I was born in Beijing and moved to Rhode Island with my family when I was 8 years old. My twin sister and I didn’t speak a word of English, and we quickly realized that being two of the only Asian kids in school made us stand out in ways that weren’t always kind. Even before I could understand what classmates were saying, I sensed when the laughter was directed at me.
At home, our parents initially forbade us from speaking Chinese, hoping that immersion in English would accelerate our learning. It worked to some extent — within a year, I could hold conversations — but when they realized I could barely write my own name in Chinese, they panicked and made us relearn it. That dual pressure, of fitting into one culture while holding onto another, shaped much of my early identity.
Discovering a Passion Beyond Economics
When I enrolled at Duke University, I was stunned to find so many Asian students around me. After years of being one of the only ones in the room, suddenly I wasn’t alone. I majored in economics, a practical choice, but something unexpected happened along the way: I discovered theater. I declared it as a minor, but the pull went far beyond academics. The stage became a space where I could tell stories, embody characters, and connect deeply with audiences — something I had never experienced before.
The summer after my freshman year, I returned to China for the first time since leaving in 1999. I went to study ancient Chinese, but what struck me most was how much the country had changed. The energy, the modernization, and the sense of possibility left an imprint that would stay with me long after I returned to the U.S.
From Banking to Burnout
Like many graduates, I followed the path that seemed safest: I accepted a position as an investment banking analyst in New York. On paper, it was prestigious. In reality, it felt suffocating. I asked my boss if I could take one acting class a week, hoping to balance my creative passion with my career, but she dismissed the idea outright, telling me I wasn’t “committed enough.”
The culture wasn’t just demanding — it was demeaning. When Hurricane Sandy approached and courier services shut down, I was told to hand-deliver a contract across the city. Only at the last minute did the group head suggest we fax it instead. That moment crystallized the imbalance for me. I could handle long hours and tight deadlines, but I couldn’t tolerate disrespect.
After just over a year, I quit. I enrolled in an acting program and started auditioning around the city. The reality of being a non-white actor at the time quickly set in. At one audition for a play about an Italian-American wedding, the only Asian role was a caricature: a Mandarin-speaking servant who existed solely as the punchline.
It was disheartening. But one of my professors from Duke, a trusted mentor, told me about a master’s program at the Shanghai Theatre Academy. Around the same time, I was grieving my mother, who had always dreamed of retiring in China. The program felt like a chance not only to advance my craft but to reconnect with her memory — and with my roots. In August 2016, I packed my bags and boarded a flight to Shanghai.
Finding My Stage in China
Shanghai dazzled me. The city was modern, fast-moving, and full of opportunities, but adjusting wasn’t simple. At first, people assumed I was a local. When I spoke broken Chinese, they grew frustrated, but when I switched to English, their attitudes softened — suddenly I was treated as a foreigner.
Nine years later, that dynamic has shifted. With rising cultural pride in China, the reaction is different. Instead of excusing my accent, people ask pointedly, “Why don’t you speak Chinese?” The expectation to assimilate has grown, but so has my ability to navigate it.
Theater became my anchor. My program was taught in English, and the faculty gave me chances I would never have received in the U.S. Within my first year, I landed major roles — from the off-Broadway transfer of Collective Rage: A Play in Five Betties to Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night at Beijing’s National Center for the Performing Arts. Those opportunities gave me confidence that pursuing this career in China was not only possible but perhaps more attainable than it ever would have been in New York.
Of course, the landscape has shifted since then. Before COVID, foreign actors had more open pathways. Post-pandemic, the process has become more bureaucratic and restrictive. But by then, I had already carved out my place.
Building Stability Without Losing Creativity
What ultimately made my choice sustainable was finding a way to balance passion with practicality. To support myself financially, I began helping students apply to U.S. colleges. I mentor about a dozen each year, guiding them through school selection, majors, extracurricular activities, internships, interviews, and test preparation. I meet with them every two weeks in their early years and weekly by junior year. More than a consultant, I see myself as a mentor, helping them develop skills and perspectives that extend beyond applications.
Most of my income now comes from counseling, though I still take on the occasional commercial or voice-acting project. That stability has freed me to be creative without constantly worrying about rent or meals. In the U.S., I probably would have been waiting tables as a “starving artist.” In China, I can pay the bills and still devote energy to acting and writing.
Lately, my focus has turned to scriptwriting. I’m working on a solo theater piece about my mother, a deeply personal project that explores the complexity of being an Asian daughter. It’s the kind of work that requires vulnerability and community support — two things I’ve found in abundance here.
Belonging in Two Worlds
My father initially supported my decision to move to China, assuming it was temporary. He thought I would finish my degree and return. When I didn’t, he admitted he didn’t understand my choice. But as U.S. politics have shifted in recent years, he’s stopped pushing me to come back.
I still return to the U.S. once a year, and when I’m there, I feel American. Yet the longer I remain in China, the more it feels like home. What started as a leap of faith — leaving a stable, prestigious career in banking for an uncertain future in theater — has become a life where I can both pay my bills and pursue my art.
In New York, my dream felt like an indulgence. In China, it feels possible.
