I was born in New York and lived in China until age six, but the childhood I remember transpired in the suburbs of Pittsburgh — more specifically, within Great Wall Chinese Restaurant, in West Deer. 

My parents immigrated to the United States in their early twenties. My mother never entered high school, while my father barely completed it. They quickly confirmed their suspicion that the American Dream never truly existed — for them at least. They bravely dreamed of grander destinies for my brother and me. 

However, it became clear early on that chasing these dreams would come with sacrifices. Vacations and other luxuries were rare; most of their energy went into running the restaurant, making sure we had the basics.

Before long, they would confront another brutal reality: There was no assurance that their children would succeed. And it was no time before I began to demonstrate that success is not guaranteed, and sometimes not even within reach. While my brother checked all the boxes of the ideal child, they found they had to lower their expectations for me. 

As I struggled academically having already drained much of our limited finances trying various extracurricular pursuits, the one sure thing that kept my parents proud was my performance at the restaurant. From an early age, my days were split: school from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m., then from 3 p.m. to 9 p.m., I answered phone calls and worked the fryer at Great Wall. 

Although my English skills developed much later than my brother’s, and my aptitude for math was nowhere near his, I took pride in the effort I put in at the restaurant. I would soon resent this lifestyle because as I reached middle school, the lack of a social circle weighed heavily on me. I was trapped in a cycle of responsibility … for 12 consecutive years. The restaurant became my obligation, overshadowing my direction in life. 

Enduring heatless winters and sweat-drenched summers, I remained an obedient child. I absorbed my parents’ criticisms, from remarks about my weight to warnings about my future — destined, in their eyes, to repeat the same pattern of hard work for meager pay at the restaurant, all because of my academic shortcomings. My silence wasn’t voluntary; it was rooted in fear of more unwarranted criticism, being belittled in front of others, or being forced to work longer hours at the restaurant on weekends. 

At the time, I could only feel the heat of others’ expectations. It would be years before I could see any light at the end of the long evenings of toil.

A crushing weight — and a friend

I lacked the ambition needed for action. Deep down, among the doubts of others, I found myself doubting, too. In one sense I didn’t care, yet at the same time, I cared far too much, caught between indifference and longing for approval. 

The endless loop of school, work at the restaurant, homework and sleep defined my middle school years. Three years had dragged on for what felt like a decade, and by the end, I became numb to the judgment I perceived for not working hard enough to succeed. While my academic performance improved, the exhaustion and monotony left little room for anything else. Still, it wasn’t enough. 

I found myself slipping into a life I never wanted. Stressing over body image, I shed 10 pounds some weeks during my sophomore year. The sting of disappointment in my parent’s voices grew sharper as college loomed on the horizon. 

At 16, the weight of the world felt crushing. One new friend helped to keep me from drowning. Brook’s words were truly inspiring — eloquent and carefully crafted, they captured the emotions I felt but believed no one else could understand. In a poem about our friendship, she wrote: 

“… no social contract is needed to bind our friendship in place, 
no, Rousseau, you’re not needed
our minds are in a good place…” 

In her words, I saw my own unspoken fears and emotions reflected back at me. Through her poetic voice, she reminded me that I was never truly alone, even when it felt like the world was too heavy to bear.

Little did I know, Brook would not only be a friend for life but also my business partner, teacher and inspiration. While life was tough and high school was a struggle, I knew there would be someone to turn to, a confidante who understood the challenges of an untraditional family. In her, I found a reflection of myself, and because I so desperately wanted her to succeed, I knew I couldn’t let either of us down. 

Few nights without tears

There’s never a right time to begin something. People are constantly waiting for a moment when everything will fall into place, but life is far less predictable than we hope — than I hoped. 

While I so desperately wanted the acceptance of my parents, I knew their emotions were not in my control. Through long nights of journaling and self-reflection, I concluded: If no one believes in me, I will. After all, who is to care for one if not oneself? Because I knew I needed to change, to stop pitying myself over the mere words of others, a fire ignited within me: a desire strong enough to override the doubts. 

From the very first day of high school, my parents emphasized the importance of achieving a high SAT score and attending a prestigious university. When my brother was accepted into Yale University during my sophomore year, their expectations for me intensified. 

As senior year approached, along with college application season, I was overwhelmed by a deluge of supplemental essays, rigorous academics, and, worst of all, relentless criticism. While my parents wanted me to attend a top school, their comments suggested I wasn’t up to it, and  that I should settle for a state school instead. Their words wounded the deepest parts of my already shattered heart, but battle scars don’t stop warriors from fighting. 

From October 2023 to January 2024, I don’t recall a night that passed without tears. I cried in silence, fearful of drawing unwanted attention to my pain. My parents’ words cut deeply, leaving me heartbroken, yet I never let on how much I was hurting. To them, my silence was a surrender, but to me, it was a quiet resolve. In those moments of stillness, I found clarity, my determination to prove them wrong, but more importantly, to prove myself. 

Nine rejections, one driveway revelation

Twenty-four applications: nine rejections, seven waitlists, eight acceptances — but just one that would alter the trajectory of my life. I opened all my decision letters alone, afraid to feed into my parents’ disappointment if the moment was shared with them. On March 20, I got my acceptance letter from Johns Hopkins University with a full-ride scholarship. Sitting in my driveway, I felt a rush of emotions: relief, joy and a flicker of disbelief. I stared at the letter, my heart racing as the reality sank in: This was the moment I’d dreamed of. 

When I finally mustered the courage to reveal my offer, my parents reacted with a mix of disbelief and cautious optimism. My mother’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, a glimmer of hope breaking through the years of harsh criticism. My father, typically reserved with his emotions, offered a proud nod, a subtle acknowledgment that I had done something extraordinary. Yet, a part of me sensed their lingering apprehension, the quiet voice that questioned whether I could truly excel in such a competitive environment.

Summer passed in a blur, with final goodbyes to my friends and an internship. Before long, I would be a freshman attending Johns Hopkins, majoring in public health with an applied mathematics and statistics minor on a pre-dentistry track. 

It took years, but now, in college, I’ve realized that, more often than not, I painted my parents as the sole source of my hardships. Though their expressions of love diverged from those seen in more conventional families, I fully understand the extent to which they’ve always loved, cared for, and prioritized their children over themselves. It wasn’t until I began living on my own, facing the challenges they once shielded me from, that I saw their sacrifices with new clarity. The criticisms that once felt suffocating were their way of preparing me for a world they knew would be harsher than any words they could say. In their own way, they were teaching me resilience — a lesson I could only grasp with time and distance.

Growing up in our low-income, first-generation family, I often failed to acknowledge the challenges my parents overcame to simply build a life for my brother and me. They came to a new country with no background, money or support for the mere chance at a better future. It wasn’t just about survival; it was the hope they carried for us to achieve what they could not. Their sacrifices were the foundation upon which my aspirations were built. 

And now, in gratitude for their sacrifices, I want to show them that the American Dream is tangible, not just a figment of their imagination. Each sleepless night my parents endured, every drop of sweat shed in the restaurant, and all the sacrifices made in silence were for the possibility that the trajectory of our family could be altered. They believed in the promise of America, not for themselves, but for us. And while the promise of America isn’t guaranteed, my promise for them will be. 

Anita Zhu is a freshman at Johns Hopkins University and can be reached at anitazhu0901@gmail.com