Growing up as the daughter of Chinese immigrants, resilience wasn’t a virtue, it was a survival skill. Success wasn’t optional; it was expected. For most of my life, I measured my worth through my achievements. I was taught to chase prestige, to honor my family by choosing a “respectable” path. So, I hustled, constantly proving myself in spaces where others were handed opportunities based on nothing more than their “potential.”
I followed the script: overachieve, collect accolades, never fail, never falter. It worked…until it didn’t.
One moment undid it all. I was laid off.
The shock was visceral.
I had climbed every ladder, checked every box, sacrificed sleep, sanity, and softness. And in return, I found myself staring into a future I hadn’t planned for. My stomach dropped as the question loomed: Now what?
Still, I endured. I thought about the places I had been: the toxic workplaces, the boardrooms where my ideas were echoed back to me in louder voices, the meetings where I smiled through microaggressions as if enduring them was a team sport. I believed resilience meant enduring; that working twice as hard was the only way. That silence was strength.
And then, I became a mother.
Motherhood cracked me open in a way no career ever had. There’s nothing like holding your newborn while wondering who you are now. I was so used to having the answers. Now, I was being asked to simply be… present, raw, exhausted. Motherhood didn’t care about my resume. It didn’t care about my five-year plan. It asked for something deeper: my whole self.
And the truth? I couldn’t feel the connection I thought I was supposed to. As someone who built a career reading rooms, building bridges, feeling people’s energy, I suddenly felt detached from my own child. It was terrifying. I didn’t know how to talk about it. I told myself I was just tired. But deep down, I knew: I was drowning in postpartum depression.
No one prepares you for that when you’re the one who’s “always got it together.”
And for the first time, I saw it clearly: if I didn’t unlearn this inherited grind, this constant pursuit of perfection, I’d pass it down to my son and daughter. I couldn’t let that happen.
So, I chose to rebuild but this time, on my terms.
That meant facing the truth about who I was beneath the job titles, the achievements, the polished exterior. I wasn’t just a mother or a former executive. I was a human being who had spent years performing perfection and had finally been given permission to fall apart.
I looked for spaces to process it all:
The postpartum depression.
The trauma of toxic workplaces.
The joy I wanted to reclaim.
But everywhere I turned, I found fragments.
- Therapy helped—but didn’t speak the language of ambition.
- Coaching helped—but skipped over the shadows.
- Self-help books helped—but assumed I had time to journal in a candlelit room.
So I built what I couldn’t find.
Not just for me, but for every woman walking the tightrope between healing and high performance. For every woman who has smiled through burnout and called it fine. For every woman who’s held it together at work but fallen apart at home.
If you’ve ever questioned the ladder you’re climbing, I hope this story resonates.
And if you’re wrestling with imposter syndrome, here’s what I’ve learned:
- Stop trying to belong in rooms never built for you.
Instead of asking “How can I fit in?”, ask “What would feel expansive for me?” Sometimes it’s not imposter syndrome, it’s an accurate response to a system that was never meant for you. I started using a personal scorecard to define success on my own terms. It changed everything. - Name the game. Then decide if you want to keep playing.
What we often call “imposter syndrome” is a natural reaction to environments built around perfectionism and exclusion. Once you understand the rules, you get to choose your role. Remember: not everything is yours to carry. - Find a mirror, not a pedestal.
You don’t need more advice, you need reflection.
Find someone who sees you clearly, beyond the LinkedIn bio and curated image. A coach, a therapist, a friend, someone who reminds you who you are when you’re not code-switching, people-pleasing, or performing.
You are not broken.
You are becoming.
And that’s not weakness…it’s wisdom in motion.
