From Labels to a Name
An immigrant woman’s journey to finding her voice in the professional world.
The girl without a name
Being an immigrant means starting from zero.
I arrived in America without a name people could pronounce, so I became a label: that Chinese girl.
At school, it was almost lovely. The label made me a panda, protected and exotic. Professors spoke to me a little slower. School clubs wanted me on stage to prove they were “diverse.” I didn’t mind. Being treated as special felt safer than being invisible.
But once I entered the professional world, the rules changed. I wasn’t a panda anymore. I needed a reputation.
So she collected labels
Work doesn’t care what my major was or where I came from. It cares whether, in the moment of need, someone can fix the problem.
When the company website broke and IT was out sick, I stayed up late and fixed the HTML code. Overnight, I became that web girl.
When the old contact database crashed and no one knew how to recover it, I researched CRM systems and proposed a replacement. Later, with help, we built a new CRM integrated into the proposal process, and the entire company became more efficient. Then I was that CRM girl.
I changed jobs and became that data girl,
then that customer-journey-map girl,
And finally, that proposal girl.
Every new label felt like progress, a small proof that I could adapt, learn quickly, and fill gaps. But each one also reminded me how invisible the person behind it had become.
I built myself into a tool — reliable, efficient, and always available — and it worked.
Until it didn’t.
But labels came with a price
I carried an invisible immigrant manual in my head:
Work twice as hard. Don’t complain. Don’t show weakness. Be grateful for the chance.
I thought being always available would make me indispensable, but it made me invisible. I burned out quietly.
One night, with my laptop open and the dishes undone, I caught my reflection on the black screen and barely recognized myself. I wasn’t chasing success anymore. I was just trying to survive.
That’s when it hit me: I had built a career but erased the person inside it. The exhaustion turned into quiet, and quiet slowly made me smaller, until I almost disappeared. When you stop being seen, people start mistaking kindness for compliance.
I’ve had moments when my ideas were claimed, when feedback came laced with cruelty, when silence felt safer than honesty. At first, I thought that was just how the workplace worked, that enduring it was part of earning respect.
But silence has a cost. It teaches others how to treat you.
I had to unlearn that.
So, she claimed her voice
I had to teach myself that boundaries are not rebellion; they are self-respect.
At the same time, I was learning that having a voice isn’t loudness; it’s presence.
I began to practice both slowly and quietly.
I said no to meetings that didn’t need me.
I stopped apologizing before offering ideas.
I started asking questions — not the safe ones that clarify, but the real ones that challenge.
At first, it felt like breaking a rule. But over time, the room began to shift.
People paused when I spoke. They expected me to weigh in, not just execute.
That’s when I realized something: competence opens doors, but curiosity keeps them open.
Being an immigrant taught me to survive. Finding my voice taught me to live.
Single motherhood accelerated everything.
Suddenly, “work-life balance” wasn’t a phrase; it was survival. Every hour mattered. Every decision carried consequences: for my energy, for my time, for the kind of mother and professional I wanted to be.
Work wasn’t just ambition anymore; it was stability, safety, home.
There were nights I wrote proposals after bedtime stories or joined client calls from the car outside the pediatrician’s office.
I learned to stretch every hour, every ounce of focus, every part of myself.
Then one day, I tried something different.
I shut my laptop at five.
The world didn’t end.
The overnight emails stopped arriving. Nothing happened — except that I finally exhaled.
Motherhood gave me perspective.
It reminded me that strength isn’t doing everything alone. It’s knowing when to stand, when to rest, and when to ask for help.
It taught me empathy — the kind that makes you a better colleague and a more patient human being.
And it reminded me that perfection doesn’t inspire people; honesty does.
Now she is a woman with a name
I’ve learned that reinvention isn’t betrayal; it is evolution.
Every time I switched paths—from web design to data analytics, from research to project management to marketing strategy—I wasn’t losing direction. I was layering experiences. I was building a language that could only be spoken through trial, error, and persistence.
I’ve learned that having an accent doesn’t make me less credible. It means I carry more than one world in my voice.
And I’ve learned that being different isn’t a disadvantage. It’s a mirror that shows others how limited their idea of normal can be.
I see my career differently now, not as a ladder but as a landscape, full of detours, pauses, and quiet discoveries.
When I enter a room now, I no longer want to be the girl who gets things done alone.
I want to be the person who creates space—for herself and for others.
My work is no longer just about efficiency, but about connection: coordinating, collaborating, and building something that lasts.
The labels I once carried have merged into a single name.
And when people call it, I recognize myself.
I’m still a resource, but also a partner, a confidante, a friend, a mother, and a woman with a career built on purpose.
