BLOG

A Conversation I Still Think About 

I was diagnosed with ADHD in 2024.  Not long after that, I had a couple of conversations with my mom about it.  She passed away suddenly soon after. 

I didn’t realize how much those calls meant.

I remember trying to explain ADHD to my mom over the phone.  I kept it simple:  losing focus, jumping from one thing to another, and not being able to sit still.  She paused for a moment and said, “I do that too.”  Then she started asking me more about it. 

That moment of curiosity stayed with me.  It shows up in the way I approach people now. 

My mom loved her community deeply.  When over 600 people showed up for her funeral, it made complete sense.  She had a big heart and showed up for people in a way that left a real impact.

At the same time, behind the scenes, I saw how much she carried.  There was an always-on energy to her that didn’t really get a break.  She was always doing something, taking care of someone, thinking about what needed to be done next.  

I don’t say that to label her or take anything away from who she was.  If anything, it helps me understand her more fully now.  That was the model I grew up with. 

Working hard was expected.  Rest wasn’t something we talked about.  You push through.  You sacrifice.  That’s what love looks like.  Over time, you learn how to function within that.  You make it work, and you don’t question it. 

Looking back, I think that’s part of why it took so long for me to recognize ADHD in myself.  It’s not that the traits aren’t there, but that I learned to mask them in order to meet expectations and show respect.

But at some point, that way of living stops working.  Burnout hits, and suddenly the same patterns that once helped you function start to create friction.

For me, managing ADHD hasn’t just been about focus or productivity.  It’s been about unmasking, unlearning, and figuring out what actually works for my brain.  It’s also meant asking myself which values I want to hold onto and which ones I need to redefine.

And if I’m being honest, sometimes that process can feel like I’m moving away from parts of my culture.  Sometimes it feels like grief, other times acceptance, and occasionally a sense of harmony.

As a parent now, I feel that tension more.  I find myself translating, buffering, trying to hold both sides with care.  I’ve learned to pause, check my capacity, and decide what I can realistically hold and what has to give.

I carry her with me in those moments, her curiosity, and the way she showed up for her community.

Both shape how I want to show up now:  building connection and making space for people to be understood.

Finding Harmony: Navigating Culture with ADHD 

Yesterday, I had a challenging conversation with my dad, one of those that lingers long after it ends.  We talked about hy sinh, sacrifice, and how it’s shaped our family’s way of loving.

He said something that stuck with me:

“I wish it could be different, but I understand. Coming to the U.S. meant that individualism in my children couldn’t be avoided.”

That hit me.  I started wondering, what does individualism mean to him?  Why does it sound like a loss?  And why does it feel like we’re talking about two different things?

When I think about Vietnamese culture, I see the beauty in collectivism, the way families hold each other, the way love looks like service and sacrifice.  It aligns so deeply with how I was raised:  to serve, to give, to love beyond ourselves.

But what I question is how that value of harmony sometimes turns into silence, not speaking up to save face, not wanting to cause waves.  On the surface it looks peaceful, but it can lead to internal chaos.  When we give without discernment, without checking in with our capacity or being intentional about that choice, we start to lose ourselves.  We mask, we conform, we meet the group’s needs while neglecting our own.  And that can quietly lead to burnout, anxiety, and disconnection, even depression.

Because we are each unique, with purpose and difference by design, ignoring that individuality means overlooking a part of who we are.

On the other side, when I think about individualism, I understand how my dad might see it, that it looks like selfishness.  To him, when we set boundaries or voice our needs, it must feel like we’re turning away from family values.   But to me, that’s not selfishness; that’s intentional.   It’s honoring who we are so we can give with intention instead of exhaustion.

I’ve been reflecting a lot on my mom this past year.  She gave so much of herself, always serving, always sacrificing.  But I also saw how that endless giving brought chaos, not harmony.

I remember moments when she was overwhelmed, snapping over small things, nitpicking, correcting us for things that didn’t really matter.  As a kid, I noticed the pattern:  “Oh, Mom’s in her mood, stay away.” I thought it was my fault.  Now I understand it differently.  It wasn’t me.  It was her overwhelm, the weight of all she carried, and likely her ADHD, too.  She didn’t have the awareness or support to name it that way, but I see it now.  What looked like criticism was really overstimulation, exhaustion, and love tangled together.  She loved deeply, but was exhausted.

And for years, I didn’t understand why I would get so easily triggered by my own kids, until I realized I was doing the exact same thing.  I didn’t have the mental capacity to connect with them because I was constantly overwhelmed and dysregulated.  I was repeating the pattern I once experienced, trying so hard to give and hold everything together that I lost space for presence and connection.

And somewhere along the way, I started following in her footsteps.  I said yes to everything, volunteering, serving, helping, until I couldn’t feel joy anymore.  It was a quiet kind of burnout that came from trying to be good and serve others without pausing to ask if it was actually mine to carry.

I realized that to live with joy, I needed discernment.

Through my ADHD diagnosis, I’ve come to understand something even deeper, that we are all wired differently.  We each have our own abilities, our own wiring, our own capacity.  Learning about how my brain works has helped me see that my limits aren’t flaws, they’re part of my design.  They’re reminders to slow down, to approach life with curiosity and compassion instead of comparison.

Now, when I say yes to something, I do it more intentionally.  I ask, If I say yes here, what do I need to let go elsewhere?  Do I have the capacity to give with love and presence, not guilt or depletion?

I’ve learned that acknowledging and managing my capacity isn’t a weakness, it’s a strength.  It brings peace and joy not only to myself, but also to those I serve.  It gives me endurance to keep giving, to keep loving, to stay connected without burning out.  It’s like that familiar saying:  you have to put your own oxygen mask on first.  Because when we breathe, we can help others breathe too.

It’s taken me time to learn, but I’m beginning to see that honoring my capacity is also honoring my culture, just in a new way.  It’s my way of living in the middle, between collectivism and individualism, between family and personal needs, between giving and being.

Maybe that middle space is where true harmony lives, not in silence or separation, but in discernment and love.