I would not be where I am today had I not embraced my mental health journey and learned to carry hope for the future despite the struggles I’ve faced. Throughout my childhood, I experienced a lot of emotional neglect, exclusion, and bullying. I was a lonely Asian kid in a predominantly white area, and because I didn’t look like everyone else and I didn’t fit in, I dealt with a lot of isolation and racism. On top of that, I had difficulties with communication and social interaction, and struggled to form lasting friendships because my family moved around so much. I didn’t know it at the time, but part of the reason these things were so hard for me was because I had undiagnosed autism and ADHD. Autism, especially when it’s Level 1 or “low support needs,” is very hard to detect in women and racial minorities. Most of the research and perceptions around it focus on the white male demographic. Media portrayals usually present it as a “Sheldon Cooper” or “Rain Man” persona. When you’re a woman though, you learn to mask your autistic traits very early on because women are socialized differently, and there’s a lot more pressure to conform. And if you’re a racial minority, a lot of your autistic traits will be interpreted through the lens of racial stereotypes, which for me, was the quiet and studious Asian stereotype. Because of these factors, the parents and teachers around me never picked up on the fact that I was autistic and that I was really struggling in a lot of areas. Because I didn’t know I had a disability, I went through my childhood not understanding why I struggled so much socially and why I could never fit in no matter how hard I tried. From the age of 13 onwards, I started having feelings of depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideation. I self-harmed for years to cope with the low self-worth and hopelessness I felt. I couldn’t see how I could ever be happy in the future, with the way that I was. Like a lot of minority communities, the Asian community does not openly discuss mental health. My parents were immigrants who prioritized academic success above all, so I never felt comfortable confiding in them about my struggles. I performed the role of the perfect daughter on the outside, but inside I was lost. It was only after years of struggling with my mental health that I finally worked up the courage to tell my parents I wanted to try antidepressants. They insisted that I didn’t need meds because I wasn’t “crazy.” It was only after I broke down in tears that they supported me in taking this step. I started educating them on mental health, stressing to them that it’s just as important as physical health. You need to tend to it and care for it daily, like watering a houseplant so it can thrive. Although the medication was an important first step, it still didn’t explain why my brain worked so differently, and why I still felt like a social alien. It was only after I started going to therapy in my 20s that I eventually discovered I had autism and ADHD. When I finally got my diagnosis, so much of my life started making sense to me. I joined a community for autistic and other neurodivergent adults, and I started meeting so many people with similar stories to mine. A lot of them had just discovered their diagnosis after a lifetime of being chronically misunderstood and confused about themselves. So many of them, like me, had struggled with mental illness and suicidal ideation for years, which led to eating disorders, self-harm, substance abuse, and all sorts of other unhealthy coping mechanisms. I started to realize how pervasive this problem is and how many people are affected by it. Research shows that autistic adults are 25 times more likely to attempt suicide than non-autistic adults, and suicide is the number one leading cause of death for those of us who are late-diagnosed. It makes me extremely sad to think about the lives that were lost and the families that were affected because of the lack of access to mental health resources, understanding, and support. It’s made me realize how much I care about this cause, and how much I want to help spread awareness of it, so more people can get the support they need before it’s too late. It’s also made me rethink my career goals, which is why I’ll be pursuing a Master’s in Social Work starting this fall. My goal is to work directly with people who have autism, disabilities, and mental health conditions and show them that there is a path forward for them, and they're not alone. Although I still struggle with my own disability and I’m still learning to manage my anxiety, I know I have the heart, passion, and wisdom that comes from lived experience with mental health struggles. I approach all my relationships with compassion and empathy because I understand exactly what it’s like to feel alone and afraid, and I know how important it is to have someone to confide in. My journey with mental health has taught me that so many of the world’s problems and the issues people struggle with stem from feeling unheard and unseen. We all need to have our feelings validated and our mental health prioritized so we can find healing and be the best versions of ourselves. So many people, autistic or not, lose their battles each year because no one has shown them that there is a place for them in this world, no matter the struggles they’ve faced or the obstacles that lie ahead of them. I used to be someone who couldn’t see a path forward, but now I know exactly what my path is: helping to create a world where everyone can see a future with themselves in it, regardless of what their story is.

For as long as I can remember, I have always felt that my brain worked differently. As a kid, I was painfully shy and felt a chronic disconnect from my peers. I was the only Asian girl in my year in a predominantly white suburban town, so in addition to feeling like a misfit, I also appeared noticeably different from everyone else. From around the age of 13 onwards, I struggled with anxiety, depression, and suicidal ideation. My parents were immigrants who had always prioritized academic success, so I was never able to talk about mental health with them. I felt very isolated and alone, struggled with self-harm throughout high school, and could never picture myself past the age of 25. It took me a long time to learn how to advocate for myself. After I started college, I finally worked up the courage to tell my parents I wanted to try antidepressants. They insisted that I didn’t need meds because I wasn’t “crazy.” It was only after I broke down in tears that they supported me in taking this step. I started educating them on mental health, stressing that it’s just as important as physical health. When I started therapy in my 20s, I finally discovered that I had undiagnosed autism and ADHD. After learning this huge part of my identity, I joined a community for neurodivergent adults and have finally started feeling less alone. Since then, I’ve met so many others like me who have felt isolated their entire lives and have struggled with their mental health. I currently run a book club for autistic adults, and suicidal ideation amongst our community is something that comes up frequently in our conversations. Research shows that suicide is the leading cause of death for people with late-diagnosed autism. There needs to be more awareness surrounding this heavy topic because so many people lose their battles each year, and this needs to change. I’ve realized this is something I’m deeply passionate about, so I’ll be pursuing a Master’s in Clinical Social Work to help counsel neurodivergent individuals. As a counselor, I would strive to make a real difference for this community. I would lead with empathy, awareness, and an open mind because I know exactly what it’s like to feel alone and hopeless in this world. I especially want to work with individuals who come from underrepresented communities where mental health and suicide awareness are not openly discussed. It’s important to break the stigma that prevents people from seeking help because no one is meant to carry their burdens alone. Although it has been a long battle to protect my mental health, I’m grateful for the lived experience it has given me because it allows me to connect with people from a place of compassion and understanding. I’m excited to serve this community I’ve grown to care for so deeply and to help create a world where mental health is not only talked about, but prioritized in all of us.

Everyone needs at least one person who believes in them, and I was lucky enough to find two. When I was a kid, I never felt like I fit in. I was the only Asian girl in a predominantly white neighborhood, and I was painfully shy and soft-spoken. I could sense that my brain worked differently. I had a knack for problem-solving and pattern recognition, but I experienced a lot of challenges, including sensory sensitivities, executive dysfunction, and communication struggles. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had undiagnosed autism and ADHD. Having a condition that makes it difficult for you to connect with your peers can be extremely isolating and lonely. I never felt understood, and I never had a mentor figure who recognized that I was simultaneously gifted and disabled. It was hard for teachers to see my potential when I never spoke in class or shared my ideas. Although I learned to mask my struggles over time, the isolation and self-doubt followed me into adulthood. I felt stuck in a job that did not complement my abilities and only made me feel more hopeless about my future. I came across a role at a smaller accounting firm by chance, but during my interview, I completely blanked and ended up stuttering through one of my responses. Despite this, my interviewer, who later became my boss and mentor figure, decided to hire me. I didn’t understand it at the time, but my boss had seen the potential in me despite my communication struggles. He and the other member of our team ultimately became two of the most influential people in my life. I had never worked in a team that accepted me for who I was and believed in me despite my disability. When I was finally diagnosed with autism, I summoned up the courage to confide in them, not knowing if they would react with judgment or worse, discrimination. To my surprise, I was met with compassion and a willingness to support me through my struggles. My boss had an autistic sibling, and he himself had struggled with ADHD his whole life, so he knew how it felt to have a brain that worked differently from the norm. He knew how important it was for someone to see his own potential, so he never doubted me or my abilities, no matter how many times I stumbled over my words or asked for more time to express my thoughts. He gave me projects that leaned into my strengths and supported me through the areas where I struggled. The other team member I confided in was one of the most compassionate and empathetic people I had ever met. Like me, she had also been an Asian immigrant kid who was quieter and more introspective. She knew that the best ideas in the room did not always come from the loudest voices, and she always listened to me and made sure my voice was heard. I am so grateful to have worked with both of them and found my self-confidence during my time there. Over the years, as I’ve explored my autism diagnosis and found my community, I’ve realized that this is what I’m ultimately passionate about. I'm pursuing a degree in social work because I want to advocate for and serve the autistic and disabled community. A huge part of being a social worker is building relationships. Autistic people need someone they can trust who listens, understands, and believes in them. I want to be for them what my team was for me because I know how valuable it is to have at least one person in your corner. It has taken me a long time to find my voice, but I’ve finally started using it for a cause that I truly care about. I started a book club that connects late-diagnosed autistic adults, and I will be giving a speech at an Autistic Pride Day event next month that discusses the importance of finding community. I wouldn’t have come this far had I not worked with a team of people who uplifted me and valued my ideas. No matter your struggles, it’s easy to feel lost and unsure of your place in this world. All it takes is one person, and in my case, two people, who see the light in you and believe in you even when you don’t believe in yourself. It can make all the difference, and I’m so grateful to have met them.

When I was a kid, it never would’ve occurred to people that I had a disability. I was quiet, but studious. I did well in school, and I never seemed to need any help. I had communication difficulties, but this didn’t strike people as odd since I was an Asian immigrant kid who had just moved to the US. As I got older, though, it became very clear to me that there was something different about how my brain worked. I was very good at problem-solving and pattern recognition, which marked me as a “gifted” kid. But I also experienced a variety of challenges, including sensory overwhelm, communication gaps, and processing differences. My gifts masked my disability, and no one noticed that I was deeply struggling in a lot of areas. It wasn’t until after I had entered adulthood that I finally discovered the reason for my lifelong struggles. I received a late diagnosis of autism and ADHD at the age of 24, after years of working in a stressful accounting job. I realized that I would be considered an autistic person with “low support needs.” I’ve learned to mask my differences to fit in, but what I’ve really needed is accommodation and support my whole life. After receiving my diagnosis, I joined a community of neurodivergent and disabled adults and have met so many others with similar stories to mine. I’ve talked with people who also did not get diagnosed until adulthood because the research surrounding autism has historically centered on the white, male demographic. Parents, educators, and medical professionals are not trained to recognize it in women and racial minorities, so we often get overlooked. Through these conversations, I’ve come to realize that engaging with and advocating for this community is what genuinely fulfills me. Last December, I started a book club for autistic people that meets monthly to discuss books written by autistic authors. We’ve talked at length about our experiences navigating the world as disabled people and continuously facing barriers that keep us at the margins of society. Next month, I will be giving a speech at an Autistic Pride Day event and speaking directly to the community that I’ve grown to care about so deeply. Although I still struggle with my own disability, I am deeply committed to creating a world that not only accommodates us but also celebrates us for our differences. I am pursuing a Master’s of Social Work starting this fall with the ultimate goal of working directly with neurodivergent and disabled people. I know firsthand what it’s like to be in their shoes, and I know from experience that most schools, workplaces, and other public institutions are still severely behind in providing an inclusive environment for us. Research shows that the vast majority of autistic adults are unemployed or underemployed, and we are 25 times more likely to attempt suicide than non-autistic adults. We need more people dedicated to this cause so we can help these individuals find meaningful and fulfilling lives. We also need to educate and design programs for schools, universities, and workplaces to help them accommodate their disabled students and employees. As a social worker, I would be in a position to make a real difference for this community. My high empathy, ability to connect with diverse groups, and lived experience as a disabled person are all strengths that will be invaluable to me in this field. I’m excited to pursue a career that I’m truly passionate about, and above all, I want to help create a world where everyone feels included and accepted, regardless of their differences.

When I was a kid, one of my teachers used the words “quiet as a mouse” to describe me. I was painfully shy and soft-spoken, and I rarely spoke up around adults, which caused a lot of challenges growing up. My parents and I came to the US when I was 4, and I didn’t know a word of English, so my first couple of years were spent learning the language and assimilating into an entirely new environment. I was one of the few Asian kids in my school, and it was very common for us to be quieter because we were new to the language. My quietness went beyond just a language barrier, though. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had selective mutism. I continued to stay silent in school long after I had mastered English. I remember sitting in class when I was 5, and again when I was 11, with a nosebleed, unable to get the teacher’s attention because I couldn’t form the words to ask for help. I often had to wait and rely on others to notice and speak up for me because I couldn’t do it myself. This continued throughout high school, along with worsening social anxiety. I rarely answered questions, despite almost always knowing the answer. I stuttered through presentations and froze whenever I was cold-called. The more pressure there was to speak, the harder it was for me to form words. These experiences started impacting my self-esteem, and I found it increasingly hard to use my voice or advocate for my needs. In addition, these issues were never addressed by any of the adults around me because they fit the Asian stereotype of being quiet and studious. I had a teacher in high school who assumed I was a foreign exchange student all year, even though I could speak English perfectly. Had I not been Asian, my selective mutism may have been caught earlier on, but instead, my appearance and cultural stereotypes camouflaged these issues until adulthood. Despite learning to manage my struggles and speak up more throughout college and my early 20s, I still felt very lost and isolated due to anxiety and depression. It wasn’t until the age of 24, after discussing my issues in therapy, that I was eventually diagnosed with autism. At that point, I started making sense of my lifelong social and communication difficulties and learned about selective mutism, which is very common in autistic people. Learning about this aspect of my identity finally gave me the language to understand myself and feel less alone in my struggles. After receiving my diagnosis, I joined a community of autistic and other neurodivergent adults. I’ve talked with so many others who have struggled with selective mutism and were never given the support they needed because of a lack of understanding and awareness. Through these conversations, I’ve realized that this is something I’m extremely passionate about. I want to pursue a degree in social work so I can become a counselor and advocate for the disabled and neurodivergent community. I know my lived experience with autism and selective mutism will help me empathize and connect with people with similar struggles. I know firsthand how it feels to not have a voice. I want to help make sure that every kid out there can let their voice be heard and understand that they are not alone. Although I still find it hard to communicate sometimes, I finally feel that I’ve found my voice and my purpose, and I want to use it to help others like me.

For as long as I can remember, I have always felt that my brain worked differently. As a kid, I was painfully shy, rarely spoke up in class, and felt a chronic disconnect from my peers. I struggled with social norms and communication, but was also extremely observant and introspective. I thought about the world deeply and often questioned things that didn’t make sense to me. All throughout school, I never felt like I belonged to a community. It didn’t help that I was the only Asian girl in my year in a predominantly white suburban town, so in addition to feeling like a misfit, I also appeared noticeably different from everyone else. From around the age of 13 onwards, I struggled with anxiety, depression, and suicidal ideation. My parents were immigrants who had always prioritized academic success, so I was never able to talk about mental health with them. I felt very isolated and alone, struggled with self-harm all throughout high school, and could never picture myself past the age of 25. I remember after my freshman year of college, I finally worked up the courage to tell my parents I wanted to try antidepressants. They insisted that I didn’t need meds because I wasn’t “crazy.” It was only after I broke down in tears that they supported me in taking this step. I started educating them on mental health, stressing to them that it’s just as important as physical health. You need to tend to it and care for it daily, like watering a houseplant so it can thrive. Over the years, I learned to mask my social and communication struggles to fit in, but it still left me feeling disconnected and misunderstood. It wasn’t until I sought therapy as an adult that I discovered my lifelong struggles were actually due to undiagnosed autism and ADHD. I had always suspected that my brain worked differently from the norm, but I finally found the language to describe it at the age of 24. After getting my diagnosis, I was finally able to understand myself and start seeking out others like me. I joined a community for neurodivergent adults, including those diagnosed with autism, ADHD, and other disabilities and mental health conditions. I’ve met so many others like me who have felt isolated their entire lives and are just now finding this community of people with similar struggles and stories. For the first time in my life, I no longer feel alone. I’ve found a sense of belonging in this community, and with that, self-acceptance. My parents and I still struggle to see eye to eye on mental health, but I’ve been educating them on autism, and we’re slowly working through it together and coming to a shared understanding. Above all, I finally feel that I’ve found my purpose in life: helping others like me. I want to go into counseling for neurodivergent individuals and advocate for this community that means so much to me. So many neurodivergent kids and adults lose their battles each year because they’ve never been understood or accepted. They cannot picture a world with themselves in it because they’ve never been shown that there’s a community out there that values them for who they are. I used to be one of those kids, but now, at the age of 27, I see my life and my future laid out very clearly ahead of me. I am going to fight for a world that embraces everyone regardless of their differences… because every kid deserves to live so they can find their place in this world.