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Amelia Dimoldenberg: “Do you have any advice for someone who also has a bit of an unrequited love theme in their lives?”

Ethan Hawke:

No doubt, an extremely marketable, quotable, emotionally healthy response. Unsurprisingly, this quote has won over the bleeding hearts of lovergirls and loverboys. After all, heartache is much easier to romanticise when a famous person goes through the same thing.

Perhaps cynicism has become such a well-worn pathway in my mind that my first instinct was to pick apart what Ethan Hawke had said about love.

I extrapolate from the isolation of “the one” that there is an implied imbalance in this theoretical relationship. Even if there is mutual love, we are talking about the one one is the one who loves more.

But the modern cautionary tale is to never be the one who falls more. It’s plastered everywhere in both digital and printed content that I have consumed and attempted to adopt. Love seems strategic and calculated.

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But I still care a lot. And to some degree, we have to care about people’s perceptions of us. How your boss perceives you may determine your promotion. How your partner perceives you shapes the quality of your relationship.

Importantly, though, the desire to be appreciated comes from being wanted to be known, not perceived.

To be known requires the thorough effort to be understood. Perception, on the other hand, is hasty, it is when characteristics are assigned conclusively based on fleeting impressions.

We are constantly perceived by others. Some we see regularly, some barely know us at all. Regardless, they can perceive a version of us that we disagree with. But why does that unsettle us so deeply?

Maybe the frustration of misperception is actually helplessness, anxiety and confusion we have about who we really are.

The desire to control

It is a natural human tendency to reach for control when we feel things slipping through our fingers. It’s like gripping the steering wheel harder when the traffic is bad (lived experience).

Only, this doesn’t do anything. You don’t drive faster or slower. The roads are still jammed, and people are still cutting into your lane. But it gives you the illusion of control of the car - pseudo-control.

I think I’ve been doing this emotionally for as long as I can remember.

I annotate my actions constantly. Sometimes before anything has even happened, as a preventative measure against being misunderstood.

I add context to something I said in case it sounded harsher than intended. I apologise reflexively for things I do not need to apologise for, just to “keep the peace”. I over-explain my role in disagreements because I am terrified someone will walk away holding resentment towards a version of me that is misunderstood.

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In recent months, I have been dreading every time my phone lights up because I feel completely unprepared to be alerted to the carnage that is unfolding. Not that it’s been peaceful by any means in the past decade, but I would argue that the content of current affairs has marred any semblance of humanity most of us believed in.

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Humour has been my way of holding heavy things without dropping them entirely. It disguises otherwise dispiriting topics as a good laugh and spares everyone the awkwardness of absorbing just how bad something was. Because saying it plainly can sound like an exaggeration or worse, like ‘attention-seeking’.

Nonetheless, I’ll taking the risk:

Last week, I was in critical condition in the ICU and I thought that was it.

Since then, I’ve found myself reflecting on a few things:

1. People can’t deal with death

   Perhaps this is why humour has always been my preferred method of dealing with uncomfortable topics: it makes the conversation easier for all parties to hold. But humour, at least for me, has never meant avoiding distress entirely. I have always been fairly open about difficult emotions.

   What I have noticed, even before this incident, is how uncomfortable people become when the topic turns dark - particularly when it turns to death. They either look at you slightly mortified, as though they have suddenly been handed something they are expected to respond to, or they start making jokes about the situation, even when it is slightly insensitive to do so.

   When we are young, death feels like the worst outcome imaginable. It becomes this mythical evil that takes people we love away from us - grandparents, relatives, friends. We grow up treating it as the worst possible consequence (think along the lines of life sentence vs death penalty).

   Although death is a difficult topic regardless of culture, race, or ethnicity, my Asian heritage means I am familiar with the Chinese perspective of death as a cultural taboo. Entire buildings in Asia skip the number four because 四 (sì) in Mandarin, sounds similar to 死 (sǐ), ‘to die’. There is anxiety surrounding the subject and great avoidance as a result, and these behaviours, albeit diluted, are passed down.

   So when something like death - or near death - happens, people often search desperately for an explanation.

   There must be a reason. Some action must have justified it. Someone is to blame! A good person cannot simply suffer something terrible for no reason at all.

   I’d like to explain this behaviour using a social psychology theory called: Belief in a Just World1. This refers to the human tendency to want to believe that the world is fundamentally fair, and that people ultimately get what they deserve. Hence, when something bad happens, we instinctively try to find the justifiable reason that must have caused it.

   I have heard some truly strange responses to the deaths of loved ones. Remarks like: “But he was such a good person.”, or “Was it because someone cursed him?”. As if being good is misaligned with passing away, as if they’d heave a sigh of relief if this misfortune was indeed logical. For hope that if there is a reason, then the rest of us can avoid the same fate.

   Over the past week, I have experienced this too. Interrogations of how/why/where and endless of would’ve(s)/could’ve(s)/should’ve(s).

   But sometimes a person can simply be standing next to a tree when it falls.

   And even then, someone will still say they must have been standing in the wrong place.

   ---

2. The world keeps turning.

   Another reason why losing someone to death is so devastating is because the world continues to turn while yours stops. The strange thing about almost dying is that the world continues with you in it, and expects you to keep spinning too.

   It is utterly bizarre and unnatural to have to resume the exact version of yourself that existed before something almost ended you. In the same day that you nearly did not make it, you are expected to show up and be a functional person. Texts and emails come in. Teams is off the rails. You greet people in the same way you always have, because otherwise it warrants an exhausting explanation of “yeah I almost died but i’m okay now hahaha”

   Perhaps part of us wants the world to stop for a bit, as proof that our near non-existence meant something. And yet another part of us wants to move on, because movement reassures us there is still life ahead. I think the reason why people who have been given a “second chance” at life pursue their passions with such zeal is because there is a reframe in perspective of what really matters.

   We’ve been seeing this with Gen Z employees reframing work as simply work, not a life sentence, and promoting life outside of work. Movement, travel, hobbies - things that make us human. People like to mock Gen Z for being weak, but they are not wrong with this perspective. There is more to life than crunching numbers. There is more that matters.

   And though this is not groundbreaking news, I feel the moral obligation to reinforce (to myself) that truly nothing matters more than being healthy. I lost a very precious bracelet during this incident and I am shattered - sounds trivial but this jewellery lived on me for years and has experienced everything with me, so I naturally have a strong attachment to it. The cherry on top is that I can’t even re-purchase it if I wanted to, because this brand discontinues their stock frequently. Every time I want to scream into my pillow about this loss, I force myself to look at my body, feel it move and work itself back to normal. I know it fought pretty hard and although it’s not mutually exclusive, I’d choose keeping my healthy body over anything else.

   ---

   There is one final reflection I keep coming back to:

3. Who is in the room next door?

   I intentionally chose the cover photo of this essay to be from The Room Next Door, an exquisite film by Pedro Almodóvar.

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With this recent Lunar New Year, it seems a vast number of non-Chinese people have taken it upon themselves to educate social media about Chinese customs and traditions.

I speak for myself when I say I genuinely enjoy cultural appreciation. I love sharing facts and food with my non-Chinese friends, and I love seeing people online take the time to learn and appreciate the richness that comes from my heritage. I think this appreciation captures the beauty of globalization: honouring different cultures for what they are, no matter where we are originally from - a progression we seem to be alarmingly regressing on globally.

However, two main problems I gather the Chinese community has had with this recent surge in Chinese cultural uptake are:

1) Lack of credit

Taking it upon oneself, as a non-Chinese person, to actively gain traction and credit online for educating the masses on Chinese customs. Who died and made you chairperson of the Chinese?!?

Please, by all means, if these customs speak to you and you find them interesting - adopt them. Practice them. Say you’re practising them. But acknowledge where the information came from. The overzealous preaching about not washing your hair on Lunar New Year is beyond irritating. It once again claims credit for elements of a culture that is not yours to begin with.

2) This appreciation is fickle

Let’s take a trip down memory lane to 2020: a socio-politically transformative time in the world, with the Black Lives Matter movement in particular. Simultaneously, COVID-19 - also referred to by some as the “China Virus” - was devastating and terrifying for not only Chinese people, but the entire Asian and Pacific Islander community.

Why? Because, frankly, these racists didn’t care whether you were Chinese or not. If you looked like one, it was a convenient time to release discriminatory urges under the guise of “freedom fighting.”

Reading anti-Asian hate crime statistics daily was pivotal for me. It forced me to consider that if I ever migrated to a Western country, I could be a resident, integrated into the community, contribute everything I had, and still not be seen as such.

There was a striking sense of apathy surrounding it. And as we know:

“If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.”
— Desmond Tutu

Hence, whilst the rest of the world may have moved on, many Asians have not. So naturally, we question the basis of this sudden fascination with Chinese culture. Is this genuine appreciation, or simply a wellness or manifestation trend everyone’s hopping on?

And ironically, in many non-Asian countries, the “token Asian” is often the opposite of Chinese.

What Is a “Token Asian”?

In other words: the “cool Asian.”

The Asian who integrates into non-Asian friend groups, which is rare, because most Asians are perceived as “weird.” This is an important distinction - the token Asian exists in contrast to most Asians, often defined more by what they are not than what they are.

I spent key developmental years in an English boarding school in the countryside. Navigating typical teenage social dynamics already comes with enough complexity. Add visible racial differences, and it becomes something else entirely.

Even though it did not always apply to me personally, I recognised a visible segregation, particularly with the Asian students. Most of the Asians ate together daily, walked to class together, made every appearance together until graduation. A questionable scene for the equality and diversity marketing team.

The Unconscious Bias

If you have spent time in Western culture, you have likely experienced bias against Asians, whether as a witness or as an Asian person yourself. Being Asian in non-Asian spaces comes with a strange, unspoken taxonomy.

“Unconscious bias” is what my Headmistress used to call it at school, defined as: automatic, unintentional assumptions and stereotypes that influence behaviour without conscious awareness.

Being Asian often defaults to “uncool” unless, perhaps, they look like Peggy Gou.

Why?

Because they eat “smelly” food.
Because they are quiet and look petrified when spoken to.
Because they speak in their native language.
Because they wear trainers and jeggings (at once).
Because they “herd together” and don’t mix.

I can say this, because I have done most of the above, exemption from native language for the sole reason that I am not linguistically competent enough to do so. I would argue that my Headmistress’ take is a scratch on the surface, though.

The Conscious Bias

If we actively act on our unconscious bias, does it then become conscious bias?

Seen it, heard it, felt it.

Gaps at communal dining tables because the next seat is beside a “weird” Asian. Names mixed up, unbothered to learn them even when they are in English.

Is it really a wonder why Asians don’t mix?

Don’t get me wrong, friend groups should form organically, and people naturally bond with like-minded individuals. The “token Asian” may genuinely resonate more with other ethnic groups. Similarly, many Asians find comfort among fellow Asians. However, beyond personal preference, there is an added layer of bias that helps explain why Asians rarely integrate into other ethnic groups, particularly white ones.

POV: The Token Asian

A strange affirmation of somebody assuring you, “Don’t worry you’re not like them”.

Should I say thank you? Should I laugh? What if I’m more like them than you realize?

It becomes a subconscious to distance yourself from the “weird Asian” category. Maintaining that “exception” status gives leverage you desperately cling to as a developing teenager.

I would be lying if I said I was immune to this. I had also internalised the idea of the “weird Asian.” I have caught myself distancing, categorising, quietly separating.

That is how these hierarchies sustain themselves. Not through overt cruelty, but through subtle distancing.

Asians do not always rally behind each other. There are tensions between Asian countries and groups - resentments, superiority complexes, stereotypes. A lack of solidarity within the Asian community allows hierarchies to remain intact. Many of us were also raised to not be troublesome. To stay quiet. To focus on our work. To keep our heads down. So, we let it be.

On Appreciation-

This is not a manifesto, nor is it mockery of those who are enjoying the Chinese customs they’ve discovered. It is simply an honest observation.

Please by all means, appreciate Chinese culture and the multitude of Asian cultures that exist. Participate, enjoy, learn. But acknowledge where these cultures come from.

Acknowledge that the loud Chinese family on the train who gets in your space plays a pivotal role in the culture you now benefit from. Do not claim credit for beliefs and practices honed for centuries just because “abundance” sounds good this year and you like horses.

Most importantly, do not adopt what is convenient while disregarding or disrespecting the people it came from.

And while you’re at it, if you hear a younger relative call an Asian person or anyone weird, encourage them to sit next to that person at lunch. Partner with them in labs. Small acts of inclusion matter more than you think.

From my perspective, this is how we truly appreciate each other.

You know when you get on the tube they say “mind the gap”? Mind the gap indeed - the space between what you once knew and what the present reality now allows.

I thought you were interested in paediatrics not ophthalmology

What does mum think about your hair?

Dad must be so thrilled!

These thoughts arrive fully formed, never to receive a response. I smiled, well done in my mind, and scrolled.

Before this, there was heartbreak.

I was not always this regulated. This internal response is hours, days, weeks and months of work because I am actually a dramatic melancholic by nature. To say I looked like a classic breakup movie scene may be slightly understating it; I have hunched over the sink, wondering how I was going to make it through the day, I have been unable to get out of the car for hours, paralysed by the fear that I would never love anyone like that again.

Heartbreak is not just the discontinuation of the relationship but the dissolution of what the future was imagined to be. You’ll walk down the aisle to someone else, you’ll design your house differently, your future kids won’t have their features - or worse - you may already have all of these things with that person, slap on the fun of divorce and custody and administrative grief: the slow and agonizing erasure of that sharing, like cleaning up glitter and always finding more.

Other kinds of unloving

When people think of love, they often think of romantic love. And indeed, you love your partner (or should), and the commitment and sometimes legal binding, gives it structure and expectation.

Love, however, is not (common misconception!) restricted to romantic love (how BORING would that be)! In fact, my female friendships have yielded the deepest love I’ve ever experienced.

And as with all relationships, the more we love, the deeper we can wound.

“There were two reasons why I was scared to let people in - the damage they could do and the damage they could find”

-Chris McGeown

I saved this quote a few years ago as I felt it encapsulated the internal tension of being known. In any relationship, what matters is not only how it begins, but how it continues to show.

Unlike romantic partnerships, platonic bonds often offer depth without guarantee, intimacy without obligation. A friend may know you inside and out, share your language, your history, your softest parts, and still decide that they no longer want to show up in the same way.

You begin to notice it in small ways.
The casual jabs that flow more easily than compliments.
The warmth that appears only when it is beneficial.
The effort that is no longer mutual.

Because this is platonic, much like family, there is rarely a clear rupture point. There is no obvious justification to leave. And of course, people carry their own pain - absence is not always neglect. But when there is sustained evidence that a relationship no longer holds you with care, you must protect your heart.

The act of unloving is deliberate modulation.

Unloving someone who is still in your life is the hardest task of all. You still show up, but you stop yourself from loving the same way you used to.

Unloving is honouring the love that was once shared, because resentment is a refusal of acceptance. It is recognising that the love you gave was real, not because of how it was received, but because of who you were when you gave it. And then, slowly, learning how to give less where less is all that is met.

Unloving also requires unlearning. We are inclined to avoid what triggers us. Allowing old places and memories to exist. Not rushing back, but not running away.

Excerpt from the final scene of La La Land (screenplay written and directed by Damien Chazelle).

Regardless of whether you’ve seen this film, let me borrow its emotional grammar. Two people share a look that holds everything they once knew together: the love, the knowledge, the hopes, the life they imagined.

And instead of reaching for more.

They remember the melody. They smile. And walk out the door.

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