better work issue #26

Can you help me Reader? I want to help high-performers achieve their goals with less stress this year. I have 14 out of the 30 responses I need so far. Please take (or share) this quick survey​.

​

↓
​

“SAMSUNG PHONE VERY GOOD!”

​

Rewind five minutes before this remark, the towering British man and I had had a normal conversation.

​

That changed the moment I shared that I was ethnically Korean.
​

“Why are you yelling?” I kept my cool. But if I’m being honest, this is how I really wanted to respond.
​

It must’ve been my hundredth “But where are you really from?” conversation on my trip. Locals asking this didn’t get under my skin (they knew I was a tourist.) But I was done with getting that question from other travelers. They’d say the same thing, every time.
​

“But you don’t look like an American.”

​
*sigh*​
​

The repeat disbelief was starting to get to me. After the SAMSUNG-VERY-GOOD comment, I decided, ‘Fuck it. I’ll tell people I’m from Korea.’ I figured that’s what they expected from me anyway.
​

I was on month three of my four-month solo-backpacking trip. Six countries down, with one last stop before flying back home: Thailand.
​
Has the Universe ever called your bluff, Reader? Because it called mine hard on Koh Tao.

​

​
How the Universe humbled me real quick

I made it to my last stretch: Koh Tao, an island in Thailand about 1/3 the size of Manhattan.
​

I wandered to the nearest hostel to see what was available. I asked the hostel’s host if they knew anywhere with solo rooms since they only had 12-bed, dorm-style rooms.
​
Since the island is made up of paths, not roads with signs, one person working at the hostel offered to take me somewhere with more privacy nearby.
​

I'll confess: I immediately assumed he was a local based on how he looked. His English was understandable but not fluent - enough to confirm my assumption.
​
As soon as we started down the sandy footway, I braced myself for the inevitable question.
​

“So, where are you from?” he asked.

​
“Korea,” I responded, looking straight ahead.
​
He turned toward me with a delighted expression on his face. And I swear to you, in perfect Korean, he asked, “What part of Korea are you from?”
​
I froze. Face reddening, I sheepishly responded, “Actually…I’m from the U.S.”

​

I quickly asked him a question, in pure deflection. “How do you know Korean?”
​

He explained he'd been stationed in South Korea, where he grew to love the country so much that he stayed for seven years.

We walked the rest of the way in silence.
​

It was the first - and only - time I lied about where I was from.

​

Touché, Universe. Lesson learned.

​
Everyone’s an ‘Other’ somewhere

You’re no doubt picturing what kind of person jumps straight into the ethnicity question.
​
​→ Someone uneducated or raised in a homogenous area.
​→ A person who confuses boldness with depth.
​→ Someone who is white.
​
But if those were your guesses you’d be wrong. It’s random.
​

There was a commonality among the people who didn’t ask me the ‘Where are you from?’ question. Not only when they first met me, but ever. (I know, the restraint is impressive.)
​
With those people, when I eventually brought up a factoid about my parents being South Korean immigrants, they said, “Cool” and we’d start talking about how dogs are better than cats, or other critical topics to humanity.
​

As I got to know them over time, I noticed what these non-askers all had in common: they felt like an ‘Other’ too.
​
Feeling unique, in an isolating way, can come from anything.
​

When we sit alone with our struggles, it can feel like we're the only ones who are going through them.
​
Psychologists have a name for this shared feeling of isolated doubt: pluralistic ignorance. It's the 'illusion of uniqueness' that arises when we mistake public composure for private certainty.
​
The misconception is reinforced everywhere: at work, in social settings, and, of course, on social media.

​
Everyone appears confident, composed, totally unshakable.
​

We know intellectually that this isn’t true. Still, high performers often feel the weight of isolation more than we let anyone see. Especially since we are normally the ones other people confide in when they need someone to be strong.
​

I see this play out in private coaching sessions with clients.
​
Not usually in an ethnicity-related identity crises, but in a fragile sense of belonging and selective ownership of their success.
​
No matter what accolade they achieve or how many hours they rack up, they still feel like frauds.
​
Being the only woman on the executive team, or one of the few minorities in the entire company - or both - takes a toll.
​
I completely get it.
​

Hell, I’m a female Asian-American and veteran military spouse in the solopreneur/creator industry. Do you know how many of us there are? 🤏
​
I’m not saying I have to find people just like me to feel comfortable. But it took years and thousands of hours of action to comfortably call myself a solopreneur and creator.
​
It’d be disingenuous to pretend like my identity and beliefs weren’t a huge part of that.

​

​

My own minor[ity] feelings

People like me, who grew up as a minority, are well acquainted with the sting of ‘Where are you really from?’
​
It’s rarely coming from a place of malice. People feel curious, and it’s their way of trying to connect. Sometimes, in my case, it’s to determine if they won the ‘Asian Guessing Game.’
​

It’s a small reminder that we don’t belong. One of a hundred thousand tiny paper cuts.
​

On that backpacking trip, I learned I can’t control what others do, but I can control my actions. That lesson led to a promise I've kept for more than ten years: when a person's intention and impact are unaligned, I won't hide how I feel.

​

Nothing changes when we stay silent.
​

For almost thirty years, I suppressed my emotions and swallowed my discomfort for others by pretending that question didn’t bother me.

​

When I promised myself I’d start being honest about how those moments felt, I didn’t anticipate how much emotional management would follow.

​

I traded silence for a different kind of labor.

​

Getting angry or frustrated didn’t make me feel better either, and it often put the other person on the defensive. I was tired of searching for the “right” response.

​

My solution was to let go, to respond as calmly as I could, without giving anything more than that. Everyone else’s emotions and opinions were their responsibility.
​
​Release brings me peace.

​

​

Today, I don’t smile politely when people win a round of the ‘Asian Guessing Game’ at my expense. I don’t nod along and say, “Yes, I also love Korean BBQ!” (Who doesn’t??) I respond with a simple, “OK,” and keep my face neutral.
​
Most people do not like that.
​
But, over the years, I've learned that the people who question me about my ethnicity or race within the first five minutes of meeting me are not my people.
​

Shift from seeking to being

As high-performers, our belief that we are worthy of love was intricately tied to our accomplishments growing up.
​

🤗 Good grades brought praise and attention.
“You’re such a good kid.”
​

🫵 Bad grades brought punishment and neglect.
“Go to your room.”
​

Struggling in isolation is a breeding ground for shame. And the way we were taught to manage our shame is to double down on self-criticism, to raise our standards.
​

What we're learning now is that shame doesn’t drive out shame.

​

Only empathy can do that.
​

I’ve found the best source of empathy is other people. Your people.​
​

I’m not saying it’s easy to trust others. Or that you should be vulnerable just because someone said, ‘This is a safe space’ (safe space for who?).
​

I know you want to put yourself out there.
I know it’s painstaking and slow.
And I know it's worth it.
​

Try reframing building community away from finding good people and learning to trust them. That thinking puts you in a largely passive position.
​

Instead, ask yourself → What must I consistently embody, not hide, to become a beacon for my people?​
​

Your network, your community, your peers, whatever you call them - they’re only waiting for one thing: the real you.
​

You’re allowed to let more of yourself be seen. Only after you allow yourself to be seen can the timing and circumstance for community fall into place. What you tucked away out of fear is often what others need to see.
​
Because you are like no other.

​

Take care of yourself,

Susan