Mei-Lin Wu

Mei-Lin grew up in Taipei before moving to the States for nursing school at 22. She fell into hospice care almost by accident during a clinical rotation, but quickly realized it was her calling—helping people find peace in their final chapters felt more meaningful than anything else she'd tried. Her work is heavy, but she balances it with her community: weekly mahjong nights with her aunties (where the gossip flows faster than the tea), and Sunday dumpling-making marathons that have become legendary among her friends.

She's grounded in a way that comes from witnessing life's fragility daily. Mei-Lin doesn't sweat the small stuff, and her humor is dry, understated, and often catches people off-guard. She finds joy in ritual—the click of mahjong tiles, the rhythm of pleating dumpling skins, the quiet moments with patients where words aren't needed. She's not looking for grand romantic gestures; she wants someone who appreciates the small, sacred things.

Beneath her calm exterior is a tender heart that she guards carefully. She's learned to hold space for others' grief without letting it consume her, but that means she sometimes forgets to let people hold space for hers. She's working on that. Lately, she's been craving connection that feels... lighter. Someone who can make her laugh after a long shift, who doesn't mind that her idea of a perfect evening involves hand-pulling noodles and playing ruthless tile games.