Ms. Yin locks eyes on me, furious, and storms towards my desk. It’s 7th grade physics class in Shanghai, and I’ve just told my teacher that I disagree with her.
She erupts. “What’s your problem?” “Did your parents not teach you the basic respect you owe your teacher!?”
I say something back. Before I know it, she’s dragging my desk out of the classroom and hurls my backpack at me. The door shuts behind me, and suddenly I’m alone in the hallway, “thinking about what I did.”
I remember the feeling well. A tightness in my chest. A shortness of breath. Shame, anger, and fear. For most of my childhood, my environment both at school and at home taught me that speaking out and expressing myself came with consequences. These same emotions would accompany me for years to come.
Growing up, as a son, younger brother, and student, I existed in a hierarchy — strictly below my parents and teachers. My duty was to obey, and it was disrespectful to challenge those above me. They were to be faultless. The main form of praise my parents and grandparents used was the word “乖” (guāi) which translates to well-behaved and obedient. Much like how my parents cared for our dog, Pepper, they kept it simple with me and my brothers. Go to school, do your homework, finish your food, 听话 (tīng huà – behave).
Since I was a child, I learned that if I fell short of specific, measurable outcomes, whether it be a GOOD DAY in kindergarten, A’s in school, and eventually, a college acceptance letter, that I would have let down my parents. It was very black and white. I would brace for the sting of their harsh words. Their disappointment. Mistakes were not tolerated and so I learned that I was never good enough. But if I did as they said, at least I’d avoid punishment.
Education. It was the great difference maker throughout my family’s history. It was my parents and their parents’ means to control their fate and to escape the cycle of poverty their ancestors endured for generations. Yet I grew up in a rapidly developing world with realities far different from theirs, and so they chose to focus on what they could make sense of. The metrics you could benchmark against and measure your child on – GPA, AP scores, SATs. We work so hard and provide for you. Do you know how lucky you are? They had high expectations for us to achieve what they could not. In fact, I never understood why it was important that we went to college in the US. But it was never in question. You listen to me. Why? Because I said so.
Rather than participating in clubs that I cared about and sports I enjoyed, I chose what was available for the sake of getting involved. Instead of researching a college program that I was interested in, my sole focus was on US News rankings, acceptance rates, and general prestige. In college, instead of thinking seriously about what I wanted to do in the future, I applied for internships and jobs that were popular and enrolled in electives that would boost my GPA.
Getting good grades and wanting to get into a top school was my goal because I feared disappointing my parents. If I succeeded, they would be proud of me for life, and I would never have to feel that sting again. But the cost was my sense of self. In all my years growing up, I’d cultivated very little that I could truly call my own. And like a pressure cooker, the steam released all at once when I got into college — it burned.
As soon as I set foot on campus, I struggled to find my place in my undergraduate business program. As my peers socialized, joined clubs, and interacted with professors, I avoided the discomfort of actively meeting new people and chatting up my professors. I cared mostly about gaming, the all-you-can-eat dining halls, and the gym, as if on a carefree vacation. My roommate, an engineering major from South Korea, who was my gaming companion most evenings and weekends in our dorm, fueled my degeneracy. Quickly, I felt that I was falling behind.
One by one, as my friends joined various clubs that I had never heard of, my insecurities grew and I knew I had to get out of my dorm. I reached out to a high school alum who was in a business fraternity I was curious about, naively thinking they would generously help me simply because we attended the same high school. Instead, I was given a valuable reality check. “Everyone from high school was soft,” she said. “Cornell is a whole different ball game.” At the time I winced at this statement, not only because I was caught off guard by how intensely this person presented herself, but how it left me feeling inferior. Scared that I did not have what it would take to achieve what she had.
After an entire semester of inaction, I followed my gut to go out and find out for myself. On a cold Saturday morning in February, I remember feeling nervous yet excited to interview for a student-run club that promoted “cultural immersion and becoming a global citizen.” As I walked up the limestone steps leading up to the Physical Sciences Building, in full suit and tie, I calmed my mind, certain I’d be a great candidate. Instead of meeting interesting people and learning about their experiences, I was whisked from room to room, answering questions ranging from “where do you see yourself in 5 years,” to “how many windows are there in New York City,” and “How would you explain color to a blind person.” Thanks for coming... What?
I dragged myself to club info sessions, networking events, and more, for what? From what I saw, it was all a performance. Shallow, surface-level connections, big egos, exclusivity. Eventually, after persisting through repeated rejection (such as from a community service group, where I thought caring was the only qualification I needed), I successfully infiltrated a professional club just to prove to myself that I was just as good as my peers.
Once I was on the other side, I was shocked to see how “deliberations” all went down. People picked favorites based on looks and social clout, wealth and family background. I realized that these student clubs were just registered cliques with a formal intake process. Where students flexed their feel-good-about-myself muscles and arbitrarily ranked outsiders against each other based on pompously designed evaluation processes intended to intimidate and establish a veneer of prestige and status. Boasting single-digit acceptance rates and colorful corporate logos of “alumni placements.” These professional clubs were more or less cosplaying frats and sororities. Bleh. At least greek life was fun and didn’t disguise its vanity.
Coffee chats, office hours, club recruiting, internships — there was a clear playbook, a meta to success. I found myself following it closely, as unnatural as it was for me. I was uncomfortable discussing my achievements and strengths in interviews. It felt too self-important, which I was condemned for growing up. Talking to upperclassmen and asking for help, which was never given as a child, made me feel vulnerable and incapable. On one hand I defaulted to following the flock, a conformist. On the other hand, I refused to ask for help, an independent. An independent conformist? One big contradiction.
All around me, my peers worked hard, devoted themselves to their academics, and focused on their careers. I observed that having strong academics and mentorship were conditions for a prestigious internship, which was a condition for a high-paying full time offer, which was a condition for amassing wealth, status, and respect — the conditions for “success” in life. This was the conventional model for success that I adopted from my social environment, and I didn’t bother looking beyond to find other examples of success that resonated with me. Eventually I graduated with a job, wide-eyed and ready for my life in New York.
There, I struggled again. I was incapable of asking for help. I didn’t want to bother my co-workers, and I didn’t want to appear weak. I never divulged my challenges. When I was unhappy or disagreed, I avoided uncomfortable yet necessary confrontation. I thought that by simply working hard and keeping quiet, that I’d be recognized and rewarded accordingly. The hard work I believed I was putting in went unnoticed, and again, I felt that I was falling behind.
I learned that to get what I wanted, I needed to put up a front, and I say this because of how forced it felt for me, to actively advocate for myself and effectively point to myself and say “hey, look at me, I did all of this work, I overcame all these challenges, I solved these problems, and these are the results I achieved — see how important I am?” Things improved slowly. Eventually, I moved to San Francisco, and I thought I had it all figured out when I started my next job.
But there, after two years of putting in good, hard work, all the while making it a point to demonstrate my value, something shifted.
I’d been asking to discuss my progression for months, but each time I brought it up, I was given vague reassurances and deflections. Still, I kept working. I told myself that if I just kept going, and if I just stayed patient and agreeable, that it’d eventually pay off.
It didn’t. One day, without warning, I was let go. For how personal and intimate my work environment had felt, where we texted daily, spoke on the phone, shared meals, and sipped on beers at Giants games, the news was shockingly cold. There was no conversation. No acknowledgment. Just a 3-minute call from HR and a severance letter.
No one from my team reached out. Not to explain, not to thank me, not even to say goodbye. I sat there thinking about the 1-on-1s I’d mulled over, the KPIs I created for myself, the follow-ups I had sent, again and again, asking for feedback and clarity, for a path forward. I had been trying to prove my worth when nobody was ever looking my way.
In that moment, my first instinct was the same as it’d always been. That I wasn’t good enough. That I could have prevented this, which was such a familiar feeling. But this time it didn’t sit right with me.
I realized that I hadn’t failed in the way I thought. I’d done everything “right” this time. But in the end, I had still done what I was taught to do my entire life. To keep my head down, work hard, and never complain. But there lay the real problem. I’d been running on the teachings I was raised with. My “factory programming” (Made in China), where staying “well-behaved” and loyal always kept me safe and earned me praise. But this was corporate America — perhaps the farthest place from my childhood. What was I thinking?
To date I am still grappling with this career malaise. I feel uninspired by the paths laid in front of me. But I understand it now. I’ve spent my whole life looking outward while diminishing myself — obeying at home, silencing myself at school, failing to set boundaries at work. Now, it’s clear that my way forward will come from within.
One step at a time.
An uncomfortable conversation with my parents that dispels my fear of their conditional love. A harsh voice of self doubt that stems from outdated beliefs I adopted early in life. A pang of helplessness that I sit still with and then take action on. A nagging itch to dissociate on my phone that I snuff out and then pick up the guitar instead. I close my eyes and there is a groundedness. A budding inner strength that is gentle yet firm.