The other day, I learned for the first time that my immigrant father’s first job in the United States was picking peaches. “The ladder was so high, you wouldn’t believe it. I was scared I was going to fall,” he recounted. The same man who left his country, his family, his native tongue—his very sense of self—at the age of 26, clothed in nothing but promises and optimism, couldn’t climb a ladder. Though literal, this ladder feels deeply metaphorical. The anticipation of his demise carved a cavity that could only be filled with fear—fear he had to walk through like fire, because if he didn’t pick those peaches, he wouldn’t survive. He needed this job—desperate, hungry in every sense of the word. I’m turning 25 next month, and it feels like I’m still learning how to satisfy my hunger. I’m not picking peaches, but I am climbing ladders. 

Throughout my childhood, I believed I was being shaped for excellence—that the clay of my mind was meant to carry the waters that would heal society’s wounds. The evidence of my success would affirm the existence of others like me—brown, eager, and deeply unsure of what we were supposed to be doing. Without knowing it, I was being molded into a puppet; my existence felt like one long performance designed to satisfy everyone else’s appetite. The glimmering enthusiasm, care, and curiosity that once guided me through college—never overpowering, but always present—seemed to vanish the moment I entered the workforce. I felt lied to by everyone who built me up, only to be crushed by the gut-sinking feeling of the perpetual hamster wheel that is work.

Work has no clear end, and for someone like me—praised for perfectionism and performance—that can be a dangerous combination. The anchors I so desperately clung to in order to make sense of myself couldn’t withstand the realities of being a working adult. I believed work was about pursuing purpose, uncovering passions, and dedicating myself fully to a cause. I need to feel the impact of what I do, yet so much of the working world is obsessed with the appearance of productivity, not its substance. There’s a realization that arises when you give too much of yourself to your job: that the void is still there no matter how hard you work. 

Many of us are carried through life by a familiar narrative: that hard work naturally leads to happiness, measured in buzzwords like success, purpose, meaning, and fulfillment. However, hard work often just leads to more work—and from personal experience, I’ve learned that the hardest workers aren’t always taken seriously or treated fairly. The values that shaped my immigrant parents’ journey, and once guided my own success in school, no longer served me. They were built for a different world, and no one prepared me for how essential it would be to redefine work and shift direction. The ones who get ahead aren’t the ones keeping their heads down, following the rules, or quietly solving problems like I do. 

This narrative is reinforced even more deeply in my relationship with my father, who still believes that devoting myself entirely to work is the key to happiness. As he says, “It’s good to keep your mind busy.” But what’s the point of being busy if it leaves you feeling empty? You can be doing so much, yet accomplishing nothing at all. When I’m working, it’s hard to feel deeply fulfilled by the fluff of emails, meetings, and performative productivity. How can I tie my sense of self to something so transient? I was living my parents’ dream—an easy life that required no questioning, no resistance. Just tap away at a computer, click a few buttons, and you’re set. But what about the hunger inside me—the yearning to feel something real, something that reaches beyond the edges of my screen? 

I gave so much of myself to my first job out of college that work became my entire personality. It consumed my thoughts, my conversations, and my sense of worth. I had placed far too much value on work, believing it needed to be the focal point of my life. I was mistakenly aligning my deeper purpose with a job title and a paycheck—but the truth is, a job is just a job. Once you shut your laptop, that’s it. And I had to ask myself: what’s left of me when I log off? If there was nothing that came before or after work, then no wonder I felt so out of place within myself. 

I wasn’t put on this planet just to make money and then die. There has to be more to life than working—more than pretending to care about your job as much as your own well-being. Something inside me began to bend. The things I’d neglected to cultivate throughout my life started to haunt me through my relationship with work. When my manager left just four months into my new job, I threw myself into their role, mimicking their every move in an effort to prove I could handle their absence. But in the blur of sending emails, getting lost in the trenches of Google Drive, and navigating tasks without any real direction, I lost myself. I wasn’t honest about what I truly felt: that change terrified me, and I needed someone to lean on. As a first-generation eldest daughter—and an anxious, perfectionistic overachiever—I realized I had to get good at the very things that went against the character I’d been performing all my life. For the first time, I felt dissociated from the work I was doing; the performer in me could no longer jump through hoops. I felt alone, burnt out, and hopeless. 

I wish my immigrant parents had taught me that it’s okay to take breaks. One of the first things I had to learn for myself was how to walk away from my computer. In my first job, I acted like I was chained to my desk—as if missing a single phone call, email, or meeting would unravel everything. But I’ve come to see that stepping away to recharge and center myself isn’t a weakness—it’s essential. I’m allowed to pause, to be present, to breathe. And when I return to my desk after choosing myself, I feel more grounded. Punishing myself by ignoring my needs doesn’t make me a more productive employee. 

The truth is, some tasks at work require less time and energy than we often give them. If you pour the same level of effort into every task, big or small, you’ll inevitably burn out because you’re giving far too much of yourself to the things that don’t warrant it. This is where being strategic comes into play—exercising judgment over what truly needs to be done versus what others expect from you. Pouring too much energy into work drains the energy needed for the things you love. It’s impossible to be ‘on’ all the time, there’s no reason to expect yourself to “perform” at the same level every day when each day calls for something different. Work should meet us where we are, not the other way around.

I’ve also had to learn to question the demands and boxes I felt myself being placed into. When you’re starting out in your career, it’s easy to be taken advantage of—especially when you’re figuring out what truly needs to be done. If you’re pulled into a meeting that doesn’t concern you, asked to do something far outside your responsibilities, or expected to extend yourself beyond what your salary reflects, you have every right to question what’s being asked of you. It’s one thing to be ambitious and adaptable, but it’s something entirely different to feel your life force being drained because everyone expects you to carry so much. You’ll only do your best work when you focus on getting better at your own job, not trying to fill in for everyone else’s. 

Last but not least, by not making work my sole purpose in life, I’ve been able to see beyond the illusion that work alone can fulfill me. Each of us leads nuanced, complex lives filled with countless different pieces. It would be absurd to place all of our sense of self and value in something so fleeting. Our jobs change, our roles shift, our managers come and go, and our interests evolve. Remember when you were a child and someone asked what you wanted to be when you grew up? Isn’t it wild how we automatically assumed the answer had to align with a profession? From a young age, we’re taught to dream through the lens of a career but what would our dreams look like if we didn’t attach our careers to them? 

This perspective becomes even more nuanced when I reflect on my father’s experiences in this country. He had to play by very different rules, but I can’t play by his rules when it’s an entirely different game. There’s a part of me that yearns for some semblance of choice, because ironically, even though I’ve been given more opportunities than him, I can’t say I’ve made those choices with the same conviction and confidence that he did. Outwardly, he’s endured so much, yet inwardly, he remains remarkably grounded—while I, on the other hand, feel like I’m on the verge of combusting every time my laptop dings. 

Now, in my mid-twenties, I find myself wondering, can I be as resilient as he was? Maybe that’s the guiding question for every first-generation child in the workforce, navigating seemingly meaningless tasks compared to the life-threatening circumstances our parents once faced. Still, I know I need to meet the moment. Taking work less seriously than I was raised to feels, in many ways, like an act of resistance, and perhaps even a step toward becoming a healthier version of myself, one that honors my first-generation identity while not being defined by it. 

Say no to the meeting, don’t pour all of yourself into that email, and close your laptop so you can open the door to yourself in a way your parents only wished they could. And while you’re at it, toss the ladder and just eat the damn peach. 

Process

My father recently shared an anecdote about one of his first jobs after arriving in the United States, which sparked the inspiration for this essay. Originally written for a contest exploring the ways we work, it wasn’t selected, but it remains a deeply personal and reflective piece. I believe many first-generation daughters like me will see parts of themselves in it.