MAP x A Tiger Cub, Part II - The Cost of Being ‘Exceptional’ by Eric Chang

Growing up, I was never compared to the world.
I was compared to other Asian kids.

Cousins who got into Harvard.
Kids who played classical piano with perfect posture and even better GPAs.
Prodigies in math, science, violin—take your pick. They were the standard. And I was expected to catch up.

The message was never spoken outright, but it was always clear:
We don’t need to be loud.
We don’t need to stand out.
We just need to be excellent.

My parents believed that as Asians, our role was to work hard, stay disciplined, and succeed quietly.
Excellence wasn’t a choice—it was identity.

“Don’t miss points.”
“Don’t fall behind.”
“Don’t give them a reason to doubt you.”

And for a long time, I bought into it.
Until I realized what it was costing me.

In school, teachers seemed to expect me to be the quiet, compliant overachiever.
They were surprised when I spoke up. Even more surprised when I was good at sports.
I remember being called Jeremy Lin just for existing in cleats or sneakers.
As if athleticism didn’t belong to us.

But I loved sports. Soccer, basketball—those were the places I felt free.
Still, every time my parents talked to other Asian parents, I braced myself.
They’d ask how I was doing in school, how piano was going—then their tone would shift.
“He plays basketball?”
“You let him do that?”

I remember telling someone once that I wanted to be an NBA player.
They laughed. Not meanly, just with the kind of laugh that says, Let’s be serious now.
And my parents brought that laughter home.
They told me to be practical. To be realistic. To focus on school.

They weren’t trying to hurt me.
They were doing what they thought was right.
But little by little, I stopped dreaming out loud.

That’s the thing about the model minority myth.
It doesn’t just stereotype us to others—it reshapes how we see ourselves.

It says:
You’re allowed to succeed—but only in certain ways.
You can be great—but only if it fits the script.
Don’t take up too much space. Don’t ask for too much help. Don’t make a scene.

And if you’re struggling? Stay quiet. Because everyone thinks you’re doing fine.

The myth makes “exceptional” feel like the only way to be seen.
But what it really does is silence.

It silences our pain.
Our mental health struggles.
Our dreams that don’t fit the mold.
Our desire to be more than just obedient, high-achieving templates of success.

The world praises Asian excellence while ignoring the pressure it takes to maintain.
And when we fall apart under that pressure, we don’t fit the narrative anymore.
We become invisible again.

So many of us grew up with this internal contradiction:
Be perfect, but don’t be seen.
Excel, but don’t speak.
Achieve everything, but don’t expect anyone to understand how heavy it all is.

I’m still unlearning it.
Still reminding myself that my value isn’t tied to performance.
That I don’t have to meet every expectation to be worthy.
That dreams don’t need permission to matter.

If you grew up like me—measured against other Asians, praised for being quiet, pressured to be exceptional—you’re not alone.

You were never broken.
You were just placed in a story that wasn’t yours.

It’s okay to rewrite it.
To define your own version of success.
To be loud, messy, creative, emotional, imperfect.

To want more than just safety through silence.

We are not just the “model.”
We are the full story.