Oxford Dictionary defines an ambivert as “a person whose personality has a balance of extrovert and introvert features.” I had never heard the term until about six years ago, sitting in my boss’s office, talking about how our Asian upbringing sometimes felt at odds with our roles in government. We were expected to always be “on” with open doors, constant availability, and endless engagement. Meanwhile, all we really wanted was a quiet corner, a book, or 30 minutes of mindless scrolling watching hamsters in tiny outfits (iykyk and okay, that was just me).
I spent years correcting assumptions about how I used my time. I wasn’t networking after hours or attending every event. I was at home watching anime with my family, sewing, or watching traveling and food reels on Instagram. At my core, I’ve always been private. I could show up, lead, speak publicly, and do the job well, but I only shared myself with people I trusted. That balance defined me. I was, and still am, an ambivert.
When I left public service in 2024 and took time to reset mentally and physically, I realized something uncomfortable. My introversion had cost me visibility. I had done meaningful, large-scale work, but very few people knew. The County’s Customer Service Center that served over 100,000 people in five months. The Climate Action Plan that positioned Orange County as a sustainability leader. The Office of Immigrant and Refugee Affairs. These weren’t just projects I touched. I built them. Yet when milestones were celebrated, I stood in the back or left early for the next meeting.
For most of my life, I believed that was the right thing to do. I grew up in a Baptist church where service was about serving, not recognition. Humility wasn’t optional. It was expected. Public acknowledgment felt unnecessary, even uncomfortable. But recently, I started asking myself a different question. If I don’t tell my story, who will?
That question became real in 2024 when I joined the Los Angeles Homeless Services Agency as Chief Programming Officer. Shortly after, an article was published that questioned my competence in connection to a fraud case I had no involvement in. I had never been interviewed by the FBI. I had no role in the wrongdoing. Yet there I was, named publicly, with no context and no voice in the narrative. It was disorienting and deeply personal.
As I read the article and supporting materials, it became clear how easily complex systems can be simplified into misleading narratives. Emails I wasn’t included on were used as evidence of inaction. Decisions I had influenced behind the scenes were absent from the story. Even actions that prevented harm were omitted. A lawyer later confirmed that while the framing was unfair and untrue, my status as a public official made it difficult to prove defamation. I was told to wait it out.
And I did. But in today’s world, stories do not fade. They live online. They become searchable. They become part of how others understand you, including your children, future colleagues, and people who have never met you. That realization stayed with me.
Over time, I’ve come to see this not as an ending, but as an origin story. Not a departure from who I am, but a clearer understanding of it. Being an ambivert does not mean staying silent. It means choosing when and how to speak. It means honoring both sides. The part of me that reflects deeply and the part that steps forward when needed.
So this is me stepping forward. Not to become an influencer or to seek validation, but to tell my story in my own voice. To document the work, the people, and the impact that matter to me. To make space for truth alongside perception.
I am still the same person. I still do my best thinking in quiet moments. I still listen more than I speak. But I also understand now that silence can create gaps others will fill. And I would rather fill those gaps myself, honestly, imperfectly, and fully.
Ambivert and all.