Part I: The Things I Carry

In July, while grocery shopping with Tyler and Zachary, an incident occurred that genuinely broke me.

As you all know, Zach is autistic and ADHD. As you can imagine, doing something as “simple” as grocery shopping can feel monumental. He often “wilds out” - that’s the phrase we use, half-jokingly. Sometimes he’s just feral, buzzing with energy, limbs flailing, words tumbling. We even joke together that he has to “get his ya-yas out.”

Most days, I don’t mind it. This is Zach. This is who he is and who he has always been. I have no interest in stamping that out - society already demands so much conformity, asks our children to shrink themselves into neat little boxes. I’ve spent decades unlearning the lessons hammered into me as a child. I know what it costs to erase parts of yourself just to be acceptable.

And yet - on this day in July - Zach was at his wildest, and he chose the checkout line to unravel. I was juggling him, the groceries, and at the same time, navigating my husband’s own neurodivergence - his undiagnosed autism, his fully diagnosed ADHD. 

My cisgender, straight, white, tall, devastatingly handsome, brilliant husband. 

I say all that because people often imagine I must have it easy - like having a partner with privilege and intelligence automatically translates to ease. But the truth is, being the most neurotypical one in our household means the invisible weight falls on me.

I also mention race and ethnicity, because it absolutely played into this incident, whether the woman realized it or not. Implicit biases are so incredibly insidious. What she did was a microaggression - subtle to some, but cutting and corrosive to those of us who live under them every single day. I’m an Asian American woman. Vietnamese American, really. And if there’s anything I’ve learned throughout the course of my life - it’s that I will always be seen as Vietnamese, while always trying to prove that I’m American.

In addition to always subconsciously feeling like I have to justify my own existence - I am the one who holds the family and house together: the operations, the scheduling, the case management, the social engagements. I used to downplay that work, minimize it, call it “helping out” or “just what moms do.” Not anymore. Because on top of being the scaffolding at home, I am also the primary breadwinner. I make the majority of our household income, and I always have. I’m also a new executive, I’m still a graduate student, and more recently, I’m a public-facing community leader.

And all of this - all the truth of who I am and what I carry - collided in that checkout line. The moment that broke me wasn’t just about Zachary being wild, or Tyler being scattered, or the cashier waiting impatiently. It was the weight of every expectation pressing down at once: be the calm mom, the patient wife, the professional woman, the perfect leader. The moment demanded I be everything, all at once.

That’s when it happened.

I had managed it all - gotten Tyler settled after his rigidity flared (and his social faux pas mitigated), redirected Zach out of the checkout line so he could regulate without being in anyone’s way, and was holding his hand by the exit, quietly waiting. The groceries were bagged. The line moved forward. Everything was under control.

The elderly white lady in front of us checked out smoothly. She had gotten what she needed, paid, packed, and was on her way out the door. She didn’t say a damn word to my husband - my cisgender, white, tall, blue-eyed husband who had been standing right there, beside her, the whole time. Not one word about his brashness, his rigidity, his ADHD chaos, nothing.

No. She saved it for me.

She made the conscious choice to turn back - to approach me, the Asian American mom, standing at the exit with my child, hand-in-hand, doing my best to set boundaries and give the public their space. She stopped, looked me in the eye, and decided it was her duty to berate me. “You know, it would have been nice if…” she began, dripping condescension, as though she had the authority to dictate how I parent, how I hold my family together, how I move through the world.

The mere and fucking audacity.

And here’s what’s important: this was no accident. This was a choice shaped by larger narratives. The white man and the Asian woman. The assumption that he is untouchable, while I am fair game. The story society tells is that Asian women are model minorities, docile, compliant - that we won’t fight back. That we will apologize, keep the peace, carry the shame. This was a textbook microaggression, weaponized in public, intended to remind me of my place. She knew exactly who she was addressing and why.

And she was right in one sense: I did exactly what was expected. I said a superficial apology so I wouldn’t cause a scene.

Immediately upon her leaving the store, Zach squeezed my hand and said, “It’s not your fault, Mommy. You’re a good mom.”

And something inside me broke.

I managed to keep it together on the drive home, but I was also fuming. Hurt. Tired. The kind of tired that has nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with being expected to carry it all, silently, endlessly. My jaw clenched, my eyes burned, but I held it in until we pulled into the driveway.

Because the truth is, it wasn’t just her words. It was the fact that she chose me, not him. That she saw a white man and an Asian woman standing side by side, and knew exactly who to turn her scorn toward. That she felt entitled to stop, pivot, and take one last swing at me while my hands were already full - with my child, with my family, with the invisible weight I always carry.

And maybe the cruelest cut of all: that Zach had to witness it. That my five year old son knew, instinctively, both that the woman was wrong and what words his mother needed to hear. That he felt he had to comfort me and remind me of my own dignity.

There was no lesson, no grace, no redemption in that moment. Just the quiet, relentless ache of knowing that no matter how much I manage, no matter how much I earn, no matter how much I am - it is never enough.