For as long as I remember, it’s always felt like there’s an unspoken cultural script I had to follow as an Asian American. I believed I was supposed to be a “perfect Asian student” and knew the people around me expected me to do well in my schoolwork, have a high GPA, and overall be an academic overachiever. And for most of my life, I lived up to these expectations — until it came to choosing my career path.
Growing up, I remember having conversations with my Asian American peers about our futures and aspirations, especially in high school. When the question of “what will be your major?” came up in conversations among us, I remember always hearing the same answers from my peers: Nursing. Medicine. Engineering. Biomedical Sciences. For many families, fields like medicine and engineering became synonymous with stability and success, partly because so many Asian immigrants got to America through STEM-focused pathways and partly because these careers promised security after generations of instability. The model minority myth reinforces this by suggesting that Asian Americans are naturally suited for difficult, technical work, turning these paths into not just aspirations, but obligations — the “safe” and “respectable” route you were supposed to take.Â
However, none of those career options interested me. Instead, I was drawn to liberal arts, first intending to pursue journalism and become a writer, then later deciding I wanted to study psychology (I’m currently planning to get my masters in counseling, become a therapist, and eventually open up my own practice). I realized my aversion to “traditional” Asian American career paths in high school, and it made me feel slightly inadequate to my peers whose chosen paths were starkly different from mine. Part of me started to wonder if I was worth less than them, due to the fact that the path I was on was “easier” — I’d have to deal with a lot less math, the course content would be less difficult, and on top of that, I wouldn’t have to go to medical school. Was I less intelligent? Less hardworking?
When I started college, I secretly worried that maybe I’d chosen the wrong path.
I never faced pressure from my parents to pursue these stereotypical career paths, but I still felt indirect pressure. I felt it in casual conversations with my peers about college, at family gatherings where cousins discussed their majors and acceptances into the best universities in our state, and even in my closest relationships. I constantly compared myself to my brother, an accomplished student who had a high GPA, was in multiple student organizations, and a future engineering major, as well as my best friend (who’s also Vietnamese American) who was top 1% of our class and a nursing major.
When I started college, I secretly worried that maybe I’d chosen the wrong path. I was scared that by choosing psychology, I would be less successful or worthy than those who chose the typically expected career paths for Asian Americans. But in hindsight, I’m so glad I went the route I did — pursuing liberal arts has truly helped me discover some of my greatest strengths and passions.
During my early years of studying psychology, I wrote tons of research papers — and I mean tons. Although most people dreaded these types of assignments, I didn’t; in fact, I looked forward to them. This is where I learned that my love and talent for writing went beyond creative writing; I was also good at scientific writing too, and I grew to develop a love for research as well. It’s during this time, too, that I discovered the type of population I wanted to treat once I became a therapist: I developed a deep interest in learning about how addiction works and treating it, and I also wanted to focus on being able to help people in marginalized communities with their mental health upon learning about mental health disparities among minorities. On top of that, I continued writing and rediscovered my passion for journalism, opening me up to even more future career possibilities.
Over time, the doubt began to disappear and I realized something important: This was my path, and even though what I was doing was different from most of my Asian American peers, it was just as important. While these fields are often seen as less practical or prestigious, I’m finding deep fulfillment in understanding people, exploring human behavior, and using that knowledge to create meaningful impact. I’ve learned that success isn’t measured by what I do, my career, or productivity. It’s measured by how happy I am and whether I — and not anyone else — believe I’ve built a beautiful life for myself.Â
Choosing a different path has not made me any less Asian American.
On Friday, I will be walking the stage, graduating, and earning my bachelor’s degree in psychology. As I prepare for this moment, I carry all of these realizations with me — the pressure I once felt, the expectations I learned to question, and the path I eventually chose for myself. Psychology and writing have become more than academic interests; they’ve become ways of understanding both the world and my place within it. Looking back, I don’t see a departure from my identity, but an unfolding of it in a direction I didn’t always have the language for. What once felt uncertain now feels intentional, and I leave college not with a rejection of where I came from, but with a clearer sense of how I can hold both my heritage and my individuality at the same time.
Choosing a different path has not made me any less Asian American; instead, it has expanded what that identity can look like. My heritage and culture are deeply present in the way I think, the values I hold, and the drive I carry to understand people and make meaning out of experience. At the same time, I am not defined solely by inherited expectations or narrow ideas of what success is supposed to look like. Being Asian American is part of who I am, but it does not limit the paths I can take — it simply travels with me as I define success on my own terms.