When the Room Wasn’t Built for You—Build Anyway - Part 1: Awareness

When You’re the Only One in the Room

I’ve always felt like the odd one out.

I grew up in Northwest Indiana, just outside of Gary—a place where I was a minority in a minority world. As a first-generation Vietnamese American, I was often the first. But more often, I was the only.

• The only Asian kid in the classroom.
• The one who didn’t bring friends home because our house looked too Asian 
• The only girl on the construction site.
• The only one in my family to move out of state, break tradition, and get married later in life.

Being the only one makes you feel exposed. And as a result, I spent most of my early career with my head down, just doing the work. Trying to blend in. Conforming seemed safer than standing out. For a long time, I didn’t share my ideas, opinions, or even my aspirations—because I thought I was the only one who saw things differently.

I believed if I just worked hard enough, the results would speak for themselves. People would look past the fact that I was a woman. That I looked different. That I didn’t fit the mold.

But they didn’t. And the silence started to eat at me.

Not Just the Ceiling Above Me—But the Voice Within Me

Self-doubt crept in early—and never left.

Even when I knew I was capable, I questioned whether I belonged. I saw others—usually people who looked like everyone else—being mentored, promoted, supported. I was told I was “better suited” for the office when I asked to be in the field. I’d hear I was being considered for regional or international roles, only to end up right back where I started.

Over and over, I was passed up—not because I wasn’t capable, but because I didn’t fit the mold.

I joined women’s groups. I joined Asian organizations. I kept thinking, Maybe here—finally—I’ll belong.

But even in rooms full of people who looked like me, I still felt out of place.

I didn’t have designer bags or clothes. I wasn’t petite or polished. And sometimes, it felt like we were all silently competing for the one “different” spot—as if there wasn’t enough space for all of us to be seen.

Other times, it felt like we weren’t even speaking the same language—not just culturally, but emotionally. There was always something that made me feel apart, even among those who were supposed to be my people.

Eventually, I started to wonder if the problem was me.

Even among “my people,” I was still on the outside.I kept waiting for the moment I’d walk into a room and feel like I belonged. That moment never came.

And when everyone else around you seems to have built-in support systems—and you don’t—it makes you feel even more alone.

The external messages were clear: "You’re not like us. I don’t know how to champion someone I don’t understand."

But the internal messages were louder: "You’re not good enough. You never were."

That’s when imposter syndrome stopped being a passing thought—and became my default state. Every success felt like a fluke. Every mistake felt like proof.

And worst of all? I believed it.

How could I prove my worth externally when I was fighting for survival internally?

My upbringing didn’t help. In my family, blame was currency. If something went wrong, it was my fault. I was the “stupid one,” the scapegoat. No matter how hard I tried, it was never enough. 

Even now, those early messages live in my bones.

When you’re constantly moving through systems that weren’t built for you, the pressure doesn’t just surround you—it seeps in. Being the “only one” doesn’t just make you visible. It makes you question how you got there in the first place.

And when I tried to open up about it—tried to ask if I should change direction—I was met with, “You should be lucky to have a job at all.”

As if questioning my place meant I was ungrateful. As if survival should be enough.

But gratitude shouldn’t be a muzzle. And still, the doubt lingered. The hardest part wasn’t being different.

It was quietly wondering if I even deserved to stay.

When Giving Up Seemed Easier Than Trying

For most of my twenties, I lived in a loop I couldn’t escape:

 Try. Fail. Give up. Repeat.

I didn’t see anyone who looked like me in the roles I dreamed of. Without role models or a roadmap, success felt like a fantasy—something for other people. I’d ask for stretch assignments, for international work, for access to PMP classes—only to be overlooked. Ignored. Passed over.

Eventually, I stopped asking. And when I failed, I didn’t try again. I just moved on—quietly, bitterly.

That pattern didn’t just show up in my career—it started in school.

When I struggled in university, no one offered support. The response wasn’t, “How can we help?” It was, “Maybe you’re just not cut out for this.” My sister once told me I should just get an associate’s degree. “It’d be easier,” she said. 

Easier to accept a smaller life. Easier to stay in the box they’d already built for me.

So I shrank myself to fit their expectations. And I hid away my struggles so I can push through so that these opportunities didn’t get taken away from me. 

If even my own family didn’t believe I was capable of more, how could I?

How do you dream of something you’ve never seen yourself in?

In my world, the people who looked like me followed one of four paths: doctor, pharmacist, engineer, or nail technician. So when I dropped out of pharmacy school, it felt like I had already failed. And when I changed my major to construction management, the expectations dropped even lower. I couldn’t risk failing one more time.

"How could a girl possibly succeed in that field?." my parents would say.

To them, it wasn’t just unconventional—it was unimaginable.

But here’s the truth: You don’t realize you’re the exception until you’ve already broken through—until you look back and see just how far you climbed.

A Voice Worth Listening To

The world already pushes against people like me—because they don’t understand the perspective of the first or the only. But the more dangerous voice was the one I internalized. The one that whispered:

• Who do you think you are?
• You’re not smart enough.
• You’ll never be enough.

But no one ever tells you this:

When the path isn’t clear—you don’t have to wait for one. You can build it.

Brick by brick. Even when you’re the only one. Even when the doubt is louder than the dream. Even when giving up would be easier.

Somewhere deep down, beneath the noise, the rejection, and the silence— I heard something else. A quiet voice that said:

Keep going.

To Be Continued: Building Anyway

This is just Part One: Awareness.

A look at the internal and external forces that shaped how I saw myself.

What about you?

What messages—spoken or unspoken—have shaped how you see yourself?

Which voices come from the world around you… and which ones live quietly inside?

Because awareness isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning.

Next: Action . Because if the room wasn’t made for you, That doesn’t mean you don’t belong. It means it’s time to build your own.