My Asian identity has shaped every corner of my mental health. As I get older, my awareness of my prejudices against my own flesh has turned what I thought was tough skin to a tenderness that has unraveled me. Being raised a certain way by parents with a certain trauma has created for me a certain glorification of survival and always wanting to NOT be “other.” After the shootings in Atlanta, I experienced a grief that felt so personal, overwhelming and unexplainable. It was not like I knew these people, but it felt as if I could have lost my family just as easily.
I decided soon after the tragedy that I had to seek help from an Asian female therapist. I had been seeing someone who was a male and white (he helped in other ways for a time!), but I felt instantly that my mental health became freer and stronger BECAUSE I am learning to love my whole self in ways I never had even though I had only been seeing her for a tiny amount of time. They understood when I did not understand what I was feeling.
So being an Asian woman, I have context, tools, and a community that give me clarity and peace (not all the time) around the anxiety, fears and longings that circle my heart and which I have never suspected or am tired of always carrying. But I am filled with pride more than ever. It seems as if my identity—my heart, home, the soul—is well. My mental health is well.
Nina Jusuf
“Where do you come from?” This is the question Nina Jusuf regularly opens her sexual assault trainings with. Jusuf frames her training as a conversation, first delving into the history and culture of the individual, to truly understand the background and upbringing of the group she is training. She then continues by starting a conversation about sexual health and one’s sexuality, breaking down the barriers and stigma that comes with talking about one’s body. Jusuf‘s trainings not only educate on topics around sexual assault, but also allows for exploration of one’s identity and values. With a career that spans from volunteer work to directorship, Nina Jusuf has always taken a stand to help the Asian community expand discussions about sexual assault and domestic violence.
Nina Jusuf started her career in domestic violence and sexual assault as a volunteer through a hotline. She then transitioned into working as a shelter advocate, before serving as executive director of San Francisco Women Against Rape. In 2010, Jusuf met Mira Yusef, the executive director of Monsoon Asians and Pacific Islanders in Solidarity, and the two combined their efforts to form National Organization for Asian and Pacific Islanders Ending Sexual Violence (NAPIESV). Now, NAPIESV provides training and technical assistance regarding sexual assault issues for organizations serving the Asian community all across the world.
During our interview, Jusuf continually emphasized the importance of the intersectionality between one’s sexuality and their culture, immigration status, as well as economic status. Regarding the Asian community, culture and tradition play a big role in one’s views towards sexuality and sexual assault. Topics of sexuality and assault are taboo and there are many values about “saving face” ingrained into many of their upbringings . There may also not be specific words or terms in certain cultures that describe the sexual violence that occured.
“Part of the culture is not to report assault or bring shame to the family,” Jusuf added. From a young age, most children are taught to respect and listen to their elders, a virtue also known as filial piety. Jusuf says that this filial piety may have some ties to Asians and the prevalence of sexual violence. A seemingly innocent demand like, “Come sit on my lap” from an adult in the family could have future consequences if children are not typically able to say no and have not learned the concept of consent. Although there are aspects of “saving face” and “not reporting” in other cultures, internalization of these cultural values is also a reason it is more prominent in Asian culture. Current sexual violence discourse is not inclusive enough for the Asian community. Being able to understand the subtleties of Asian culture and tying that in to helping sexual assault victims is NAPIESV’s main objective.
An important aspect of NAPIESV training, is the emphasis on cultural diversity and tailoring the conversation and approach to match the individual’s background. NAPIESV collaborates with many organizations to further the cultural aspect of treatment. An example of this is how the New Mexico Asian Family Center approaches the start of a conversation about sexual assault by having a “rest circle” or “tea time” gathering. This allowed for a sense of familiarity and comfort, especially before a conversation that could contain uncomfortable topics and potential triggers. Jusuf also described an example of a grief exercise, where she pointed out that “the Chinese believe grief is stored in our lungs, which results in our chest feeling heavy.” During her exercise, she would bring in Chinese beliefs and exercises, like tai chi, to adapt for the individuals in that demographic. Jusuf mentioned that one’s body manifests our emotions in other physical symptoms and she tries to find ways to release those emotions.
Jusuf ended the interview by speaking about ways to create a supportive community for survivors. She highlighted the significance of “collective strength” and creating a safe space not only to share about sexual violence, but to share life experience and a sense of community. “The first step is to listen,” Jusuf explained. The main goal for sexual violence survivors is healing and to be able to describe what happened to them. Healing has no particular timeline and being able to adapt to each person’s healing journey is crucial. “Be comfortable with sitting in silence and being patient with them. Become a friend and walk with them in their healing journey,” Jusuf said.
** We would like to extend our gratitude to Ms. Nina Jusuf for participating in this interview and allowing our organization to highlight the amazing work NAPIESV is doing for the Asian community.
Austin Saephan
Lillian Nguyen
Volunteer Spotlight
This month, we’re highlighting Subtle Asian Mental Health (SAMH)—the amazing Facebook community that gave AMHC its start! With more than 58,000 members and growing every day, SAMH reaches members of the Asian Diaspora across the globe and connects them to mental health resources and a large community of support. The SAMH moderation team is volunteer led by Asians with diverse mental health interests and backgrounds.
Meet Our Moderation Team: Austin Saephan and Lillian Nguyen
What do you love about the SAMH community?
Austin Saephan: One thing I really love about the SAMH community is how passionate the community is about mental health and all that relates to it. Whether they are having thoughtful discussions or sharing wholesome memes, the community continues to collectively support and share each of their stories with one another. Reading through and interacting with each submitted post, I can feel the passion and sincerity of each member. All in all, I continue to learn and feel inspired everyday by the SAMH community.
Lillian Nguyen: I love that there is always a member who is there to give support when someone is in need, especially during times like this when the community has helped each other with emotions of loss, frustration, and anger. There are plenty of resources available to members, whether it’s through the collective or events offered by members of the community.
What have you learned about mental health by being a moderator?
Austin Saephan: During my time as a moderator, I have found myself continually amazed by how diverse yet similar mental health is across everyone’s own lived experiences. While most members do identify as Asian, each member still embodies their own unique backgrounds filled with their beliefs, opinions, and thoughts. Despite the community’s spiritual, political, and even geographical differences, there are still so many common threads across each individual’s mental health story.
Lillian Nguyen: When members discuss their similar experiences of trauma, I have learned that mental health can manifest differently at various timeframes . Mental health is something difficult to work through, yet there is humor found in the shared experiences through memes.
Why is Asian mental health important to you?
Austin Saephan: As an Iu-Mien American, Asian mental health is a very personal passion of mine. Living through and recovering from my own mental health concerns, I recognize the intersection between being Asian and the stigma behind mental health. My own culture and familial ties ultimately shaped my path to understand and eventually heal my own mental health. Using my lived experiences, I hope to continue to work towards as well as empower other like-minded folks to destigmatize Asian mental health for all.
Lillian Nguyen: Asian mental health is important to me because there is a lack of resources for the Asian community in terms of getting information on mental health and finding providers. There is a generation gap in the understanding of what mental health is and how to help. In the Asian community it is seen as a stigma, but this shouldn’t be the case. I want mental health to be seen as an illness that shouldn’t be hidden or something to power through.
By: Tina Tran and Lisa Cheng
The month of March brings AMHC to highlight standout volunteers in our community, Alex San Diego and Elisha-Rio Apilado, and their lived experiences as women and with imposter syndrome.
Alex San Diego
Elisha-Rio Apilado
What is your experience with “imposter syndrome”? As a woman, how do you feel like your identity impacts your experience?
ALEX SAN DIEGO:
I first sought out help for imposter syndrome right before I started grad school, but I think I’ve suffered from it for a long time. I used to think I had imposter syndrome simply because of the environment I was in — grad school, working on a marketing team with zero marketing/business-related education combined with the usual symptoms of anxiety and depression — mainly low self-esteem and overthinking. I then started reading about the relationship between imposter syndrome and being an Asian woman, and learned that “when you experience systemic oppression or are directly or indirectly told your whole life that you are less-than or undeserving of success and you begin to achieve things in a way that goes against a long-standing narrative in the mind, imposter syndrome will occur.” So now, whenever I start to doubt myself, I remind myself of all the work I’ve done to get to where I am and that this sneaking voice in my head is actually the voice of the oppressive systems around me.
ELISHA-RIO APILADO:
Imposter syndrome hit me in my early 20s, fresh out of college. I received my Bachelor in Fine Arts and was headed into the advertising world. I saw what other graphic designers and illustrators created in my field and constantly doubted that my work would be any good to make it onto a billboard or a TV spot. But this also pushed me to work harder and fine-tune my skills. The doubt that came with having some symptoms of “imposter syndrome” eventually became the fuel to the fire. I had to keep working hard, not to prove to others, but to prove that I could be the best version of “good enough” that only I saw myself as, not what others tried to do.
As a woman, especially at that time, a young woman of color in such a male-dominated field, I would be talked down to, not allowed much say in brainstorm meetings, or cut off. Often, being an Asian American woman is seen as submissive and non-confrontational. It took me a while to build up the confidence and strength to stand up for myself and speak up.
Growing up as a Filipina-American, I was always told to follow the rules and never question any authority figure or older person. However, I realized I am just as qualified to be a part of the industry as any other person regardless of our racial identity or age. I needed to see them as my peers and teammates, not people I had to follow directions from.
Have you ever overlooked your goals and your successes because you felt like you didn’t deserve them?
ALEX SAN DIEGO:
Absolutely. In my first full-time job in marketing, I accepted a salary much lower than what I actually deserved because I felt lucky just to be offered the position.
Even now, when I’m completely aware of imposter syndrome and what causes it, there are times where I worry that people will “find out” I’m not everything that they “think” I am.
ELISHA-RIO APILADO:
I think the only time I felt this way was when I was in high school, and unfortunately, being belittled by an immediate family member. Being the only child in my family born in the States with much more opportunities, my share of school and work successes were dismissed and deemed unimportant by some family members.
Unfortunately, family can become a factor in the way you view yourself as an individual. Individualistic and collectivistic values are still something I constantly find myself battling to this day, in my 30s. It took me a close group of friends and some time isolating myself from toxic family relationships to recognize my worth, and the hard work I put into my accomplishments were, in fact, things that I deserved for myself.
What would you say to someone who is experiencing imposter syndrome?
ALEX SAN DIEGO:
Your failures don’t make you who you are. Your successes do not make you who you are.
What makes you who you are is how you treat yourself plus how you treat the world and people around you.
When your feelings of being an “imposter” start to cave in, focus on the facts not how you feel.
The facts are, that despite the odds that were against you, you were able to become the person you are today. You made it this far.
That’s more valuable than any degree, job, or award out there. Don’t diminish yourself and take up space. Be proud of what it took for you to get to wherever you are today.
ELISHA:
I would say that it is a part of the journey. It’s that uncomfortable part of life we all go through, but we always get through in the end. It’s also something that can come in and out of your life and hit you the most when things are going sour, or life is just not being fair to you. However, you have to remember your inner strength and develop the coping skills to bring you back up from the deep waters. This could involve finding a tribe of friends who are the best support system for you or finding quotes online that resonate with you and provide a reminder for you to keep going.
The art piece I created started off with a metaphor I always hear around the Filipino community:
Bamboo grass is stronger than trees, they say. During a storm, trees can be pulled out of the ground due to strong gusts of wind because they are stiff. While bamboo grass goes with the flow of wind that keeps them grounded. This is a story of resilience. Filipinos tend to be resilient and strong even in times of calamities. Filipinos are able to remain standing even after a huge storm, just like bamboo grass.
I wanted to use this metaphor but twist it similar to the way bamboo gets broken down, frayed, gnawed at, and exhausted. I identify strongly with my Filipino roots, but it took a while to get here because of how I was forced to assimilate to the American culture. Reflecting on my life thus far had me thinking of all the times I was oppressed, discriminated against, and bullied for being a woman of color and especially being Asian.
This bamboo grass symbolizes my experience of oppression. It tries to stand tall and resilient like how our parents raised us, but it has been bandaged, with pieces falling off, and leaves dying. The colors have faded, and the sticks are slowly fading from bright green to brown because of exhaustion from carrying weight, anger, frustration, and sadness from the hatred by others just because it looks different. My symbols for female, Philippines, and United States are on the sides, frayed and falling apart. These have been the prominent labels of my identity I’ve received a lot of grief over. But although this bamboo is falling apart and losing color, it is still standing tall – representing my will to continue fighting and standing up for myself in hostile environments.
About the Authors
Tina Tran
Lisa Cheng
Tina was born and raised in Anaheim, California along with her brother and 4 dogs. She graduated from UC Riverside in 2020 and am currently working as a medical assistant. She is an aspiring physician assistant and hopes to serve low-income populations in need. A fun fact about her is she was also crowned Miss Vietnam of Southern California in 2020. She is proud to have grown up around strong, independent women who have inspired her to work hard towards my goals.
Lisa is a first generation Chinese-American based out of Chicago, Illinois. At AMHC, Lisa serves as the Director of Human Resources. Inspired by community organizers, Lisa is especially passionate about addressing structural and systemic change. She is dedicated to addressing mental health in a grassroots, community-first manner. Lisa’s personal mission is “to do good,” and this led her to study for her Master’s of Social Work at the University of Chicago. As someone who sees a therapist every week, Lisa aims to help destigmatize mental health in the Asian community by normalizing therapy and conversations about mental health
By: Tina Tran and Lisa Cheng
The month of March brings us to highlight important Asian women in our community Asian women activists, Asian women advocates, and last but certainly not least, Asian women social workers. The Asian Mental Health Collective is honored to feature Jacklyn Tyson, Catt Phan, and Cookie Duong.
Jaclyn Tyson
Jaclyn Tyson, Social Worker:
What is your current role? What populations do you serve?:
I am a clinician for a non-profit that specializes in supporting victims of trauma. I work with victims of crime: domestic violence, sexual assault/rape, child abuse, and homicide.
Why did you choose social work as your career?:
I chose social work because I knew that I wanted to help marginalized communities, help individuals heal, and do my part in systems change.
What is one thing you want others to know about social work as a profession?:
Social workers are found in many different organizations of the community. We work within systems to make lasting change.
How has your role as an Asian woman shaped the way you navigate through the world?:
My role as an Asian woman has allowed me to understand oppression as a person of color, and it has given me the empathy to understand how other minority cultures may feel. It has also allowed me to experience the stigma behind mental health, which was the reason I went into the field. I want to de-stigmatize mental health, not only in the Asian community but in all communities of color. In my experience, it was difficult to open up about my own experience due to the expectations put upon me, and I want to be an example to others.
Cookie Duong, Activist:
Could you explain what cause your activism is centered around?
I think of myself as an accidental activist, having stumbled upon the niche, but the increasingly problematic double issue of media literacy and generational gap. Like many other immigrant groups, the Vietnamese-American community is plagued by false news due to the immutable language barrier, as well as the lack of mainstream and long-term media infrastructure. We lack our own versions of the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, CNBC, or CNN, so to speak. This vacuum has been compounded by generational trauma and the lingering effects of Cold War and Red Scare politics (most of the current Viet diaspora is made up of people who once fled the communist regime), quickly radicalizing people in the older generations and alienating their children. Back in May 2020, at the zenith of the Black Lives Matter protests, this widening generational chasm could not be more clear to me. Conversations between my father and me surrounding police brutality and the plight of Black Americans would go nowhere, so I decided, if I could not convince my own parent, maybe I could do it with somebody else’s. And that was how The Interpreter was born. It is a Vietnamese language news aggregator with more than 50 volunteers translating and editing English-language news articles from reputable sources into Vietnamese — a modest effort from the younger generation to reach back towards our own community and bring it forward. I think this project has struck a common chord with many of my peers who have also been struggling to communicate with their parents about topics like social justice, racism, or politics at large. I think that by bridging the language gap, we are doing our part to help create a dialogue for two generations shaped by such vastly different experiences. I hope to soon see a Viet diaspora that is better informed, more empathic toward one another, and wholly healed from the wounds of war.
Cookie Duong
How do you feel like your activism has been impacted by your identity as a woman?
I believe in the intersectionality of being a woman and Southeast Asian activist. Navigating the online space occupied by conservative and mostly older men, I have encountered the double whammy of ageism and sexism countless times. I have been called “brainwashed,” dismissed for my looks and my identity as a first-gen American. The pressure is even more tangible within my family. My mother strongly believes that my ambitions, my outspokenness, and my “frigidity” will drive potential partners away. I am lucky to have been raised by a father who wanted daughters instead of having settled for one. However, this mindset, unfortunately, persists to the most progressive members of my parents’ generation. The silver lining in all this is that I truly believe that my lived experience as a Southeast Asian woman in this society has made me more keenly aware of the inequity that persists between dominant groups and minorities — things like one’s grasp of the dominant language, resources available to immigrant communities, disproportionate investments, and outcomes that come in the form of congressional bills or language access. If anything, the older generation’s attitude has made me much more convinced to continue contributing to our community, serving as a role model for any Viet woman (or man) who follows my story, and setting a new tone for our community in this increasingly diverse country.
Cat Phan
Catt Phan, Activist:
Could you explain what cause your activism is centered around?
There is a Vietnamese proverb, “uống nước nhớ nguồn,” that calls you to remember your roots and the kindness that people have shown to you. It is the foundation on which I have built my career by advocating for marginalized communities, especially low-income immigrants and Southeast Asian women. My activism is intersectional so it is difficult to attach it to only one cause. However, I am particularly passionate about dismantling white supremacy, reforming our immigration system, advocating for survivors, and uplifting BIPOC voices. I am because we are. None of us are free until all of us are free so it is imperative for us to commit ourselves to the lifelong pursuit of social justice.
How do you feel like your activism has been impacted by your identity as a woman?
Living with my grandmother and being raised by a single mom, I grew up with the knowledge that while trauma can be relentless, resilience is woven into my genetic and cultural makeup. The women I lived with were strong, passionate, gentle, and captured the attention of everyone they met. My mom and grandmother taught me how to speak, but I truly learned how to speak out to empower others during my first year of college. I was taking an introduction to sociology class and the professor was offering extra credit to those who attended a rally led by survivors of sexual violence. This changed my life. I saw these young women speaking about their pain and hurt without shame. I saw them take up space while making space for others. What ended up being an extra credit assignment led to over 100 students and me engaging in a nine-hour sit-in at the Chancellor’s office calling for the university to accept 12 demands intended to reform UCSB’s sexual violence policies. Now more than ever, I am so proud to be a Southeast Asian American woman. But for the first time, I am scared of how people will react to it. Asian women are not objects. We are not the source of temptation, hate, shame, nor resentment. We are stronger than that and we will continue to rise above the ashes as we always do.
About the Authors
Tina Tran
Lisa Cheng
Tina was born and raised in Anaheim, California along with her brother and 4 dogs. She graduated from UC Riverside in 2020 and am currently working as a medical assistant. She is an aspiring physician assistant and hopes to serve low-income populations in need. A fun fact about her is she was also crowned Miss Vietnam of Southern California in 2020. She is proud to have grown up around strong, independent women who have inspired her to work hard towards my goals.
Lisa is a first generation Chinese-American based out of Chicago, Illinois. At AMHC, Lisa serves as the Director of Human Resources. Inspired by community organizers, Lisa is especially passionate about addressing structural and systemic change. She is dedicated to addressing mental health in a grassroots, community-first manner. Lisa’s personal mission is “to do good,” and this led her to study for her Master’s of Social Work at the University of Chicago. As someone who sees a therapist every week, Lisa aims to help destigmatize mental health in the Asian community by normalizing therapy and conversations about mental health
By: Dorothy Vu
The night before February 12, 2021, I was working late hours when I opened up a group text message exchange between my mom and sister:
Sister: Is your house completely clean?
Mom: Not really but it’s good enough. No need to stress. I didn’t clean much…
Sister: Ok, but I can hear grandma saying you have to…
I looked at the time—it was 9:30 PM. As well-intentioned my mom always was whenever she said things like, “no need to stress,” those words would often set my anxiety into motion and “stress” me out even more. Panic and anguish bubbled up inside of me as I thought about the dirty dishes in the sink, the overflowing trash can, and all the cardboard boxes I had yet to recycle. I had less than three hours to clean my condo before midnight—to rid my home of any bad luck before the start of Tết (Lunar New Year in Vietnamese). While I hadn’t been the best at following Tết traditions in recent years, this time I was determined to do as much as I could in the absence of the one person who would always remind me to uphold these long-held beliefs growing up: my bà ngoại (maternal grandma).
On September 7, 2020, I lost my bà ngoại to a years-long battle with chronic heart failure. In her 83 years of life, she survived being held at gunpoint by Viet Cong soldiers, a near fatal car accident, two open-heart surgeries, and raising six children as a Vietnamese refugee and as a single mother in America. She was the matriarch of my big family, and a second mother to me during times when my parents were busy at work and couldn’t access after-school or summer childcare.
It was my first time losing someone I was close to, and the grief consumed me to the point where I started having frequent panic attacks. Her death reignited my fear of mortality and the resulting numbness of existential dread. It didn’t help that COVID-19 was an ongoing threat and that I was already isolated living on my own. I began to experience what the psychology articles and my therapist referred to as dissociative episodes, which specifically involved the sensations of detaching from my mind and body (depersonalization) and detaching from my surroundings (derealization). I had experienced panic attacks with some dissociation in the past, but my symptoms were usually nausea, tremors, shortness of breath, and fainting. In these new episodes, I felt high without the drugs, as if I were living in some sort of alternate reality. I was a bystander to my own actions and thoughts, unable to focus even in the moments when I was interacting with friends and family in person. Life continued to play out in front of me, but I was nonreactive to almost everything—the good and the bad. For several months, the world around me often appeared three shades dimmer.
Like many of those who have lost a loved one recently, my family was unable to properly mourn and comfort one another due to COVID-19 constraints. We handled the funeral arrangements through several contentious Zoom calls among four generations of our family across the globe, and the funeral itself was limited to only fifteen of us—masks on, outside, six-feet apart, with forty or so others on Zoom. Without bà ngoại, and in the midst of a pandemic, we were disconnected. At the same time, her death gave us a new reason to come together.
Throughout my childhood, bà ngoại was the one who connected everyone in my family for reunions and smaller gatherings, but also to the best hairdressers, bakers, and car mechanics in the area. For twenty years she worked in immigration law, helping countless families in the Falls Church community of Northern Virginia as they navigated life in a new country. Whenever she took me to Eden Center, a historic Vietnamese strip mall in Falls Church, we would always run into someone who knew her, and she would score us the best bargains on food and merchandise. As the heart and soul of our family, she was also the one who would host our annual Lunar New Year celebration.
Tết at bà ngoại’s house was always the same. The parents would play blackjack for hours on end while the kids alternated between playing Nintendo 64 and bầu cua cá cọp, a Vietnamese variation of a Lunar New Year’s gambling game. On the long oval dining table, bà ngoại would prepare a large spread of Vietnamese dishes, many of which she had cooked herself. Before digging into the lavish feast, we would lay out the food onto a wooden altar and pray to the spirits of our visiting ancestors through an aroma of fresh flowers and burning incense sticks.
Over the years as bà ngoại’s health declined, my mom and her siblings took turns hosting Tết, and the traditions began to disappear. Sometimes the most we ever did was order food, wear red, and pass out Li Xi (lucky money). Even bà ngoại would let most of the traditions go, but she’d never fail to call my mom and tell us to do two things: clean our houses before the start of Tết, and pray to our ancestors to ensure a prosperous year ahead. This year, however, the reminders came from my mom and sister. Tired from work and worried that I was already starting off the year with bad luck, I finally responded:
Me: Yeah I didn’t clean much either. Can I clean tomorrow morning?
Mom: No cleaning until the second day.
Me [at 12:05 AM]: I just finished cleaning…hope that’s okay.
The tradition of honoring ancestors during Tết–one that my family had long forgotten–carries an even greater weight now that my grandma is gone. My mom began building her altar the day after she passed, throwing together an assemblage of old furniture, Buddha statues, bowls, and other trinkets that bà ngoại had once owned. The first time I saw the altar in its entirety was during Thanksgiving dinner, our first holiday without her. But the moment my mom set out the food and incense, the room grew darker. I faded out. For thirty minutes I ate and responded on autopilot, ignoring the fact that I couldn’t process a word my mom was saying to me.
A few days later, I brought up this experience to my therapist. “You’re still grieving, and we’re still in a pandemic,” she said. “Allow yourself time.”
Heeding the CDC warnings about gathering during Christmas, my mom and I decided to take a break and celebrate the next holiday through Zoom. I breathed a sigh of relief as I avoided another potential trigger to my dissociative episodes. Once Lunar New Year came around, and I thought about its significance to my family, I knew I had to try again. I quarantined and got COVID-19 tested in order to spend the first day of Tết with my mom.
We were in good spirits the entire day, and although it was just the two of us, my mom and I found new ways to celebrate with others despite the physical distance. We shared photos, jokes, and well wishes in our family chat–a channel our relatives had continued to keep up with ever since bà ngoại left us. My older sister FaceTimed us from New York, showing us the delicious bao buns she had made from scratch. At night, my mom replicated our usual feast, complete with homemade bánh chưng, a glutinous rice cake filled with mung bean and pork. And she built upon the altar some more, putting together the most beautiful bright red floral arrangement that towered behind a portrait of bà ngoại in her favorite lucky red blazer. I smiled as I thought about what bà ngoại would’ve said if she were there in person–how she would’ve criticized the asparagus soup that my mom had overcooked or shaken her head at my feeble attempt to clean my condo in time.
That night as I stared at the impressive spread that lay between her portrait and me, I tensed up, bracing myself for the panic symptoms. They didn’t come. I wondered if this meant I was healing. I could see how strong my grandma’s presence was within these traditions, and how it grounded me more in the present than I had ever been in months.
I stepped up to the altar, pressed my hands together, bowed my head, and closed my eyes.
“Chúc mừng năm mới, bà ngoại.”
I wished my grandma a happy new year and said farewell to the Year of the Rat—her zodiac sign–making peace with the most challenging year of my life.
About the Author
Dorothy Vu
Dorothy is a Vietnamese American writer, digital storyteller, and mental health worrier-turned-warrior. She works as a communications specialist for a national education organization based in Washington, D.C. and is studying to get her MA in creative fiction writing at Johns Hopkins University. She is a contributor for The Mighty, where she has written about her struggles with anxiety and depression. Dorothy is passionate about lifting up the stories and experiences of communities that don’t always have the platform to share their voices. She believes words are powerful, stories matter, and hope will always win. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram @doryvu.
My mother immigrated to the US from Vietnam almost 40 years ago. When she got married, she opted to keep her last name; when my brother and I were born, we were given my father’s last name. But shortly after I turned 2 years old, my parents got divorced and my mom raised me from that point onwards by herself. Looking back, I admire my mother for her strength and resilience during my childhood years. She was a single mother of two, an immigrant, and had dropped out of college to raise us — but she still managed to show us love, celebrated our achievements, and encouraged us to chase our dreams. So the year before I graduated from my university, I legally changed my name from “Nguyen” to “Quach” so that my diploma would reflect her name! As a first generation graduate, I hoped that this would also let my mom feel like my accomplishment was also hers. She knew the day I went into court to change my name and cried super hard when I showed her the court-approved documents. While I didn’t actually get to walk the stage for graduation due to the pandemic, I still was able to get some great grad photos with her to commemorate the moment! (We’re wearing ao dais, which are traditional Vietnamese outfits. I’m wearing white for graduation, but they can come in many different colors and patterns, as you can see with my Mom in her gold variation.) So here we are 🙂 Mother and daughter, always Quach and finally Quach.
The major event that has influenced my mental health journey was my father’s passing from lung cancer in 2019. His 15 years of fighting it have truly solidified my identity as Filipino-American and affected my coping skills and how I viewed grief/bereavement. It has also influenced my career path as an art therapist and counselor.
My dad’s fight with cancer for so long proves his resiliency, especially since it’s a value in my culture. I struggled a lot with my identity. Seeing up close the Filipino values of resiliency and being with my family has helped me ground myself and my values – if anything, it has solidified something I’ve always questioned or was unsure about. I’ve learned to be more patient and to never really make set plans as life can throw things a lot at you. It’s better not to have expectations but to be adaptable to the ebbs and flows of life. This has dramatically helped with my anxiety and needs for control to protect my feelings.
While my dad was going through chemo, dance was my main outlet to distract myself. I hadn’t danced in 10 years and just went back to it in 2017. With some excellent teachers and choreographers, I went into dance classes learning how to be much more expressive with my movement. It greatly influenced how I approached my art therapy practices – the freeness of expression without judgment. Moving around helped me with my stress, and my dad was always an advocate of dance for me, so him seeing me go to classes made him happy.
His journey also influenced how I connected with the community, specifically the running community. In 2017, I ran twelve 5k charity races, one race each month. I ran my first one with Lungevity – a lung cancer organization – and raised money and awareness for them in honor of my dad, who was still alive at the time. The race was very emotional for me, I even had my ankle injury, but I always pushed through thinking about how my dad continued to fight and didn’t give up. In 2018, I ran two half marathons, and then in 2019, I decided to run the Chicago Marathon in honor of my dad. I kept raising money for Lungevity, and he was so excited to know I was running it. Unfortunately, he passed before the actual race, but I continued training and had a lot of support in raising funds from my boxing gym, art groups, classmates, and so forth. The marathon experience is probably something I won’t ever forget, and I’m continuing onto the NYC marathon and raising more awareness and research funds for lung cancer.
Outside of these physical coping skills, I challenged myself to talk openly about my dad’s experiences deteriorating and grieving his death. The summer after he passed away, I committed to seeing a therapist. She helped me in developing my path and understanding of grieving and acceptance. Now more than ever, I feel a strong tie to mental health, and this experience has helped me in my path as a counseling/art therapists working with cancer patients and their caregivers.
I now work with oncology and stroke/rehabilitation patients in my clinical practicum. Because of this experience, I’ve become interested in researching how grief/bereavement is viewed in different cultures to be a multiculturally competent therapist working with families from all different backgrounds.
GROWING UP, I WAS TERRIBLE AT EXPRESSING MYSELF. Especially the uncomfortable things like my emotions. I followed the Model Minority myth, got the good grades, kept my head down, respected authority, but avoided conflict at all costs. As you can tell, that didn’t help me gain trust as a leader in the workplace, and it wasn’t attractive in dating when I couldn’t stand behind my beliefs and opinions. Admittedly, I’ve hurt quite a few women because I wasn’t able to communicate myself properly and take ownership of my emotions. And it ESPECIALLY wasn’t fulfilling for me to leave behind my child-like joy for writing, singing, and creating videos. I had so many voices in my head from my immigrant parents, and the rest of society, that I wasn’t good enough, man enough, creative enough, smart enough. On top it all, I didn’t have any close relationships or role models of Asian men around me. I love my dad and am grateful for so much he’s provided for me, but I rarely ever felt comfortable expressing my honest self around him without getting judgment or bias towards what he thought I should do. Being raised to then avoid conflict in the name of harmony and humility, I took the safe route and went into technology. And enjoyed my role, but started burning out when I was no longer feeling connected to the meaning and impact behind my work. I was drinking almost every other day. I ate terribly. I woke up late all the time. I didn’t care to reach out to friends. I was irritable and apathetic about my passions. I used to smoke weed to get present and connected, but during my quarter-life crisis, I was using to numb and it made me even more paranoid and anxious. I was also single for over 3 years at that point and felt many bouts of loneliness. I never made a plan, but I did think about how much easier it would be to just end my life. Then I found myself joining a local men’s group, after hearing a popular podcast where the guest talked about men’s emotional work. Everything they said in the interview resonated with my core. It gave me the language to feel what I had been feeling, which then gave me a new perspective on everything. With that new perspective, the way I was looking at the world and at myself changed. I realized that my life was a miracle in itself, coming from a father and mother who both risked their lives coming to America. And I have the unique opportunity to do something meaningful with the privilege that I have. After chasing comfort for most of my life, not only in the tangible world, but within the emotions I felt, I understood that I had to take more physical and emotional risks in my life if I wanted to get out of this debilitating state of apathy.
AFTER MONTHS OF OVERTHINKING. I finally quit my comfy job in 2018 and started writing and producing a podcast. Since then, I’ve been published in the Good Men Project, ThriveGlobal, as well as many Medium publications and have received so many inspiring comments from how my words have created new insights for people in their own journey. My podcast has accumulated thousands of downloads since its launch in 2019 now and I even spoke to 1000+ people on stage to share how I’m (currently) navigating my quarter-life crisis by improving my own emotional intelligence. Many, many, many thanks to the beautiful humans in JRNI to help me through it all. Doing both the inner work and entrepreneurial work made me realize that many of my Asian brothers are missing the space that allows us to feel SAFE talking about feelings without feeling less of a man. Especially those with immigrant parents, who use a lot of shame and authority to tell us what to do, rather than providing the space to explore for ourselves.
BUT THIS ISN’T EVEN ABOUT ME. It’s about the commonalities I’ve found within my community and brothers around these struggles. But the huge gap of safe spaces for Asian men to exercise our emotions, both the positive and negative. I’ve been attending a couple men’s groups over the past couple years, but in both of them, I was the only Asian dude. I’ve developed such meaningful relationships with these men, but none I could connect over my cultural identity. So I decided to start my own. And I’ve called it, the Emotion Dojo. This is the official Asian men’s group and coaching program under the 1200+ Facebook group that I co-run, the Badass Asian Dudes (BAD). Together, the BAD and Emotion Dojo is a support group that aims to empower self-identifying Asian men with emotional intelligence. Many of us are high-achievers, but lack the soft skills to create deeper relationships and take risks within ourselves. I know because I was one of them. And this community, to me, was the big brother I never had. We run a podcast under the same name and bring on other badass Asian dudes to share their wisdom in how they got to where they are.
MY FRIENDS HAVE ALREADY COMPLIMENTED ON MY GROWTH I’ve received a lot of unsolicited feedback from my friends in the past couple years about the change they’ve seen in me. From being that shy, unassertive kid to someone who owns up to his sense of joy, power, and vulnerabilities. I feel honored and grateful (and of course, so much humility to the point of rejection) that my friends even pay attention to me so deeply. And it validates for me that whatever I’m doing, I’m doing it right. And I’m so excited to keep it going.
My name is Jade; I am a 30 year old actress and model. I grew up financially “poor.” I put that in quotations because I never felt poor. However, with working immigrant parents, my diet was largely made up of not the healthiest options – things like frozen TV dinners, Lunchables, and fast food. This led to excess weight, and over the years, I’ve had to go through my own health/fitness journey. I experienced a lot of bullying for my body, as I am more of a slim thiccc Asian gal, which wasn’t “in” back in the day. It deeply affected me and led to eating disorders, body dysmorphia, and abusive relationships for many years. I eventually left my childhood dream of becoming a violinist to pursue acting in college, as I found it to be an escape from my life to have someone else’s momentarily. After graduating with a theater degree, I began to go into TV/Film. Modeling fell into my lap by accident.
A lot of people told me I couldn’t get far – not pretty enough, not skinny enough, not tall enough, not enough representation in Hollywood anyway, etc. I pushed myself to grow as a creative. As a petite lady (5’3”), I’ve walked the runway. I’ve had the pleasure of working closely with the director as a stand-in for Olympian gold medalist Chloe Kim in a Nike x Finish Line commercial. I’ve been published in 7 magazines with full spreads. I’ve had the honor of working closely with the lead designer for a Marvel movie. I’ve been a lead model for Besame Cosmetics. This year, I was asked by Savage X Fenty to do a collab and be an ambassador. All these opportunities helped me grow confidence in myself and my skills as a creative storyteller.
Using my past, I am always pushing for self love, self care, and positivity on my social media platforms. When I valued myself enough to stop self abuse (thinking negatively, judging my body, etc) and to leave abusive relationships, the universe responded with gifts. It’s been 10 years of being in the entertainment industry. My process has been slow but I’ve been so blessed to have the opportunities that I’ve had while staying true to who I am.
