When people ask me why I became a therapist, I never quite know what to say. Not because the question makes me uncomfortable, but because it’s something that’s unique to Asian Americans.
I grew up the child of two immigrant parents, who came to the United States with nothing. My mother lived in a two-bedroom trailer with six other people. My father left behind all but his twin brother in Vietnam to pursue the American dream. When they had me, they worked endlessly with my mom toiling through nursing school and my father working double shifts, often with no days off. I learned to entertain myself. I remember playing on the swings with no one to push me, having a kite but having no one to teach me and daydreaming about the kids who played catch in their front yards.