Today, I read an article titled “A Letter to Asian Girls.” Typically, I’m not the type to fall for clickbait, but I begrudgingly clicked with expectations to read something that fetishizes my ethnicity. Instead, I was floored by how much I clung to each and every word and realized how I’m not alone in my struggles.

Growing up in a primarily Caucasian community, I became isolated, being the “token” Asian friend. As a child, I hated myself for my skin tone, my language, and my culture because it made me different and subjected to bullying. I grew tired of the constant questions of “do you eat dog?” “can you read this?” “is it true that you have a tight pussy?” The insensitivity of others made me assimilate into American culture faster. I purposefully didn’t practice Tagalog because it made me different. I purposefully changed my personality and fashion to tailor to those around me.

It wasn’t until I went to college that I found a community that shares the same culture and struggles. People who spoke the same language, who understood the same quirky cultural references, who ate the same food that we all found delicious, and who call the same place home. The author said, “I found comfort in others that experienced the same perpetual feeling of “inbetweeness,” of being a hyphenated identity that would never belong anywhere, forever displaced.” And fuck, that hit close to home.

To my 7 year old self — the bright eyed and bushy tailed girl that came to the US hoping for a better future — I’m so sorry that I was ashamed of who you were. I’m so sorry that I robbed you out of celebrating the beauty of your skin, culture, and identity. Now, at the age of twenty-two, I have more or less come to terms with being Filipino-American. I no longer harbor hatred for an appearance and a culture I never asked for, but I do regret all the nasty words I said to myself in front of a mirror, the years I missed speaking Tagalog, the lumpia, the halo-halo, and pancit I never ate. “I know that I will never be able to leave behind that small shy Asian girl who has been scarred from this white country, but who, in so many ways, has been made strong by what she has endured.”

I was hesitant about sharing something personal on social media, especially because I’m not super comfortable with opening up to people or sharing about myself. But I’m stepping outside of my comfort zone because mental health is so so so important. If I had to describe myself: quiet, shy, reserved, introverted, especially around strangers and in a class full of other students. However, my mind is always buzzing with thoughts and unspoken words. Sometimes, I’m laying in bed wishing I can shut my thoughts off with just one single flick of a switch. Because sometimes, my thoughts are too much for me to handle. It’s just all too much. Too overwhelming. I feel like I’m walking on thin ice. Always rehearsing what I’m going to say inside my head over and over again. Always having to reassure myself that people aren’t judging me. It’s exhausting. I just want to be myself. And I asked myself, “What does it mean to be myself?” This is when I began to focus on my mental health.

Here is a post that I shared a couple weeks ago: Does anyone else feel sad for no reason? Like sadness just pops out and hits you out of nowhere. Hard. And then you start thinking and get even more sad? You just want to turn off all those thoughts swirling inside your head. So you shut your eyes hoping that sleep will fix everything? But sometimes you can’t fall asleep even though you’re dying to do so. You try counting backwards from 1000. You try recalling some pointless formulas or processes you learned. nothing’s working. then what do you do?

I think one of the scariest things in the world is the human mind. We all have it. But each mind is different. No one can ever step inside mine. It’s just me, alone. me and my thoughts. sometimes when I try picturing my mind it’s a room. It’s vast, endless and it’s pitch dark. Lost. Scared. Alone. But other days, I can picture my mind as an endless field of flowers underneath the blue sky scattered with white, fluffy clouds. Like the flower field from Howl’s moving castle. This time, I feel Safe. Warm.

Each day is different. It sucks that it can’t be rainbow and sunshine every single day. It sucks that my mind can’t be full of sunflowers 24/7. But the peace that follows after bawling your eyes out or after feeling like it’s the end of the world makes life bearable. I always remind myself: it’s always too much to take in everything all at once. So instead of focusing on all seven days, focus on 24 hours. If 24 hours is too much, then focus on one. If one hour is too much, take it a minute at a time. If one minute seems too much, just focus on breathing and give your mind and body some break. We don’t have to figure out everything all at once at this moment. Things are kind of all over the place right now. Different. Give yourself the love you deserve. Always. From me to myself. From me to you.

I want to remind myself, and everyone else, to focus on yourself. Be mindful of what our mind and body are telling us. Our feelings are valid. Our thoughts are valid. Sometimes, we just need to take a step back and take a deep breath. Healing takes time. It takes patience. Show yourself compassion and kindness. To me, my mental health journey is about connecting with my feelings and thoughts, learning to be comfortable with myself, and reminding myself that I (we) also deserve love and kindness, always.

My name is Stephanie and I live with high-functioning anxiety. I found out very late in the game that I had anxiety in college and attended therapy sessions to learn about healthy mental habits. But after spending over a decade of coaching figure skating and teaching children, I realize that teaching is the most healing form of reflection and it transformed my anxiety. When you have hundreds of mini-humans mimicking your every move, you start to see how your habits, mindsets, and behaviors impact your students positively or negatively. Teaching makes me practice what I preach about mental health and happiness. Maintaining a healthy mental state allows me to stay present and be an example for my students. Through therapy, supportive loved ones, and teaching, I learned to concentrate on what’s within my locus of control rather than focusing on extraneous factors or outcomes that I can’t change. Although it is a daily struggle to fight against my anxiety, teaching motivates me to maintain a healthy mental state and gives my life purpose in helping my students achieve their version of happiness.

I lost my dad to a stroke during my senior year of high school. As a result, I messed up finals and lost a conditional offer at my dream university. I was also dumped by my first boyfriend around that time. All those things took a massive toll on my depression. Without any concrete university plans, I moved back to my home country to be with my family. This was when I decided to enlist in the military. I thought that it was the best option at the time. Going through basic training and officer cadet training was mentally the hardest thing I have ever done especially because I was also at my worst. I never spoke about my feelings, but I would spend every waking moment feeling empty and wishing I was dead. The intense military training didn’t distract me from any of those thoughts. Being in an incredibly male-dominated environment was harder than I expected. This was the first time in my life that I felt truly alone.

However, I shared a bunk with a girl who became one of my best friends. Despite having personal trauma of her own, she is the most caring person I have ever met and honestly became my lifeline throughout my cadet life. I only wish I was half as strong as she is. Despite my constant mental struggle, she never judged me and constantly pushed me to not give up. I commissioned and am now a lieutenant in the Navy because of her. I have always been introverted and reserved. Before this, I never realized how important it is to have the right people in your life until I met this girl. It was all four years ago. Since then, I’ve learned how to talk about my emotions and open up to people I trust. I’ve made it a point to reach out to others as I firmly believe that no one should have to go through anything alone.

Growing up in a small, predominantly white community, I had always struggled with body image issues and, consequentially, low self-esteem. Often times, it would feel as though my appearance was an inconvenience for others. Peers would often tell me my skin was too dark or my eyes were too small to be pretty. Family would often tell me to ignore their comments, but ironically my classmates weren’t the only ones to tell me what was wrong with me. Family members would often point out other flaws I never knew I had. These comments were always followed by unsolicited advice like pinching the bridge of my nose for a higher nose bridge or rubbing lemon juice on my skin in an attempt to lighten it. At several points in my life, I was even told my voice was too deep for a girl. An aunt of mine would often say I was similar to The Ugly Duckling. They had even provided me a nickname to use at family gatherings: “Tubby [Tiffy]”.

To avoid ridicule, I tried to become invisible. Don’t speak unless spoken to, make no noise when entering rooms, wear “safe” clothes, apologize often, eat meals as needed and save snacks for when no one is looking, avoid as much interaction as possible, don’t make eye contact. Puberty was my only hope at shedding this invisible cloak, I remembered thinking, as the Ugly Duckling had a “glow up” phase which resulted in everyone loving him.

For a while, being invisible worked. Redirecting attention became a skill I could throw onto my resume. I never had to consciously think about how physically (mentally was another story) inadequate I felt in comparison to other women my age. Sometimes I would think that appearance wasn’t tied to my self-worth; that I didn’t have to be pretty and look like other girls because I had other good qualities going for me, like being studious and a hard-worker. After several years, I had finally decided it was safe enough to come out of my invisible shell and allow myself to be- at least somewhat -seen at university. For the first year, I truly believed I was happy with myself and with how life was playing out. The past didn’t seem to matter anymore.

It wasn’t until my second year of university where my mental health took a turn for the worst. During my first semester of sophomore year, I was sexually assaulted by a friend. The incident made me remember how inferior I felt to everyone around me. Several thoughts ran through my head, “Only pretty girls get assaulted, why did this happen to me? Maybe I finally started to look better, and this is what happened as a result. Either way, I must not be as smart as I thought I was to end up in a position like this.” I confided in my (now ex) boyfriend, whom turned his back on me when I told him what had happened. I didn’t just feel ugly anymore, I felt disgusted with myself. The disgust went deeper than my physical appearance and had now tainted any self-worth I had left. Any amount of respect I had for myself dissipated, and I felt unworthy of respect from anyone. I had never felt more alone.

For the following seven months, I never spoke of the incident, but I had heard other versions of what happened that night. “She’s such a slut; I feel so bad for [my ex]- he didn’t deserve to be cheated on; I always knew she was easy; she’s not even that pretty, he could’ve done better.” I pretended everything was normal and tried to retreat into my old invisible ways. My normal soon became only sleeping 2 hours during the day and none at night, several panic attacks a week, obsessively checking if the doors and windows to my dorm room were locked every night, poor grades, skipping meals, and showering once a week if I had gathered enough energy to do so. Towards the end of the semester, a friend intervened, and I told her everything. She helped me file a report with the university and schedule an appointment with the university counselor, whom diagnosed me with severe depression and anxiety.

After completing my sophomore year, I took some time off from university and moved back home. I finally told my mother what had happened beginning with the assault and ending with my counseling sessions at the school. In hindsight, telling her felt like a mistake that needed to be made. I had opened up in hopes of being welcomed with support and assistance in finding a therapist closer to home, however I was met with more guilt, shame, and victim-blaming. Part of her response which shocked me the most was to consider the inconvenience I may have caused the perpetrator by filing the report. “You caused too much problem for him because you[‘re] stupid,” I remember her saying. Shortly after, instead of being called outright “Tubby” by family members, my new nickname evolved into whispers of the word “whore” behind my back. Instead of providing me advice to make myself more attractive as they had previously, I was now given advice on how to become invisible again.

Over the few years, my mental health continued to fluctuate, as I had finally accepted that I needed help but was still too afraid of others’ reactions to reach out. “Victim” seemed to be the term that I allowed to identify me. The loneliness associated with it engulfed me, which only sent me deeper into my depression and exacerbated my anxiety. But this loneliness also forced me to reevaluate every aspect of myself. My self-esteem and self-worth were already in the gutter when it happened; the assault was just the tipping point. Although I may have been a victim, I didn’t want it to define me for the rest of my life. It may have broken me, but it gave me a chance to rebuild and learn about myself in ways I never could have. It gave me a chance to truly love myself inside and out instead of faking it. I am not a victim; I am a survivor.

Everyday is a different, and every day is hard in their own ways. Although some days can be generally good, and other days generally bad, everyday I try to make peace with what I had once seen as flaws and to forgive myself for the self-inflicted abuse and mistreatment. Forgiveness wasn’t the easiest thing I had to learn, however I found peace in letting go of all of the anger and pain inside me. There are days I wish it didn’t play out like this- that I still wonder “why me” and “if only I had done this, then it would have never happened”. But ultimately, it has shaped me into someone I know Tubby would be extremely proud of today.

I started taking mental health seriously when my sister was diagnosed with mild depression late last year. My family has always been full of critique when it came to mine and my sister’s bodies. From weight, face shape, skin colour, and beauty in general. Over about 12 years of my sister’s life (she’s 27 now) she has been exposed to numerous ‘jokes’ from my family about her body. It became so pent up and destructive inside that one day, she had no feelings or reactions to whatever my mum said about her. The one most disgusting thing my mother said to her was, “Hey, don’t you want to be skinny? Don’t you want a man to like you and marry you?”. It was a horrendous thing to say to someone and its never left my mind.

Before she was diagnosed I hadn’t realised the extent of my responsibility in caring about her feelings and mental health too. Her struggles were voiced to me and I would listen but I could never give her proper advice, just opinions. She finally found the courage to seek therapy and she has been happier and much more positive about herself. At times she finds doubts about her body and feels ‘fat’ or ‘ugly’, but I would deflect it and speak words of truth and encouragement about what shes wearing or about her body. In a way, I’m glad she’s gone through this because it was the only way for her to grow stronger and realise the negativity coming from within.

——

Personally, I have issues about my body image as well. Largely stemming from my mother and sometimes father but a portion of my negativity is drawn from social media too.

I used to wear baggy clothes to hide how small my butt was or wear large hoodies to hide my belly. My mother would call me fat on some days or too skinny on others. Sometimes my dad would see a pimple on my face and tease me about why I had so many, “Are you planning on selling them? You have a whole farm there!” It may seem lighthearted at first but to hear something you felt embarrassed about everyday was unnerving.

However, it began to change when I got into a LDR with my boyfriend. Our trust grew and eventually I began to tell him the thoughts about myself, all the shame and disgust I had about my body. In response, he gave me so much love and care for my feelings. Every doubt I had about my body was remade into something I started to love. His existence in my journey continues to reinforce the significance of another person’s help and care when it comes to body image and mental health as a whole. It reminds me that I have a role in my sister’s journey too.

My mental health journey had started many years ago but I was afraid in confronting it. The fear was hard to overcome but it was worth every little bit of energy and bravery in me to finally realise that what I was thinking wasn’t true.

Its a continuing battle everyday but it’s worth the sacrifice I have put in to achieve the position I am in today.

To begin, I have always thought I was a quiet introverted person, the kind that just listened, hung in the background, and did not speak. I have come to realize that the feeling was due to the traumas and environment I grew up in. I grew up in a household where both of my parents worked, emotions were rarely expressed and being criticized for the things I did and my looks. I was being pushed by a toxic mother to be that stereotyped Asian girl who was light skinned, skinny, dainty, who would end up in the medical field. My sibling was also abusive, physically and mentally. School life was not any better. I had bullies all throughout school, the same group that would grow in number as each level of education increased. Teachers saw and heard but did not intervene. To throw into the mix, sexual traumas occurred when I was in middle school and high school.

I feel like I have been dealing with depression since elementary school and probably anxiety. I just did not have a name for it then. I put a name to it in middle school when I developed anorexia from the pressure of being skinny, even though I was already at my ideal weight. So there was that, add to it the toxic mother, bullies and trauma. Add all that up, and you get a person who just wanted to get away from it all. At first, it was to graduate so I can get into college. That way, I can get away from my toxic mother and begin my journey to be a therapist; cliché isn’t it?

My mental health started to deteriorate when I was in my first year of college. I am the type of person who is aware of myself, after the first semester of college I could feel myself slipping into a bad depression and asked to take a semester off, but my mother said no. That semester was a whirlwind of what not to do and life lessons. I ended up underweight from anorexia, drank, did drugs, participated in other reckless activities, and attempted multiple suicide attempts. It was after a major suicide attempt where I was hospitalized, which I became to realize that I was stronger than what I thought I was. I ended up graduating with a bachelors in psychology and nursing. I currently work as a psychiatric nurse and will be starting classes to become a psychiatric mental health practitioner beginning of next year.

I have been diagnosed with depression, anxiety, anorexia, and PTSD, probably should be C-PTSD. I started seeing a therapist, surprisingly, when I was sixteen after my mother found out about one of the sexual traumas that occurred. I wanted to see a therapist before that but did not know how nor want to bring that subject up with my parents. I was going to wait until college when it would be provided by the school. Unfortunately, I was not comfortable yet with speaking with the therapists about my emotions and experiences until about a year ago. I began to open up to my therapist who I have been with about ten years now about my trauma and being upfront about what I was feeling. I also started EMDR for PTSD and a nutritionist for my disordered eating. I also felt more free and happy after getting away from the toxic environment that I was in, as I was living with my abusive sibling.

I found Asian Mental health Collective where I came to realize I was not the only person dealing with experiences that I have had. I was able to have my experiences validated and not have them pushed to the side. I have the support of my boyfriend who have been there since the college years and been through it all with me. I know my mental health journey is continuous and there will be setbacks, relapses to major depression and anorexia but with the supports I have I know I will be ok. I am that type of person who sets goals, once I accomplish it; I set a new goal, whether big or small. Currently I am trying to understand my Asian identity and learn how mental health plays a role. My current goal is to practice as a nurse practitioner, providing mental health services to the Asian community and break the generational divide/stigma about mental health. My hope for the future is that although mental health is more talked about, there is still a stigma when it comes to certain mental illnesses and speaking about ones mental health in the workplace. I want people to be able to speak about mental health as if it was as common as high blood pressure. In the end, my journey has just started as I have learned I am not that shy quiet introverted girl, I am actually smart, confident and driven woman.

Progress is rarely linear, and managing mental health is no exception. But even with this knowledge, it’s hard not to get discouraged when life throws you a curveball or you slip into bad habits that you’ve worked so hard to kick. I’ve had a lot of stops and starts in my life: sometimes, I’m a paragon of productivity and responsibility; other times, I struggle to get out of bed and do basic things to take care of myself. It’s been five years since my first mental health diagnosis, and I still don’t really know what I’m doing when it comes to managing it. That uncertainty has given me many things: fear, self-loathing, confusion, but, most surprisingly, peace. That peace isn’t constant, nor is it always comforting, but over time, I’ve become more comfortable with my own fallibility and the ups and downs of life. By sharing my story, I hope others can see how it’s okay to stumble and royally screw up in your mental health journey. Recovery isn’t about never making mistakes, but about learning from and being kind to yourself when you make them. 

In 2015, I was hospitalized, diagnosed with depression and anxiety, and forced to take a hard look at myself and my mental health. Up to this point, I had not acknowledged my mental health, chalking my lethargy to laziness and my negativity to academic burnout. Leading up to my hospitalization, I’d been coming to grips with several things: my parents’ divorce, my codependent friendships, my conflicted feelings over my faith, and my growing awareness of my family’s long history with mental illness. It was incredibly eye-opening and empowering to put a name to my experiences – my feelings of sadness and hopelessness weren’t just signs of something being broken or wrong with me, but were a mental illness that I could learn to manage and heal from. I would be lying if I said this was the last or lowest moment of my mental health, but it was the first time I made the active decision to get help. Victories are victories, no matter how small, and despite the ups and downs in my mental health journey since then, I still look back at this moment and feel proud at how far I’ve come.

That being said, I still have a lot of struggles surrounding my mental health. One of the biggest challenges that I keep returning to is the idea of identity. As debilitating as my depression can sometimes be, it’s very tempting to feel like it defines me. Or in other words, that it makes me unique, and without it, I would be lost. Depression has shaped my values and worldview so much that it’s hard to imagine the person I would be without it. In times of recovery, I catch myself missing feeling sad or hopeless. I catch myself wanting to self-sabotage just because it feels right and familiar to go back to a place of suffering. I feel scared that I’m going to lose who I am if I recover from my mental illnesses. What I find the most insidious thing about depression and anxiety is not that they try to devalue you, but that they villainize change. 

I used to describe myself by saying, “I am depressed,” or “I am anxious.” But I’ve changed that to “I have depression” or “I have anxiety.” It’s a small change, but it comes from a major personal realization I had about romanticizing my mental illness: I just have depression, depression isn’t me. Depression can shape who I am, but it doesn’t own who I am. And by managing my depression, I won’t lose a part of myself, but will just grow and evolve into a person who, at the end of the day, is still Camille. 

I believe that the future is bright for discussions around mental health. Within the past five years, I’ve seen a massive change in how people address such issues, and I don’t see the same stigmas of mental illness being mental “weakness” thrown around as much as they used to. While access to healthcare will continue to be an ongoing challenge for the U.S., I think that compassionate awareness of mental health will only continue to grow in the coming years. 

“Her legs…they just aren’t made for ballet, you know?” The instructor told my mom. I tried to pretend I didn’t hear. But the words stuck with me. What was wrong with my legs? Sure, I was clumsy and was not great at ballet anyway, but what about my legs made me bad at it? I did not understand the depth of the statement, but all I knew was that it made me feel bad about my body. I was 6.

Although ballet wasn’t for me, I loved moving my body. After trial and error with many sports, I found my love for swimming. I loved to race, I loved to compete, and I loved to win. Even from a young age, I was strong and muscular. Yet, the comments about my body persisted. “If your legs weren’t so big, you’d be prettier.” What did being pretty have anything to do with swimming fast? I shrugged it off, but I felt like my body was the problem for some reason. I was 8.

I was an early bloomer and hit puberty earlier than the other girls in school. My hips and my legs filled out, and I felt awkwardly large. I didn’t move through the water the same way and as a result, my progress slowed. And to my dismay, my legs got bigger. The comments about my body persisted. “The pretty girls are all thin, once you quit swimming you’ll be pretty like them.” I was 12.

I remember looking into the mirror, pulling at my legs, tears in my eyes. I would force my legs into the smallest size I could manage without suffocating. The comments about my body were masked now, in magazines, TV shows, and music videos. “If you were a size 0, you’d be pretty,” they told me. I remember looking into the same mirror after school, staring at the imprints my jeans tattooed into my skin. I hated my legs. I hated pictures. I hated that every single time I showed up to practice in a suit that people had to see my legs. I frankly did not even care that I was among the top performers in my sport. I hated my body. I was 14.

“A hungry swimmer is a fast swimmer,” my coach told me as she snatched my snacks away from me at a meet. I was burning thousands of calories a day. It was physically impossible for me to eat the calories needed to keep weight on. Yet, the comments persisted. My coach routinely talked behind my back about how my body fit in my suit; my teammates bullied me for the way I carried myself and the way my body looked in my suit. I was 23.

No matter what age I am or what shape I’m in, the comments will persist. However, the relationship I have with my body has changed. Through all the negativity, my legs did and still do amazing things. My legs–they walk, they run, they jump, they kick. My legs have carried me to victory in every race. My legs have taken me up mountains, through oceans, and around the world. My legs matter so much more than the way they fit in jeans or the way they fill out a dress. I have hard days still, where I feel like I am not enough. But my body is more than enough, and I am enough.

My name is Henry Zhu. I have a PhD in Clinical Psychology from Hofstra University. I am first and foremost a father and a husband. Next, I am a therapist, a gamer, and a producer of music. I’m writing this in hopes that you may relate somewhat and to slowly break down the mental health stigma that is pervasive in the Asian, Pacific Islander, & Desi American (APIDA) communities. In honoring Mental Awareness Month and Asian Heritage Month, I write this in hope to humanize and to normalize all of our mental health journeys towards wellness.

My journey starts with being born and raised in a Chinese American family. My parents were immigrants to the United States and had to work 2-3 jobs at a time to provide for the family. Academic success, grades, and certificates of accomplishment were prioritized above any sense of validation, affection, or emotional intelligence. They valued the only path towards success they knew in their world. As a result, I grew up feeling as though I always fell short of their expectations despite doing very well academically. Even though they felt so very disconnected from me, I recognize now that they did their best to raise me. Now I have the privilege of breaking the cycle, and to provide a different kind of life for my child.

My mental health concerns didn’t come to the forefront until high school. I was ignorant of the effects of being from two very different worlds – my Chinese world and my American world. I felt trapped between the two, and I didn’t feel free to find my identity in either one. There was a lot of pressure to conform but very little guidance or mentorship. I realized in senior year of high school that I was deeply depressed and anxious. I was unhappy and felt lost in the world. I was anxious because I didn’t fit in with the Eastern world or the Western world. I saw an Asian school psychologist and an Asian psychiatrist who were both very unhelpful. I left both services feeling as though I were broken and that the solution to “fixing” myself had slipped my grasp despite professional help that I wrongly assumed would understand me. Long story short, I then took my mental health into my own hands by seeking more helpful sources of healing and coping. For me, it took years of introspection, years of self-help, and the courage to give myself compassion during the long and arduous journey. I’m in a much better headspace now and I know there’s still a long way to go.

If you’re still with me, thank you so much for reading this far. I ventured into the mental health field to prevent others from feeling the same way that I did – invisible. That’s a story for another time. I want to disillusion you – the work in the mental health field is difficult and the pay is not glamorous, but I personally wouldn’t trade it for the world. I’m privileged to know I’ve been able to provide for those in need in a different way than the care I’ve received in the past. Mental wellness, to me, is a life-long battle – we can fight against the tides or we can ride the waves to calmer water. It’s not our fault we are put in the situations we grow up in. However, we can slowly take responsibility for our physical and mental wellness. Let’s surf the waves together to provide others with the tools to surf alongside.

To end – I’m genuinely inspired by the younger generations of today – for having the courage to understand their own mental and physical wellness needs. But it doesn’t stop there, I am floored by the number of people willing to be vulnerable online and to share their stories along with others who have taken the time to validate and to support each other. I am proud of the community that’s been built. If you’re just starting off on your mental health journey the community welcomes you. This is how we heal and break the cycles of stigma. We’re in this together.