Holding anger only makes us smaller

On Monday, July 24, my family marked the 53rd Anniversary of the beginning of our immigration story. This photo was taken at the airport in S. Korea with family and friends surrounding us in prayer for our safe journey, new life and a bittersweet good-bye.

From left to right:

My dad is on the left with the dark suit, glasses and tie. He was 40 years old.

My sister is to his left in her pretty pink dress. She was 16 years old.

My mom is to her left in her simple yet elegant pastel dress. She was 39 years old.

My older brother is on her left, with his camera and shielding his eyes from the sun. He was 14 years old.

My 2nd older brother is on his left, with his hands behind his back, looking unsure. He was 11 years old.

I was 4 years old; I'm standing in front of my sister, with my black maryjanes and cuffed white sox... not looking too happy or confused as to what is about to happen.

Although I don't remember much from this monumental day in our family's story, I can't help but think about how my parents and siblings were feeling that day.

I wonder if fear and anxiety were their primary emotions or maybe excitement and hope? Most likely, they felt like a tossed salad of emotions that was just too confusing to verbalize.

Like many immigrants, my parents embarked on this adventure to provide a better education and future for their children. They couldn't have possibly fathomed the harsh reality awaiting them on the other side of the world.

Just thinking about it now, as an adult, I cannot fathom choosing to leave the comfort of my home, the people I love, the language and culture that I grew up with... in the hopes of something better. Much better.

My dad recently told me that he must have had a case of temporary insanity because he was a dreamer, but didn't think of how to operationalize that dream. He said if he knew then what he knows now, he would probably not have considered traipsing his entire family across the globe without planning on how he would feed, clothe and care for his family.

If my mom had blocked his efforts or resisted in some way, he would not have pursued his dream. Unlike my dad, my mom was practical, a planner, and anticipated what we might need before we knew we needed it. She was naturally intelligent and I later found out, covertly more ambitious than my dad.

My sister, being the eldest, was tapped to be the operational manager of our household. She made sure that the rest of her siblings were washed, dressed and fed. Sadly, there was no room for her needs and wants. I'm sure she often felt as though she was invisible and her value in the family had more to do with what she could do versus who she was at the core.

My brothers struggled with a lot of bullying and endured many racial slurs that resulted in colorful fist fights. They still talk and laugh about it to this day. I can't imagine the trauma they experienced at the hands of cruel and clueless kids in school who had either never seen Asian people before or felt threatened with the unknown.

As a 5 year old in Kindergarten, my first experience with bullying was from a little boy in my class who intentionally walked up to me with intention and proceeded to punch me hard, in the stomach, without any provocation on my part.

I still remember his little hate filled face that didn't require words to tell me what he was really thinking about me. "I hate you, get out! You don't belong here. Who told you, you could be here?"

Oddly enough, my initial reaction wasn't that of anger, it was more of bewilderment and sadness. I had already felt like I didn't belong and his unprovoked punch only verified my worst fears.

My 5 year old brain couldn't process why a total stranger could hate someone they didn't even know... just because they looked different. I am not sure whether the teacher saw me slumped over in the corner crying or if someone told the teacher what happened, but the little boy was punished for what he did. He never hit me again, but somewhere deep inside my soul, where words didn't exist yet, I became aware that the world was not a safe place to be.

Fortunately, my story didn't end there and there will hopefully be many more chapters yet to be written.

I could have chosen to stay bitter and lash out at anyone who looked like or reminded me of that ignorant little boy who likely learned to hate from his parents; he was likely acting out what he saw modeled in his home.

I have come to learn that forgiveness was and is our only real path to freedom and the only antidote to prevent the insidious nature of hate from taking root in our hearts. The only person that is ultimately harmed from the impact of hate/resentment/bitterness is... you and me.

So, if you are holding any bitterness in your heart against your boss, a family member, friend or even an organization, do yourself a huge favor and let it go... for your sake.

You and I hold the key to unlock the shackles that keep us imprisoned. We were meant to be free and liberated from the things that keep us from showing up as our true selves.

“We must develop and maintain the capacity to forgive. He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love. There is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. When we discover this, we are less prone to hate our enemies.” – Martin Luther King, Jr.

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In healthcare, we made a promise to care for everyone equally, without prejudice, but to what extent do we really make a concerted effort to get to know people who are not like us or share the same values?

Try reaching out to someone you work with who doesn't look like you or believe what you believe. Ask to take them for coffee/tea/boba and say that you want to hear their story.

Listen without interruption and ask clarifying questions when appropriate. I can imagine that both of you will walk away feeling refueled, seen, heard and dare I say more loved?

Go for it and let me know how it went!

Your friend and coach,

Grace