Turning Pain Into Fire Wendy Su on the Overlooked 1.5 Generation in New Zealand

There is a moment early in the conversation where Wendy says something simple, almost in passing: she doesn’t like labels. She prefers to just be “Wendy.” It sounds light, even casual—but as the conversation unfolds, it becomes clear that this is not a rejection of identity, but an understanding of how complex identity really is.

Wendy’s journey sits in the in-between. As a 1.5-generation Chinese New Zealander, she moves between cultures that carry different expectations, values, and ways of being. There is no single framework that fully holds her experience. And so, from early on, there is a quiet negotiation between what is inherited and what is encountered, between who she has been shaped to be and who she is still becoming.

This in-between space is not always obvious from the outside. It does not always appear as conflict. But internally, it creates a kind of tension—subtle, persistent, and deeply formative. It shows up in how emotions are understood, expressed, and sometimes avoided. It shapes how one relates to family, to society, and to oneself.

Wendy did not set out to explore this through theory. In fact, her academic path began with uncertainty. She knew she wanted to continue studying, but did not yet know what to focus on. What guided her was not a clear plan, but a principle: to pursue something that genuinely interested her, something she could care about.

That search led her into psychology, and eventually into research on emotions—specifically emotional regulation among 1.5 and second-generation Chinese New Zealanders. What began as an academic inquiry slowly became something more personal. As she engaged with the topic, she began to notice something within herself.

She realised she was not as emotionally in tune as she had thought.

This was not about a lack of feeling. Rather, it was about distance. Emotions were present, but not always acknowledged in the moment. They existed, but often remained unarticulated—held somewhere just outside immediate awareness. Over time, this pattern became clearer: emotions would build and accumulate, only surfacing when they reached a point that could no longer be contained.

In recognising this, her research shifted. It was no longer only about understanding others—it became a way of understanding herself. The process of studying emotional regulation became one of learning to stay present with her own emotional experience, rather than stepping away from it.

This required unlearning.

Much of what she had internalised growing up—how emotions are managed, what is expressed, what is held back—did not simply disappear. Instead, it required a gradual process of awareness. Naming emotions. Sitting with them. Finding ways to respond that did not involve avoidance or suppression.

At the same time, her academic work deepened. Rather than relying solely on broad cultural comparisons—such as individualism versus collectivism—she began to examine the internal diversity within cultural groups. The differences between generations. The lived realities of people navigating multiple cultural contexts at once.

To do this, she drew on frameworks such as Confucianism—not as a fixed belief system, but as a lens to understand how certain patterns of behaviour and values have been shaped historically. This allowed her to move beyond surface-level descriptions and explore the underlying reasons why people relate to emotions, relationships, and identity in particular ways.

What emerges from this is not a simple conclusion, but a more nuanced understanding.

Human experience cannot be reduced to categories.

Culture is not static.

Identity is not fixed.

And emotions are not just individual—they are shaped by history, by environment, by the worlds we move through.

Alongside this intellectual journey is the reality of everyday life. Wendy is not only a student; she is also working long hours, managing multiple responsibilities, and navigating the pressures that come with both. By conventional measures, this could be seen as overwhelming. Yet she does not describe herself in those terms.

Instead, she speaks about rest differently.

For her, rest is not necessarily the absence of activity. It is the presence of something grounding. Something that allows her to return to herself. It might be small, simple acts that create space without requiring complete withdrawal from life.

This reflects a broader theme in her journey: the ability to remain engaged while also becoming more aware. Not escaping difficulty, but learning how to move within it differently.

There is no clear resolution offered at the end of this conversation. No final statement that everything has been figured out. In fact, Wendy openly acknowledges that she still experiences self-doubt. That she is still learning. Still questioning.

But the nature of that self-doubt has changed.

It is no longer something that holds her back. Instead, it becomes part of the process—a sign of care, of curiosity, of wanting to do things well.

What stands out most is not certainty, but openness.

An openness to growth.
An openness to complexity.
An openness to not having a fixed answer.

And perhaps this is why she resists labels.

Because labels suggest completion.

They suggest that something has been defined, finalised, and understood.

But Wendy’s story is not about arriving at a fixed identity. It is about remaining in motion. About allowing space for change. About recognising that who she is cannot be contained within a single description.

So when she says, “Just Wendy,” it is not a simplification.

It is an acknowledgement.

That who she is… is still unfolding.

Full Podcast: Turning Pain Into Fire Wendy Su on the Overlooked 1.5 Generation in New Zealand