我们失去了数百万——一次汇率的代价

We Lost Millions—One Exchange Rate at a Time

From real estate owners in China to struggling renters in Canada. The migration wasn’t upward. It was sideways and down.

My family owned multiple properties in China—storefronts, apartments, even part of a building. On paper, we were middle-class. In reality, we were comfortable, stable, and proud. When we moved to Canada, everyone assumed we were upgrading. After all, isn’t that what immigration is for?

But no one tells you how a 1:7 or 1:9 exchange rate quietly eats away at your future. One apartment sold in China barely covers a down payment in Vancouver. One year of rent in Canada erases years of frugality in China. We weren’t buying a better life. We were liquidating an old one just to survive in a new place.

People back home saw the move as an elevation. “They must be doing well,” they said. “They live in Canada now.” But they didn’t see my mom washing floors at a grocery store. They didn’t know my dad worked twelve-hour shifts in kitchens, burning his hands over and over again. They didn’t see how my parents, once landlords, now feared rent increases.

In China, we didn’t need to calculate every grocery trip. We bought fruit by the box, crab in kilos, gifts for guests without guilt. Here, we waited for clearance vegetables. We returned items we couldn’t really afford. We wore shoes until they gave out.

The emotional exchange was worse than the currency one. Back there, my parents had status. They were respected. Here, they were invisible—just another immigrant couple trying not to drown in a sea of bills. My mother used to manage tenants; now she translated lease agreements with my help. My father negotiated with suppliers in fluent Mandarin; now he asked me how to write an English email to dispute a $30 overcharge.

When people say immigration is an investment, they rarely tell you who pays. For many families like mine, it was the children. We gave up childhoods to translate tax documents. We put off dreams to help with bills. We lost time. We lost confidence. We lost a version of our future that once felt guaranteed.

And yet, we endured.

My parents may no longer own buildings, but they taught me how to stand when the foundation gives out. They taught me resilience isn’t glamorous. It’s surviving humiliation. It’s showing up to work the next day. It’s taking public transit past the house you once dreamed of buying and learning not to cry.

We lost millions, yes—but not everything. We still have each other. We still have stories. And now, we’re telling them.