“It’s the little island under India.” 

That became my standard response anytime someone asked where I was from and looked completely confused after I said “Sri Lanka.” Growing up in the suburbs of Buffalo, New York, where most people were Polish, Italian, or Irish, and several generations removed from those roots, a tiny island halfway across the world felt about as foreign as it gets. 

So, like many first-generation kids, I learned to blend in. Keep my head down. Fit in where I could. Check the boxes. Collect the paycheck. 

Fast forward a few decades. 

I logged onto what was supposed to be a quick 15-minute Teams intro call with a new colleague. The agenda was simple: introductions, areas of expertise, and how we might support each other as coworkers with shared goals. 

Ninety minutes later, we were still talking. 

I finally hung up and immediately called my sister laughing because I had just spent an hour and a half bonding with my Chinese-American colleague over our mothers and their Asian-ness. The similarities were uncanny. The comments. The expectations. The comparisons to so-and-so aunty’s daughter who was married to the doctor with the dream job, picket fence, and several beautiful children. The subtle guilt trips disguised as love. We may as well have been raised in the same house. 

And somewhere between the laughter and the stories, I had a realization: we actually had far more in common than we did differences. 

Different cultures. Different histories. Different foods, accents, and family traditions. 3,205 miles between our mother countries, it would take a 7-hour flight to get from my Appamma to her Maa Maa. But underneath all of that were shared values, shared pressures, shared humor, and shared experiences that felt surprisingly familiar. 

It was a reminder that people are rarely as far apart as we assume they are, even under the umbrella term of “Asian.” 

I grew up with a strong Sri Lankan community in Buffalo. For a city known more for snowstorms and a struggling football team than tropical islands, there was no shortage of Sri Lankan food, gatherings, and a network of families who looked out for one another. It gave me a strong sense of identity and belonging, even while I was navigating what it meant to grow up straddling two very distinct cultures. It was a close-knit community that made sure we stayed connected to our culture, whether we wanted to or not. Something I hated as a teenager trying to lean more American, but appreciated and am super grateful for as an adult seeking my uniqueness and individuality.   

That community gave me an appreciation for the power of shared experiences and cultural connection. It also taught me that identity is complex; you can feel deeply connected to your heritage while also learning how to navigate environments where few people share your background. 

In 2019, I was lucky enough to be part of the team that put out Coqual’s research report on the AAPI Community, Strangers at Home: The Asian and Asian American Professional Experience. It was the first time I had seen data on this cohort disaggregated into East Asian, Southeast Asian, and South Asian groupings. I found myself reflected in the findings in a way I hadn’t before. The report reinforced something I had long felt but rarely saw acknowledged: while Asian Americans are often grouped together, our experiences are far from monolithic. At the same time, the research highlighted shared challenges around belonging, visibility, and navigating workplace expectations. It was a powerful reminder that we can honor the distinct experiences within our communities while also recognizing the common threads that connect us. 

There are many rooms I’ve been in where I was the only person who looked like me. A conversation between two women, one Sri Lankan-American, the other Chinese-American, made me feel less alone, even if we did not look like each other. In fact, we spoke very different first languages, one ate rice with chopsticks and the other with her hands, and our families came from countries separated by thousands of miles. Yet within minutes, we were swapping stories about immigrant parents, high expectations, respect for elders, family obligations, and the universal experience of hearing, “Did you eat?” as a primary expression of love. What struck me most was not our differences, but how familiar so much of our experience felt. It reminded me that belonging doesn’t always come from finding people who look like us, it can come from finding people who understand us. 

To close out this year’s AAPI Heritage Month, at a time when every difference is overexaggerated and amplified, I find myself thinking less about what separates us and more about what connects us. The richness of the AAPI community comes from its diversity of cultures, languages, histories, and experiences. We are not a monolith, nor should we aspire to be. But there is power in recognizing the common threads that run through our stories; the desire to belong, the sacrifices made by those who came before us, the expectations we carry, and the communities that help shape who we become. It’s this shared power across differences that has historically made collective action and progress possible, and it’s more important than ever now. 

That conversation also reminded me of something we often overlook at work: community doesn’t just happen, it is built, with effort and energy. In a world that seems designed for disconnect – packed calendars, hybrid schedules, social media bubbles, AI colleagues, running from meeting to meeting- it can feel inefficient to spend an extra hour getting to know a colleague. But those moments matter. They create trust, deepen relationships, and help people feel seen as more than their job titles. When people feel connected to one another, they are more likely to collaborate and support each other through challenges. It’s this kind of support that fuels the engine of human ingenuity, bridges differences, and sustains us through crisis. Community isn’t built through policies alone; it’s built through conversations, curiosity, and the willingness to find common ground. 

Sometimes, the greatest sense of belonging comes not from finding someone with the same background, but from discovering that someone with a different one understands your story anyway.