My grandmother is 92 years old. Even now, she says that if she had the chance, she would keep working.
People have different feelings about stereotypes. I personally believe they tend to come from somewhere. I see them as a collection of datapoints, patterns shaped by real stories, real histories, and real values passed down through generations. Rather than feeling irritated by them, I try to understand them.
Asian people are often known for being hardworking. Like many stereotypes, this one holds some truth. In many Asian countries, older generations continue working longer and at higher rates than in the West. For example, Japan (13.6%) and South Korea (13%) compared to the United States (6.6%), the United Kingdom (3.8%), and Spain (1.3%).
Having grown up in Hong Kong, I see the “Lion Rock Spirit” as part of our collective identity. Similar to ideas like the American Dream in the United States, it reflects a belief that resilience is the pathway to success, and that through hard work and perseverance, we can build a better life. (I mentioned in a previous article that Hong Kong has a low indulgence level, meaning we are taught to delay gratification and prioritize discipline over pleasure.)
As one of the Four Asian Tigers and one of East Asia’s top exporters, Hong Kong experienced rapid growth during the 1970s and 1980s, a time when Mainland China, or more precisely the rest of China, remained largely isolated from the global economy. As Parag Khanna notes in The Future Is Asian, colonialism’s mix of capitalism, technology, and manpower gave places like Hong Kong an early advantage, positioning them as bridges between East and West.
Across the border, Shenzhen, also once a humble fishing village, was starting its own race to modernity. British businessman Tim Clissold, in Mr. China, described an era when condom factories, Christmas light workshops, and endless manufacturing projects sprang up almost overnight, fueled by foreign investment and an urgent drive to catch up with the world.
Today, my friends in the financial industry often complain that China’s era of hyper-growth has passed, and that things are no longer as easy as they were for our parents’ generation. The old path — get a good job, save diligently, buy an investment property — no longer works the same way, especially with falling yields.
But the truth is, Chinese people are still hungry for opportunities, and they are not working any less. One example is the rise of “996 culture” (working from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., six days a week), a schedule made famous by tech companies like ByteDance. In industries like law and finance, people even talk about “007,” working from midnight to midnight, seven days a week.
At its core, it is a labor supply and demand problem. In China, there is constant pressure to meet expectations faster, cheaper, and with fewer complaints. Boundaries are blurred, especially for tech workers. Engineers and designers regularly talk about the difficulty of setting limits around their time and energy. When I lived in Shanghai, it became obvious that if you could not meet a client’s demands, someone else would, either at a lower price or on a tighter deadline.
However, what should not be underestimated is that many tech workers in China are genuinely passionate about their craft, or at least highly motivated by the possibility of extra compensation.
Chinese people outside of China have carried that hustling energy with them as well.
Migration has always been part of the Chinese story. During the 19th century, many left in search of opportunity during events like the California Gold Rush, where the dream of “striking it rich” drew thousands overseas. Yet for most Chinese immigrants, opportunity was scarce. Labor was grueling, pay was low, and discrimination was high.
My cousin once told me a story about his mother, who worked at a Chinese takeaway in the UK. She would carry him on her back while standing over a hot, heavy wok, frying rice between orders.
It was about building a future, no matter the cost. This energy shaped entire communities. In cities around the world, “Chinatown” became a symbol of both resilience and isolation, a place where migrant children grew up doing their homework in the back of noisy restaurants, surrounded by the clatter of plates and the smell of frying oil.
Chinese hustle is quite different from the Japanese concept of ikigai. While ikigai is about finding joy and meaning in work, aligning what you love, what you are good at, and what the world needs, Chinese hustle was born from a different soil. It was never just about fulfillment. It was about survival.
David Brooks explains in his book How to Know a Person that cultural behaviors are often rooted in ancient survival strategies. Many Chinese immigrants came from the rice-farming regions of Southern China, south of the Yangtze River, where communities depended on tight coordination to plant, irrigate, and harvest. This legacy of interdependence and discipline still shapes values today.
Malcolm Gladwell, in Outliers, argues that rice cultivation’s demands for precision and long hours help explain East Asia’s strong emphasis on education and why students from these cultures often excel in subjects like mathematics.
Confucianism further reinforced social harmony over individualism. As scholar Henry Rosemont put it, “There can be no me in isolation. I am the totality of roles I live in relation to specific others.”
Erin Meyer builds on this in The Culture Map, explaining that trust in Chinese professional environments is built through guanxi — relationships and personal networks — rather than direct communication or formal contracts.
This collectivist mindset continues in the economy. Family businesses remain central to many Asian economies, with one-fifth of the world’s 500 largest family firms located in East Asia, particularly in China and India. Asia now accounts for 30% of the world’s billionaires, and with 85% of them being first-generation, the region is poised for one of the largest wealth transfers in history.
The deep-rooted pragmatism, identified by Dr. Mandeep Rai in The Values Compass as China’s defining national value, reflects a long-standing cultural tendency to prioritize results over ideals. When I stood in front of the migration maps at the Overseas Chinese Museum in Xiamen, I could feel it — the collective urgency to survive.
Beneath that drive, there is often a quiet guilt, the feeling of never achieving enough, and a slow, silent identity crisis that comes from living between worlds.
My first startup came from a deeply personal place. I wanted to help young people, especially within my own community, navigate mental health challenges. Through that journey, I had the chance to speak with incredible executive coaches, including Haibo E, a successful Asian woman who made it to Oxford, Cambridge, and DeepMind. Those conversations helped me realize that many of our emotional struggles stem from family dynamics, often from our parents. That moment was a kind of awakening for me.
It is encouraging to see founders like Angie Lau tackling these generational patterns, such as the pressures of tiger parenting, through initiatives like Life Beyond School, which works to raise emotionally aware children.
Growing up, I found comfort in the illustrations of Jimmy Liao (几米). His book I’m Not a Perfect Kid (《我不是完美小孩》) gave me peace as a teenage girl, during a time before Instagram, when it was easier to sit with your feelings without constant comparison.
This isn’t just an Asian story. As bell hooks writes in All About Love:
“The wounded child inside many males is a boy who, when he first spoke his truths, was silenced by paternal sadism. The wounded child inside many females is a girl who was taught from early childhood that she must become something other than herself to attract and please others.”
That quote has stayed with me.
Speaking of love, this Substack is, in many ways, a love letter — to my grandmother, Kam-lan Liu, who raised me, to the women who shaped me, and to the heritage I carry.
My recent interview with Radio Television Hong Kong inspired me not only to follow in my grandmother’s footsteps by telling our thousand-year history through the lens of women, but also to find new ways of carrying that cultural legacy forward.
Some of my former Chinese colleagues once questioned how a British man could call himself “Mr. China” when he isn’t even Chinese.
Maybe that is the point. For too long, our stories have been told through someone else’s lens. It is time for us to tell them ourselves — to carry forward our histories, identities, and complexities in our own voices.
As Asians around the world watch Joy Ride and Everything Everywhere All at Once with laughter and tears, I find myself here, bridging two worlds divided by a firewall, sharing the stories of Chinese people wherever we are.
Identity is complicated, and finding our ikigai, our reason for being, is a lifelong process. After building two startups, I am still on that journey.
Maybe, in the most Asian way possible, this is how I show love: through work.
Thank you for sharing my piece! How did you find it? Would love some feedback☺️