In what ways do you see the impact of your work on the communities we serve? What impact do you see specifically on our patients and clients in the AAPI community?

The AAPI community is diverse and often impacted by the "model minority" myth, which obscures mental health needs and reinforces stigma. There are cultural tendencies to intellectualize distress and deprioritize emotional wellbeing, and it’s especially hard for those navigating intersecting identities, like LGBTQ+ AAPI individuals, to find culturally affirming spaces.

Central to my work is cultural humility — approaching each client with openness, curiosity, and recognition that their lived experience is the greatest expertise. Building rapport is foundational in my practice, especially in a community where mental health vulnerability is often stigmatized.

I aim to help deconstruct these barriers by reframing how behavioral health is understood and embraced, validating non-traditional forms of community and identity. Using inclusive language and affirming cultural values while challenging harmful norms, I contribute to making support more accessible and effective for AAPI clients, especially those often underdiagnosed or undertreated.

It’s a privilege to be part of this work, not only in delivering services but in reclaiming behavioral health and recovery as integral to overall wellbeing.

Is there a specific memory or interaction that you could share, with respect to patient privacy, that stands out as exemplary in making a difference for our patients or clients in the AAPI community?

One that sticks out—not because I did anything special, but because it reaffirmed my core values around patience, how trauma shows up, and what it truly means to meet someone where they are. I realized that many AAPIs and people with complex survivorship stories just need to respect their pace and process.

A patient was referred to me through a warm hand-off from their primary care provider. The team was concerned—the patient was irritable and agitated and frequently accused staff of “not getting it right” or “not listening.” When we first spoke, they firmly stated that “nothing was wrong.”

They missed their initial assessment, but weeks later, they unexpectedly walked into the clinic -- no appointment -- just to see if I was available. I did a brief check-in. After some gentle rapport-building and space to be heard, they left. A few days later, they returned — again without an appointment — this time in tears and full of anger. “I’m tired,” they said. “Tired of fighting with everyone. Tired of the nightmares. Tired of pretending everything’s fine.”

In that spontaneous session, they began to open up. They shared the weight of their daily responsibilities — parenting, caregiving for elderly parents, supporting a spouse, and working in customer service. They were drinking alcohol to get drunk regularly, but able to function daily. Beneath all of that was something much deeper: childhood sexual and physical abuse they endured.

At the end of that session, they said they felt better. I offered treatment recommendations, but they didn’t come back the next week. A month later, they returned — again unannounced — just to ask, “What is treatment going to be like again?” They said they weren’t ready yet. But they were thinking about it.

This continued for over a year — short, informal visits, tentative conversations, always unplanned. And then one day, they walked in and said, “I’m ready.”

We built an intensive 8-week plan. Six months later, after consistent weekly sessions, they were no longer experiencing nightmares, and alcohol wasn’t doing what it did before. They told me, “I can’t believe I was ever that angry,” and “I have so much energy now — my migraines are gone, and my doctor says my blood pressure is better.”

This wasn’t about clinical technique. It’s about presence, about honoring someone’s pace. I’ve had similar stories from Korean mothers, Cambodian refugees, and LGBT individuals asking about what recovery and care for themself or someone they love is going to look like -- trying not to bring shame, or losing their social status. I’ve learned that people in survival mode don’t always trust the safety of healing, especially in many AAPI communities, where intergenerational trauma, silence, and the expectation of strength are deeply woven into identity.

When someone has spent their life protecting others, they may not know when — or even if — they’re allowed to be cared for. Healing doesn’t happen on our timeline. It happens on theirs. Our role isn’t to fix or force it, but to stay consistent, patient, and open.

We’re not responsible for the traumas people carry. But we are responsible for creating safe spaces where healing becomes possible, when they’re ready. Sometimes, the most radical thing we can offer is to slow down… and stay.

What do you believe are the most pressing issues facing the Asian & Pacific American community today, and how can your respective fields contribute to solving them?

This is a complex question for me — I’ve come to understand it more deeply through my experiences in both clinical and community-based settings, including volunteer roles as a clinical researcher, forensic psychological evaluator for asylum seekers, and anti-human trafficking organizer. These roles have shown me how mental health, justice, and healing intersect in the lives of Asian and Pacific American communities, especially among youth, where suicide has become one of the leading causes of death since 1999. I believe this parallels the experiences of the LGBTQ+ community in many ways.

Mental health stigma is often discussed, but it’s only part of the issue. The pressure of the "model minority" myth obscures the impact of racism, migration-related stress, hypersexualization, and intergenerational trauma. These challenges are often unspoken, with help-seeking framed as weakness rather than resilience. When layered together, they create barriers to care that many AAPI youth struggle to navigate.

Addressing these realities requires more than just expanding services. It’s about creating culturally grounded spaces where emotions aren’t pathologized, identity is honored, and healing goes beyond a Western clinical mold. From my experience, I’ve seen firsthand how healing and justice depend on trauma-informed, culturally competent care that recognizes the complexity of people’s lived experiences.

The solution isn’t simply more services — it’s more trust, more presence, and more accessible professionals who can speak the language, both culturally and literally, of those they serve.

If you could change one thing about how the AAPI community is perceived or treated in society, what would it be?

I think I’ve been talking from my soapbox. But, if I could change one thing about how the AAPI community is perceived, it would be creating more valued and protected spaces that honor the diversity within the community. Often, the complexities, strengths, and struggles of AAPI individuals are reduced to stereotypes and East Asian representation. Society should recognize and celebrate this diversity, allowing each person’s unique identity and culture to be reclaimed and respected.