March 2021 forever changed my perspective. Elderly Asian-Americans were attacked daily on the streets, and Asian women couldn’t leave their homes without fear. Innocent Asian-Americans were blamed for causing the COVID-19 virus, and it resulted in violence. While I wasn’t personally affected by anti-Asian hate, I’m a member of the AAPI community, and we were all grieving. The racism and bigotry towards Asian-Americans placed a mental strain on me. It was difficult to comprehend my role in the movement, as I’m a Chinese-American adoptee who has white parents. I didn’t have any grandparents, aunties, uncles, or cousins who were affected. My small rural town doesn’t have an Asian-American community, and I didn’t experience increased racism or discrimination from the pandemic. The experiences of Asian-Americans are constantly overshadowed in the media. We’re expected to keep our heads down and be the “model minority.” Quiet, meek, smart, and hard-working. Despite not directly experiencing anti-Asian hate, I feel the impact of March 2021 in my bones. I am a woman of color and a member of the AAPI community, and I’m still reeling from the events. The AAPI community has experienced so much loss over the past two years. While I wish it hadn’t happened this way, my community is finally getting the recognition we deserve. The Stop AAPI Hate movement has uplifted the voices of my community and empowered Asian-Americans and Pacific Islanders. Other communities showed their support by standing in solidarity with the AAPI community. The voices of Asian-Americans are finally being heard on social media, and resources have been shared to spread awareness. Asian-Americans are refusing to be the “model minority.” AAPI voices are joining the fight for social justice and equality for communities of color. We’re taking action when others expect us to do the opposite. Social media continues to bridge the gap between races, and the Stop AAPI Hate movement is helping Asian-Americans gain the justice they deserve. With greater resources and media attention, AAPI members refuse to be unheard and underrepresented. The movement helped me realize my place within the AAPI community. I felt led to advocate and spread awareness for Asian-American voices, and I used my social media platforms to educate others. As a transracial adoptee, I’ve always felt conflicted about my identity and role in the AAPI community, but I was grieving alongside them in small-town rural Kentucky. My background doesn’t diminish the microaggressions I experienced growing up in a predominantly white area. The movement has shifted my perspective and the viewpoints of so many others. The Stop AAPI Hate movement speaks volumes about the strength of my community and the impact of social media. My community did nothing to deserve the violence and racism inflicted on them, and it spurred us to action. I’m grateful that the movement highlighted the voices that often go unheard in mainstream media, and I seek to continue spreading awareness for my community. The AAPI community will not be silenced. We’re a strong, resilient, and diverse community that is not the “model minority.”

Filled with a bundle of nerves, I walked into the darkly lit office and plastered a smile on my face. How in the world was I going to tell my deepest, darkest secrets to a stranger? The man seemed friendly enough, but I still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of sitting alone in a room with him. For an entire hour. I instantly resented my mom and sister for dragging me to this session. I didn’t need therapy. Maybe I wasn’t the happy-go-lucky person others were used to seeing, but I thought I would eventually get over it. I had to. It was difficult to describe what I was feeling until my mom came into my room one day and pointed out my change in behavior. I didn’t want to have a so-called mental illness. There wasn’t anything wrong with me. The prolonged feeling of sadness just wouldn’t go away. Growing up in a conservative small town that lacks an accepting and inclusive community led me to believe mental illnesses were the equivalent of being defective. After my therapy sessions, I would cry to my mom for hours in the car and come home to my dad asking, “How was your shrink?” with a smirk on his face. I’ve always been afraid to share my emotions, as a defense mechanism and a way to avoid appearing vulnerable. It never occurred to me that I would be someone who regularly went to therapy. It wasn’t at all like I expected. My therapist, Carl, was dressed in jeans, a flannel, and nothing but socks on his feet. We talked as if I was one of his oldest friends. It wasn’t an analysis of my symptoms of depression or a step-by-step guide on how to cure my mental illness, but rather a real, honest conversation. While it may have been uncomfortable at first to tell him my life story, I have nothing but gratitude for Carl. Our therapy sessions shaped me into the person I am today. I recently looked back at my diary entries over the past two years. It was eye-opening. Sophomore year was full of going through the motions without realizing it. Depression ate away my insides until I was left feeling void. Void of emotion, excitement, motivation, happiness, and life. My negativity increasingly faced inward. I often attacked my appearance and criticized myself for making mistakes. An entire diary entry was dedicated to listing my countless flaws and everything I hated about myself. In my third session, Carl asked me about the challenges and struggles I’ve faced. There were answers I could give him, but none seemed adequate enough. He brought up the fact that I was an Asian-American adoptee immersed in a predominantly white area. I had never allowed myself to consider my upbringing as real adversity. No one had ever acknowledged my internal battle with race and identity before. The hatred I felt for my appearance ever since I was a child rose to the surface. All the teasing and bullying I faced over my race suddenly felt unacceptable. It was difficult to come to terms with my identity and adoption story in the absence of people with shared experiences, and Carl recognized that. Therapy created a domino effect, leading me on a journey of self-discovery and self-realization. After that session, I really started to understand. The weight of other people’s words. How others perceive me. The way I perceive myself. The reason I wasn’t happy. It became clear to me that if I wanted to truly understand myself as a person, I needed to open up to others. Be vulnerable. Fear was holding me back from expressing myself. The following sessions became increasingly easier. I looked forward to sharing my thoughts, fears, and struggles with someone who cared. I placed my trust in my therapist, and he gave me compassion and a newfound perspective in return. I wouldn’t be the confident Asian-American adoptee who takes pride in her unique narrative and dual identity I am today without therapy. It taught me how to express my emotions and struggles without fear of judgment and allowed me to open up about the experiences that have shaped me. Truly acknowledging my battle with race and confusion surrounding my identity helped me come to terms with my adoption story. Although I wasn’t surrounded by other Asian-Americans with shared experiences, I had my own story to tell. Therapy gave me a voice and inspired me to use it. I can’t say all my walls are down, but I’m gradually learning to accept myself. Carl was right: being vulnerable isn’t so bad after all.

Therapy wasn’t at all like I expected. My therapist, Carl, was dressed in jeans, a flannel, and nothing but socks on his feet. It wasn’t an analysis of my symptoms of depression or a step-by-step guide on how to cure my mental illness, but rather a real, honest conversation. In my third session, Carl asked me about the challenges and struggles I’ve faced. He brought up the fact that I was an Asian-American adoptee immersed in a predominantly white area. I had never allowed myself to consider my upbringing as real adversity. No one had ever acknowledged my internal battle with race and identity before. Therapy created a domino effect, leading me on a journey of self-discovery and self-realization. The following sessions became increasingly easier. I placed my trust in my therapist, and he gave me compassion and a newfound perspective in return. It became clear to me that if I wanted to truly understand myself as a person, I needed to open up to others. Be vulnerable. Fear was holding me back from expressing myself. I wouldn’t be the confident Asian-American adoptee who takes pride in her unique narrative and dual identity that I am today without therapy. It taught me how to express my emotions and struggles without fear of judgment and allowed me to open up about the experiences that have shaped me. Truly acknowledging my battle with race and the confusion surrounding my identity helped me come to terms with my adoption story. Although I wasn’t surrounded by other Asian-Americans with shared experiences, I had my own story to tell. Therapy gave me a voice and inspired me to use it. I can’t say all my walls are down, but I’m gradually learning to accept myself. Carl was right: being vulnerable isn’t so bad after all.

“We want to see Ling Lang and Ching Chang,” they yelled. The boys’ basketball team could barely hold their laughter in. “Sadie is flat, her mom makes cat,” an obnoxious boy chanted, relishing the way my sister’s cheeks heated with embarrassment. It took me sixteen years to realize the extent and hurtful impact of their words. I was brainwashed into believing that other kids coming up to me and pulling their eyelids back while taunting, “Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees, look at these,” was perfectly acceptable. Growing up in a predominantly white town of roughly one thousand residents, I constantly felt like an outsider. My sister and I were both adopted from China, and it was difficult to discover our identities in the absence of people with shared experiences. No one understood the struggle of not feeling Asian enough while also not feeling white enough. When I was younger, I wished more than anything that I was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl, because that's what I felt was the ideal symbol of beauty. Not my 58 inches of height, bronzed skin, almond-shaped brown eyes, jet black hair, wide flat nose, and small features. I felt that I was the opposite of beautiful. The stagnant and quarantine-filled months of March through July really gave me time to ponder my identity and the unhappiness I felt regarding the single story others wrote for me. The combination of anger, dissatisfaction, disgust, sadness, and fear prompted me to join a multitude of groups and organizations that specifically support women of color. Through the organization Afro Puff Chronicles (APC), I discovered a story written by an Asian-American girl who echoed my own feelings. I realized that there were other people out there who understood me and related to my struggles. The founder of Afro Puff Chronicles reached out to me to write for their organization, and it was the best decision I’ve made to date. Afro Puff Chronicles empowers me to spread awareness for misrepresented cultures and stop at nothing until their truths are heard. Being a writer for APC sparked my passion for writing and my career interest in journalism. It’s because of Afro Puff Chronicles that I’m a more confident, passionate individual who takes pride in her Asian-American adoptee identity. Ever since, I’ve been fully immersed in not only serving my APC family but communities of color around the world. I write articles and infographics weekly ranging from politics to pop culture to Generation Z life. Writing for Afro Puff Chronicles helped me discover my political voice and passion for speaking the truth for marginalized communities. I’ve not only become extremely educated and informed about social issues and world politics but have learned more about myself. My hopes, dreams, values, passions, and goals have transformed from opaque to transparent. APC has consistently been that rock for me; it’s a group of extraordinary girls who not only support and accept me but relate to my struggles and experiences. Being a part of this organization has given me a sense of belonging and a home. They encouraged me to rewrite and reclaim my narrative and inspired me to help others do the same. Writing for Afro Puff Chronicles has not only fostered a passion for advocacy and social justice within me but has welcomed me to a community of phenomenal women of color that I can lean on through the utter uncertainty in this world.

Filled with a bundle of nerves, I walked into the darkly lit office and plastered a smile on my face. How in the world was I going to tell my deepest, darkest secrets to a stranger? The man seemed friendly enough, but I still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of sitting alone in a room with him. For an entire hour. I instantly resented my mom and sister for dragging me to this session. I didn’t need therapy. Maybe I wasn’t the happy-go-lucky person others were used to seeing, but I thought I would eventually get over it. I had to. It was difficult to describe what I was feeling until my mom came into my room one day and pointed out my change in behavior. I didn’t want to have a so-called mental illness. There wasn’t anything wrong with me. The prolonged feeling of sadness just wouldn’t go away. Growing up in a conservative small town that lacked an accepting and inclusive community led me to believe mental illnesses were the equivalent of being defective. After my therapy sessions, I would cry to my mom for hours in the car and come home to my dad asking, “How was your shrink?” with a smirk on his face. I’ve always been afraid to share my emotions, as a defense mechanism and a way to avoid appearing vulnerable. It never occurred to me that I would be someone who regularly went to therapy. It wasn’t at all like I expected. My therapist, Carl, was dressed in jeans, a flannel, and nothing but socks on his feet. We talked as if I was one of his oldest friends. It wasn’t an analysis of my symptoms of depression, or a step-by-step guide on how to cure my mental illness, but rather a real, honest conversation. While it may have been uncomfortable at first to tell him my life story, I have nothing but gratitude for Carl. Our therapy sessions have shaped me into the person I am today. I recently looked back at my diary entries over the past two years. It was eye-opening. Sophomore year was full of going through the motions without realizing it. Depression ate away my insides until I was left feeling void. Void of emotion, excitement, motivation, happiness, and life. My negativity increasingly faced inward. I often attacked my appearance and criticized myself for making mistakes. An entire diary entry was dedicated to listing my countless flaws and everything I hated about myself. In my third session, Carl asked me about the challenges and struggles I’d faced. There were answers I could give him, but none seemed adequate enough. He brought up the fact that I was an Asian-American adoptee immersed in a predominantly white area. I had never allowed myself to consider my upbringing as real adversity. No one had ever acknowledged my internal battle with race and identity before. The hatred I felt for my appearance ever since I was a child rose to the surface. All the teasing and bullying I faced over my race suddenly felt unacceptable. It was difficult to come to terms with my identity and adoption story in the absence of people with shared experiences, and Carl recognized that. Therapy created a domino effect, leading me on a journey of self-discovery and self-realization. After that session, I really started to understand. The weight of other people’s words. How others perceive me. The way I perceive myself. The reason I wasn’t happy. It became clear to me that if I wanted to truly understand myself as a person, I needed to open up to others. Be vulnerable. Fear was holding me back from expressing myself. The following sessions became increasingly easier. I looked forward to sharing my thoughts, fears, and struggles with someone who cared. I placed my trust in my therapist, and he gave me compassion and a newfound perspective in return. I wouldn’t be the confident Asian-American adoptee who takes pride in her unique narrative and dual identity I am today without therapy. It taught me how to express my emotions and struggles without fear of judgment and allowed me to open up about the experiences that have shaped me. Truly acknowledging my battle with race and the confusion surrounding my identity helped me come to terms with my adoption story. Although I wasn’t surrounded by other Asian-Americans with shared experiences, I had my own story to tell. Therapy gave me a voice and inspired me to use it. I can’t say all my walls are down, but I’m gradually learning to accept myself. Carl was right: being vulnerable isn’t so bad after all. My passions for social justice, activism, and advocacy stem from my own experiences and battles with race and identity. Combined with my love for rhetoric and the written word, journalism appears to be my calling. Carl inspired me to use my voice to create change, and that’s exactly what I did. My voice now promotes awareness for marginalized communities, uplifts those struggling to balance cultures, and advocates for the voices lost in mainstream media. Writing for NBC News or The New York Times is the end goal, but I look forward to the journey every step of the way.