation for all of you. To take a risk. To rely on faith. To take a leap beyond the messages that may have told us not to share. That told us we aren’t good enough. And as you are able, begin to share, to be vulnerable, to build those deep, authentic connections.