The weight of expectations as a neurodivergent Vietnamese American
Growing up, I didn’t have the language to describe what made me feel different than my peers and society at large.
Was it because I lived in a low-income household? Was it because I became partially blind and disabled, living life with glaucoma? Was it because I grew up without a dad? Was it because I was raised by strong female figures such as my mother and grandma? Was it because I carry with me unidentified symptoms of complex post-traumatic stress disorder (C-PTSD) as the child of Vietnamese immigrants? Or was it because a lot of my differences were unrecognized traits of autism and ADHD (AuDHD)?
Only in the last few years, since the COVID-19 pandemic, when I was in my late 20s, did I begin to learn more about myself. I still felt different, and I felt it deeply. I felt it in the expectations to always excel, in the unspoken rules of emotional restraint, and in that way, survival often meant suppressing my true self to fit a mold that was never designed for me.
For years, life wasn’t about thriving but about keeping up. It was about appearing capable, competent, and successful even when I struggled. It wasn’t until I was later identified and diagnosed as autistic and ADHD in adulthood that I fully realized how much I had internalized these pressures and how damaging they had been to my sense of self.
The model minority myth and its impact on neurodivergent and disabled AANHPIs
The model minority myth isn’t just a stereotype, it’s a harmful framework that erases the full spectrum of AANHPI experiences, particularly those who are disabled, neurodivergent, queer, low-income, or from underrepresented Southeast Asian communities like myself. It conditions us to believe that success is the only option and that if we aren’t excelling, we are failing.
For neurodivergent AANHPI individuals, this myth is particularly suffocating because it equates worth with productivity, making us feel like our value is tied solely to academic and career success, leaving little room for self-exploration, accommodations, or asking for help. It discourages emotional expression, as cultural norms often prioritize “keeping face” over processing emotions.
Many of us were never taught how to name or regulate our emotions in a healthy way. Autism and ADHD have long been framed through white, male-centric lenses, leading many AANHPI individuals, especially women and those from underrepresented ethnic groups, to slip through the cracks and not receive diagnoses until adulthood.
My experience is an example of this. I was always seen as too “girly” or “feminine” for how a guy should be or act. Whether that meant being too emotional or talking about feelings, or being more quiet and reserved in my thoughts as I smile, I knew something was different about me.
There weren’t many diverse representations of what a man or guy should be like, other than what was portrayed in media at the time, where guys are seen as masculine, physically strong, and emotionally dismissive. The portrayal of Asian men was often seen as nerdy and geeky or the kung fu martial artist, which makes me feel other and left out.
Yet these aspects of myself and the feminine traits of mine turned out to be associated with autism and ADHD, and the hidden struggles and challenges that came with it, that was written off as “awkward” behaviors or personality traits.
For so long, these struggles were seen as a personal failing rather than a systemic issue, and how society views differences. Reaching out for accommodations or mental health support feels like admitting weakness, and I, like many, left feeling isolated.
Years of masking, pushing through burnout, and questioning whether I was “enough” despite my accomplishments became second nature. It took unlearning these toxic narratives to finally start healing.
Perfectionism, comparisons, and the fear of falling behind
Beyond the model minority myth, I was constantly compared to others, both within my family and beyond. “Why can’t you be like them?” “Look at what they’re doing. Why aren’t you doing the same?” “Do you want to end up like your dad?” “Don’t be like that person.” “You should…”
There was an idealized version of success and normalcy, and if I didn’t meet that standard, I was seen as the problem that needed to be fixed or treated.
Struggle wasn’t something to be acknowledged, much less supported; it was something to be ashamed of, hidden, and most importantly, never spoken about. If I did struggle, it was completely brushed off. “Just push through” or “man up” are words I grew up hearing when facing struggles.
There was no “let’s make things easier for the next generation.” Instead, it was the ingrained mentality of “I suffered, so you have to suffer too.” It was rooted in survival, generational trauma, and internalized ableism.
This perfectionism and dismissal of struggle made self-compassion impossible. I couldn’t allow myself to rest, acknowledge my limits, or admit that I needed help. Asking for help had never been modeled as something safe but more as a burden and inconvenience. But healing requires unlearning.
Part of unlearning is allowing myself to say: I do not have to meet anyone else’s standard of success. I am allowed to set my own pace. Rest is not lazy. It’s okay to ask for help. Vulnerability is a strength.
Disability, family, and cultural stigma
Before I had the language for neurodivergence, I saw disability and neurodivergence modeled through the lived experience of my dad, who was living life with glaucoma, gout, and unidentified autism. He was my first mirror into what it meant to exist differently in a world that was not inclusive.
My dad was disabled and, at the time, an unidentified neurodivergent Vietnamese poet, writer, teacher, and psychic reader. He was also one of the most entrepreneurial and creative people I knew.
Yet, because of his disability, neurodivergence, inability to perform basic tasks, drive, and the income limits placed on him by the system, our extended family treated him and us with shame, avoidance, and pity. Culturally, disability was never viewed as something positive, and more ill-fated.
Within our household, disability was wrapped in shame, silence, and survival. Emotional expression wasn’t nurtured; it often showed up through yelling, emotional outbursts, or toxic masculinity.
Conversations between adults weren’t affirming or out of compassion; they were about lashing out. Speaking up or asking for help wasn’t welcome and was seen as a burden or inconvenience. Advocacy was seen as disrespect and vulnerability as weakness.
Family values and expectations were misaligned. My extended family has their own set of traumas in addition to embracing a more individualistic and survivalist way of living compared to my own family, who immigrated after and value community care.
My mom, who carried so much on her shoulders with her strong collectivist values and upbringing since my dad’s and grandma’s passing, held it together the only way she knew how with control, worry, and anxiety. It was hard to blame her as she had to navigate loss, grief, and love all alone.
Without family support, she had no choice but to fend for herself while raising and caring for my brother and me, yearning for community and support that she lacked from those she considered family.
The culture clash and values between individualism and collectivism continue to play out, as this has heavily impacted my family and personal upbringing.
The struggle within my own family became the script I internalized, especially since I wasn’t close to my own family either. My brother and I became the recipients of the traumas that were passed down through the family affairs. While growing up, I didn’t want to be like the adults in my family or end up like them, but I didn’t know who else to be or what else to do.
Their struggles and conflicts ultimately became my mirror and lived reality.
When I was diagnosed with glaucoma at 17, which caused me to become partially blind, the same disability as my dad, I didn’t receive any compassion or support for what I was going through. Instead, I was blamed for it as if it were my fault.
This perception of disability was normalized in the medicalized world I grew up in, where the individual is often blamed for their disability. I was told to deal with it quietly and keep it within the family to avoid shame and judgment.
As a result, this had a ripple effect on me and how I navigated social settings and friendships.
People distanced themselves, unsure of how to respond, acting out of pity, and it made me feel like an inconvenience. I learned quickly that asking for help was seen as a burden, as I have witnessed within my own family, so I stopped asking altogether. I became a lone wolf.
My undiagnosed neurodivergence only deepened my struggles to navigate social situations.
From not being able to recognize social cues and getting hurt from misinterpretations by myself and others, to being bullied and taken advantage of, I unconsciously masked my needs so thoroughly that I lost sight of who I was beneath them.
Instead of seeking the help and support that I needed, I suppressed my needs, thinking that was the only way to survive by pushing through.
Compounded loneliness, employment barriers, and the weight of no safety net
When vulnerability is punished and asking for help is seen as a burden, you learn to survive by hiding. I wore my mask so well that even I forgot that I was wearing one.
I became a person who was considered “easy” to others. Who smiled and anxiously laughed through confusion. Who stayed quiet, even when I didn’t understand. Who learned how to be palatable at school, in community spaces, and later in the workplace. It was even more difficult when I had no language to describe hyposensitivity or neurodivergence then.
But beneath the mask, I felt different. I often felt like I was on a different frequency, trying to tune in but never quite syncing with those around me.
That difference wasn’t met with curiosity. It was met with confusion, avoidance, or, worse, laughter. People didn’t understand me, and instead of trying, they joked about how I showed up.
My awkwardness. The way I spoke. The way I navigated space. My medical needs, like using eye drops or my inability to drive, became the punchline or something to be pitied.
And so I learned to downplay it all. To become invisible. To hide the very parts of me that needed care the most. It was to the point where people knew me for my smile, laughter, or my simple response to the question: “How are you?” with just “good” and move on.
I appeared okay. Deep down, I had just wanted people to notice me beyond the surface and what I was going through and battling inside.
There’s a particular kind of loneliness that comes from being surrounded by people and still feeling completely unseen.
When everyone else seems to connect with ease, and you’re left wondering what you’re doing wrong. When friendships feel fleeting or circumstantial, and you start to believe you’re just too much or not enough to be loved fully and accepted as you are.
Everything felt compounded.
There was no fallback plan. No safety net to catch me. No mentor or lifeline to turn to when navigating school, work, or life transitions. I didn’t have the privilege of trial and error, of “figuring it out later.” Taking risks seems overwhelming.
Every decision, especially around career or finances, carried weight.
Because every risk was costly. When you’re navigating systemic barriers, cultural shame, neurodivergence, and disability all at once, and you’re part of the 85% of autistic individuals who are under- or unemployed, failure doesn’t just mean disappointment. It can mean instability, survival, or even homelessness, especially as someone who grew up in a low-income household.
The pressure to be successful and succeed was real. It wasn’t just about me, but for my mom, who sacrificed a lot for my brother and me. In many Asian immigrant families, parents often rely on their kids as an investment and for financial support. Because of my personal challenges that I was facing, it was difficult to even support myself, so how can I even support my mom, who I knew was struggling financially at times too?
In the absence of a strong community or reliable support system, I was expected to get by on my own. Entrepreneurship wasn’t a dream; it was a necessity. I had to be creative and had to innovate my way around a system that wasn’t designed for people like me.
Even then, taking that leap was discouraged, seen as reckless, especially with limited resources and no safety cushion. There were many moments when choosing myself, my path, or my creativity felt like I was choosing the risk of greater instabilities that would heavily impact my mental health and relationship with my mom.
Yet, I still try despite many struggles and setbacks that left me in a financial crisis and taken advantage of by people left and right. My lack of understanding of myself, my worth, and knowledge about setting boundaries made me vulnerable.
This led to these fallouts that were too late to salvage, and I’m already living through the consequences of it without having the words or tools to be able to advocate for myself.
The consequences led to my discovery and realization of my own and others’ neurodivergence and trauma. This is considered the taxes of being undiagnosed or late identified in life as autistic and ADHD.
The cost and tax of being unseen: The impact of unidentified neurodivergence
What I didn’t know then and wouldn’t come to understand until much later was that I was navigating life with undiagnosed neurodivergence, autism, ADHD, and sensory needs I couldn’t name. It was also the reason why I was drawn to certain people.
I was only able to recognize this when a family member at the time had a white friend with an autistic kid. I happened to exhibit some of these common traits associated with autism that resonated with the friend’s autistic kid.
Little did I know then that the very people that I bonded with through trauma or not were also neurodivergent like myself, some were ADHDers, and some were autistics or even both.
And I was doing all of this in a world that wasn’t designed for minds like mine. I finally understood through this realization why I struggled so much and the compounded loneliness and setbacks I experienced in life, work, relationships, and career.
Growing up low-income and within BIPOC communities, where access to affirming mental health care, early diagnosis, and culturally informed support is limited, being different was often misunderstood, dismissed, or punished.
Data continues to show a significant rise in diagnoses of autism and ADHD, especially among BIPOC, women, and LGBTQIA+ individuals. These communities have historically been left out of the diagnostic conversation. I am part of that rising number, and I was later identified as an adult.
I grew up among BIPOC peers, friends, classmates, and community members, many of whom were likely neurodiverse too, whether they knew it or not. I saw the painful consequences of what happens when neurodivergence goes unrecognized and unsupported, as I first-hand experienced.
This wasn’t just something I witnessed within my own family, although the impacts there were clear. Generations of undiagnosed and unrecognized neurodivergence have been shaped by survival, silence, and internalized shame. The unpredictability, the emotional reactivity, the mood swings, all of it made worse by a system that offered no understanding or tools.
But that pain extended far beyond the home. I felt it in school, where I struggled silently and was expected to keep up without accommodations. In friendships, where I was often misunderstood, left out, or made fun of for the way I spoke, moved, or expressed myself.
In workspaces, where I unknowingly masked constantly and still felt like I was falling short, not being able to advocate for myself. Unable to fit in no matter how much I try.
For many neurodivergent people in the United States, trauma isn’t separate from our identity; it’s embedded in it. What we now understand as C-PTSD (Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) is often the outcome of years spent being invalidated, rejected, and forced to mask to survive.
This is one of the many co-occurrences of those living with or identified as autistic, ADHD, or other neurodivergent conditions.
I was hurt by people who were also unknowingly hurting or going through their own challenges, whether it was friends, peers, classmates, and colleagues, many of whom were unknowingly wrestling with their unrecognized neurodivergence and trauma. When we don’t understand ourselves, we replicate the harm we’ve inherited.
And while autistic and ADHD individuals often hold deep empathy, creativity, and a unique way of experiencing the world, we’re navigating systems built on neurotypical, ableist, and cis-white male standards of success and social norms.
In these environments, our strengths are overlooked, our needs are pathologized, and our existence becomes “too much” or “not enough.” Without any resources and support, we became victims of the system’s failure to include people like us.
So I blamed myself. I tried to shrink. I tried to fit in. I tried to be palatable. I learned how to disappear in plain sight by masking my own needs.
Coping through media & creative arts
When the real world didn’t offer space for my full self to exist, I turned inward into my imagination, my daydream, into digital spaces, into stories.
Media and creative arts became my refuge. In those worlds and stories that I dreamt of in my head that kept me smiling, laughing, and entertained, I created many scenarios and realities where characters whose stories resonated with parts of me.
I found reflections of myself not as broken or too much, but as powerful, complex, and worthy. And sometimes, that was enough to keep going.
Storytelling became a lifeline. A way to make sense of the chaos. To name what was never named. To imagine something softer, freer, and more true.
Especially through the video games and TV shows I grew up watching and playing, where I can immerse myself in the world and the characters’ portrayal. The music and lyrics I listened to that describe my emotions in ways I didn’t know how to express, but deeply resonated with.
Creative expression gave me a place to breathe, to explore possibility, and to feel seen when nothing else around me made sense.
Still, even amid deep struggle, it was the presence of supportive and affirming people I met along the way who helped me hold on before I even had the language to explain my neurodivergence.
These were the people who saw something in me, who extended kindness without needing an explanation, who met my awkwardness and differences with curiosity, not judgment.
Their care reminded me that I wasn’t broken, just misunderstood, and that I didn’t have to navigate everything alone. Sometimes, all it takes is for someone to sit in the mud with you and let you know that you are not alone, and they are walking beside you. That can make all the difference.
However, being surrounded by these people doesn’t come by quite often and easily. Life becomes much more difficult, and the cost of being different in any form, such as my neurodivergence, significantly impacts my mental health. For years, it did, and I was alone without any knowledge of why that was.
Learning to express and connect through creative arts
I’ve always been drawn to creative expression as a form of survival and connection. Whether it was singing in UCI’s Vietnamese Student Association (VSA) choir, dancing on UCI’s Level V Origins (LVO) Modern Dance Team, or gathering around food, cooking, and sharing stories, these were the spaces where I felt most alive, most myself.
Art and connection became my compass before I ever had the words for self-understanding. It was in those moments of expression and affirmation that I began to understand: there is power in being seen, even in small doses, and healing becomes possible when we’re allowed to simply be.
See also: Honoring the past, celebrating resilience: Fifty years after the Fall of Saigon
The Mental health toll of living life as a late-identified neurodivergent
Since being late-identified as neurodivergent, it marks the beginning of things making sense and relief for what I was going through and experiencing all these years. It was also overwhelming and traumatizing at times, having to relive years of misunderstanding and grief for what could have been.
I was given a new manual on how I was supposed to operate according to how my brain is naturally wired and designed. This was my autism diagnosis and late identification that I came to know of.
However, I existed in a world and space where I was told otherwise, and everything about me was wrong. I had always lived and navigated life as being neurotypical, and it was all that I knew. When I was first diagnosed, I was told to continue to fit in and take medication to relax without any resources or support. There was a lot of contemplation and internal conflict as I had to figure it all out on my own.
After years of struggle and survivalism, trying to fit in. I refuse to take medication and decided to chart my own path to live authentically me. The challenge was that there were not a lot of resources or support that I was aware of at the time, so I didn’t quite know how to do that.
It was very lonely at times, and I didn’t have much of a support system to lean on either.
What made things more difficult in the process was the skill regression that came with this. I lost the ability to do things I used to do at ease, and this further amplified my grief, anxiety, shame, guilt, and impostor syndrome.
This journey came with many realizations that were hard to take in at first, such as recognizing the many co-occurring mental health and other health and neurodivergence conditions, ties to autism, such as ADHD, where it is up to 80% likely for one to be identified as both. It can vary from person to person. It was only in 2013 when you could be diagnosed with both, as shared on neurodivergentinsight.
In addition to this was coming to terms of my queer identity and how I was queer all along. I began making sense of my feminine traits growing up, and how being raised by my mom and grandma shaped my worldview that deviates from social norms. Research shows that those who are autistic are 2-3 times likely to be gender queer, transgender, etc. I was surprised at first, before realizing how much I had masked or pretended to be something I wasn’t.
At the time, I had just begun unmasking and putting the pieces of my life together. It was messy. The world didn’t understand that and didn’t meet me with compassion and understanding.
The very thing I was struggling to give to myself during this time, as I struggled to articulate what I was going through or experiencing, as I have emotional blindness or alexithymia, hyposensitivity, pathological drive for autonomy (pda), hyper-mobility, and poor interoception that I wasn’t aware of or noticed. As much as I wanted to give myself compassion and grace, I didn’t even know how.
I felt like I was falling behind, missing out on opportunities, and losing momentum as life goes on. The expectation and pressure to continue to keep going, and continue because of life demands. The weight was hard to carry, and I just couldn’t perform and operate as I should to align or fit into the neurotypical world.
Letting go and unlearning neurotypical ways of being, embracing the reality of my neurodivergence, and the way I move through the world was a process of its own and something that takes time.
Having the diagnosis or name for what I was going through didn’t change how people saw me or improve my situation. It wasn’t until I took the time to do it myself and stop beating myself up as I immerse myself in things and people that would connect with me and help me understand myself better.
See also: The Wedding Banquet shines bright as a beacon of light for queer Asian love
The role of media representation & content creators in self-discovery
For so long, I struggled to see myself in the world around me. Mainstream media rarely reflected the complexities of neurodivergent AANHPI experiences. But when I found representation, it was life-changing.
Wong Fu Productions was my first exposure to Asian American experiences outside of traditional media. Mainstream portrayals of Asian Americans were often one-dimensional or stereotyped, but Wong Fu told heartfelt, nuanced stories that validated our identity and struggles.
See also: A look back at YouTube’s original Asian creators
Christine Ha winning MasterChef as a blind Vietnamese American was the first time I saw a disabled person celebrated for their talent rather than pitied for their disability.
Extraordinary Attorney Woo gave depth to an autistic character navigating a world that wasn’t built for her, showcasing her struggles and strengths, reflecting what many autistic people experienced.
Everything Everywhere All at Once was another groundbreaking moment. The film didn’t just depict the immigrant experience; it explored intergenerational trauma, queerness, and the weight of unspoken expectations through an undiagnosed ADHD lens that felt so inherently neurodivergent.
See also: Get to know Stephanie Hsu in Everything Everywhere All at Once
The impact and rise of mental health, disability, and neurodivergence storyteller, advocate, and creator
Beyond TV and film, the rise of mental health, disabled, and neurodivergent content creators, self-advocates, and storytellers on social media and in the advocacy spaces became a crucial turning point in my journey.
Through these platforms, I found my life coach, therapist, mentors, and a community that understood experiences like mine in ways mainstream narratives never had. They showed me that my story and lived experience mattered, and more importantly, they inspired me to do the same for others.
Together, we became a community that supports and affirms one another. Because for the very first time, I can just be fully me and embrace my wholeness and full self. It was then that I realized what safety feels like and what it truly means.
Creating neurodiversity-affirming spaces
For many late-identified neurodivergent individuals, the journey isn’t just about understanding ourselves; it’s about creating the spaces we never had.
Neurodiversity-affirming spaces allow us to exist as we are, without constantly having to explain or justify our differences. They provide validation, connection, and a sense of belonging that many of us have never experienced before.
Celebrating neurodiversity means recognizing that there is no one “right” way to exist or succeed.
It means creating environments where neurodivergent individuals don’t have to mask their true selves, honoring different communication styles, sensory needs, and emotional regulation methods, and providing space for self-discovery, community, and support.
It’s about fostering relationships that don’t just tolerate neurodivergence but actively celebrate and affirm it.
See also: Celebrating neurodiversity in Asian American communities
Becoming the representation I needed through storytelling and uplifting other narratives
In 2021, I began sharing my story via the Asian Lifing podcast, (now relaunching as Asian Lifing: Beyond the Mask) to connect with others after 6 months of life coaching. Unpacking the years of silently struggling alone and mental health challenges, I started to find and build a community for myself and others along the way.
Not only have I shared my story to help others, but I’ve come to realize that storytelling is one of the most powerful tools I have.
As someone who grew up without the language to name what I was going through, I now use words and lived experience to offer what I needed most back then: validation, understanding, and hope.
Storytelling has allowed me to not just process my own journey but also help others feel seen, connected, and less alone.
Through my writing, speaking, peer support, and creative work as a storyteller and disability and cultural inclusion consultant, I aim to amplify diverse experiences so that AANHPI, disabled, and neurodivergent individuals, especially those who are late-identified in life, can find belonging and resonance.
Because representation does more than reflect our existence, it offers a roadmap to self-acceptance.
Unlearning takes time. The idea that your worth is tied to productivity is false, you are enough simply by existing.
Seeking out neurodiversity-affirming spaces can help you find people who understand and celebrate your differences. Intentionally immersing yourself in other stories, creative outlets, and platforms that resonate with you can give you language and validation for the things you never knew how to articulate.
Because there is only one you. We are not a monolith. And just because you’ve met one neurodivergent, disabled, or AANHPI individual, you’ve still only met one person. And every story matters, including yours.
See also: Naomi Osaka’s precedent for mental health in sports for Asian diaspora
Finding belonging through community and family
Through my journey of finding belonging, I’ve come to realize that healing doesn’t happen in isolation; it happens in the community. My community and the support system I formed throughout these five years include my therapist, coach, fellow neurodivergence, and affirming allies, who have helped me rewrite the story I once believed about myself.
With the addition of my family-in-laws, my family dynamics overall have also shifted and transformed. I no longer have to fend for myself and can have people I can lean on. I now have a support system through family, which was something I lacked growing up in the way that I needed. I now feel closer to my family than I ever did before.
It took me a long time to reach this point and establish a community for myself with the people in my life now. These shifts and transformations in my life are a testament to my healing journey over the last five years.
What I saw through my mom growing up, despite her struggles, was to be able to lean on a close few from neighbors to work colleagues, those who uphold collectivist and community care values, which mirrors my growth and reality today, and how far we both have come.
Though we don’t always see eye to eye due to the lack of understanding for neurodivergence and generational differences between us, there’s a deep sense of shared struggles and care that comes from our journey, where compassion has form in its place between unspoken language and communication gaps across different generations.
Reclaiming joy, pride, and presence
While I’m still learning, still unlearning, still growing,, what’s different now is this: I’ve reclaimed joy. I’ve redefined pride and self-worth on my own terms.
I stim more freely. I ask for help. I intentionally surround myself with people who are neurodiversity-affirming and who see and accept all of me, as my therapist would say, “my wolf pack.” I embrace slowness, softness, and the power of not needing to perform or mask who I am.
What once felt like shame and “not enough” has gradually transformed into compassion, grace, and empowerment. With all their support, I’ve given myself space to grieve the years I spent feeling small and unseen, and instead, I’ve started to embrace the truth: that I am inherently worthy and valuable just as I am.
I’m no longer shrinking. I’m taking up space, not with an apology, but with pride. It is an honor and privilege to know and be in a community with people who remind me of that every day. I’m truly grateful for it all!
Despite the systemic barriers, struggles, and stigma that remain, having a neurodiversity-affirming community and support is life-changing. It has drastically improved my well-being and helped me regulate my nervous system, reducing a lot of the symptoms and challenges of my neurodivergence in ways I can feel at ease showing up without performing and just be me.
I was never broken or needed to be fixed. I just needed to be accepted and celebrated for my differences. That these systemic barriers be removed so that I can live meaningfully.
To anyone navigating a similar path: healing and transformation are possible, and with the right intention, it’ll be worth it. It may take some time, and there will be moments where you may not be able to see the progress and impact. Just know that the healing process is happening whether you see it or not.
Be kind to yourself in the process, as healing isn’t linear, and it will feel worse before it gets better. It’s okay to ask for help; you’re not meant to do it alone. Take it one day at a time.
Your stories matter, so keep sharing them. You deserve to take up space, not just to survive but to feel fully whole and alive, just as you are. You are you’re perfectly imperfect self. You are not alone.
And as I continue to write, speak, and share my truth, my hope is this: that we all feel less alone and more safe and empowered to show up as we are.
Because we were never the problem to be fixed, we all just needed to be loved, accepted, and celebrated just as we are. That is true belonging!
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