We Must Tell Our Own Story

May 13, 2026

There are moments in life when you walk into a room expecting to learn something, and instead, you walk away changed.

That was my experience at the Asian Real Estate Association of America Housing Policy Summit in Washington, D.C.

I arrived expecting to learn more about housing policy, homeownership, and the challenges facing Asian American, Native Hawaiian, and Pacific Islander communities across our nation. I left with something much deeper: a renewed appreciation for the resilience of our communities, a greater understanding of the work that still lies ahead, and a stronger conviction that we must be the ones to tell our own stories.

One of the most powerful sessions on the first day focused on the state of Asian America. We discussed barriers to homeownership, housing affordability, language access, and the realities facing many immigrant and multigenerational families. We talked about aging parents and the responsibility many adult children carry as they navigate caring for older generations while simultaneously raising children, building careers, and trying to create stability for their own families.

As I listened to these conversations, I was struck by the resilience of our communities. Asian Americans, Native Hawaiians, and Pacific Islanders have endured extraordinary challenges, yet we often do so quietly. We are not always vocal about our struggles. When hardship comes, many of us turn first to family, faith, and community. We help one another. We sacrifice. We persevere.

While that resilience is something to admire, I also found myself reflecting on an uncomfortable question: Has our resilience sometimes made our struggles less visible?

Growing up, I experienced racism firsthand. I remember hearing slurs. I remember being told to "go back to your country." I remember being asked, "Where are you really from?" Those experiences are familiar to many Asian Americans, yet they are often absent from broader conversations about race, belonging, and opportunity in America.

The summit reminded me that despite the growth and success of many AANHPI communities, there is still a great deal that people do not know about us. There are histories that remain untold. There are contributions that remain overlooked. There are communities whose stories have yet to be fully understood.

That realization became even more tangible during Capitol Hill Day.

As part of our advocacy efforts, we met with congressional offices to discuss policy priorities related to housing access, homeownership opportunities, language accessibility, and removing barriers that prevent families from building wealth through homeownership. During one meeting, I shared a story about helping translate loan documents for a Hmong family because language access was a significant barrier in their homebuying journey.

The legislative assistant I was speaking with listened attentively and then asked me what the Hmong people were.

The question was not asked with malice. In fact, he seemed genuinely interested in learning. But the moment stayed with me because it served as a reminder of how much work remains to be done. Even in spaces where policies are being discussed and shaped, there are still communities whose stories are not widely known or understood.

That moment was not discouraging. It was clarifying.

It reinforced the importance of representation and advocacy. If policymakers do not know who we are, they cannot fully understand the challenges many of our families face. If they do not understand our experiences, they cannot effectively address the barriers that exist.

That is why our voices matter.

Capitol Hill Day was one of the most empowering experiences I have had as a real estate professional and community advocate. Walking through the halls of Congress and meeting with elected officials and their staff reminded me that advocacy is not reserved for politicians or policy experts. Advocacy belongs to all of us. It belongs to those willing to show up, share their experiences, and speak on behalf of the communities they serve.

One of the moments that moved me most had nothing to do with policy itself.

It happened while sitting next to my mentor, Laray.

Laray is not part of the Asian American community, yet she spoke passionately about issues impacting Asian American, Native Hawaiian, and Pacific Islander families. She advocated with conviction and sincerity. She listened, learned, and used her voice to support communities that are not her own.

Watching her reminded me that meaningful advocacy is not limited by ethnicity or personal identity. It is strengthened by people who are willing to stand alongside one another in pursuit of something bigger than themselves.

That is one of the things I appreciate most about the Asian Real Estate Association of America.

AREAA's success has not been built solely by Asian leaders. Throughout its history, there have been individuals from many different backgrounds who recognized a need and chose to contribute their time, talent, expertise, and leadership to the mission. They helped build an organization that advocates for homeownership opportunities, housing access, and equitable policies for AANHPI communities across the nation.

That spirit of collaboration is worth celebrating.

The work of advancing housing opportunities is not about exclusion. It is about bringing people together around shared goals. It is about recognizing that when one community faces barriers, all of us benefit from finding solutions. It is about building coalitions that create meaningful and lasting change.

As I reflect on my time in Washington, I keep returning to one central thought: housing is about so much more than housing.

Housing is about dignity. It is about opportunity. It is about stability. It is about language access. It is about ensuring that families can navigate important financial decisions with confidence and understanding. It is about creating pathways to ownership, wealth building, and security for future generations.

But perhaps most importantly, it is about ensuring that our stories are heard.

For too long, others have defined who Asian Americans are, what our experiences have been, and what challenges we face. Yet no one can tell our story better than we can.

That responsibility belongs to us.

My hope is that more people become involved, whether through advocacy, community engagement, public service, or simply by sharing their own experiences. Every story matters. Every voice matters. Every effort to build understanding matters.

We have come far as a people.

But there is still work to do.

And if this experience taught me anything, it is that change begins when ordinary people are willing to step into important rooms, share their stories, and refuse to let others speak for them.