Becoming Heroes Of Our Own Cultural Story
Written by Kim Hutchinson
I grew up writing stories about white heroes because I never imagined someone like me could be at the centre of any narrative.
As the child of Vietnamese immigrants in Australia growing up in the ’90s and 2000s, I rarely saw people like me represented in media—except for the Asian people heavily featured on Border Security or in various drug-smuggling cases on the news. The books, movies, and TV shows I consumed centred white experiences, relegating Asian people to niche martial arts movies or playing other peripheral characters when we appeared at all (sometimes blatantly racist representations).
This absence shaped more than just the entertainment I was exposed to growing up—it moulded my sense of possibility. My creative writing assignments for school featured white protagonists because I had absorbed the message that Asian characters could never be heroes. I internalised my peripheral status, accepting the role of a sidekick in my own life rather than a main character worthy of my own attention and admiration.
The novel that changed everything
Many years later, struggling with severe burnout and facing months-long waiting lists for mental health support, I turned to reading as an escape. A chance encounter with Helen Hoang’s The Heart Principle in the library’s 'Hot Reads' section promised light romance—or so I thought.
The lightbulb moment came halfway through the book.
Reading about a high-performing Asian American woman grappling with burnout and crushing expectations felt intensely and eerily familiar. When the character discovered her autistic identity and recognised a lifetime of masking, the dots started to connect for me too. Despite years of exposure to neurodivergent people in my social circles and media, recognition had never clicked until I saw it through this specific cultural lens—through someone whose family dynamics, cultural pressures, and life experiences mirrored my own.
That moment revealed how crucial diverse representation truly is. I had needed both elements—neurodivergence and cultural background—woven together to finally see myself in a new light. One without the other had left me searching without knowing what I was looking for.
Hesitating at the threshold
As I navigated my mental health journey and embraced my neurodivergent identity, I felt a strong calling. But rebuilding my life and transforming these hard-won learnings into my professional purpose meant confronting another barrier. Researching the neurodiversity advocacy landscape left me overwhelmed by its predominant whiteness. Would there be space for someone like me?
The fear was visceral—that I would be too different, too outside the emerging narrative of neurodivergence. But the same absence that had delayed my self-discovery now became my purpose. If my journey to recognition had required seeing someone like me in fiction, how many others were still waiting for that mirror?
By acknowledging my worthiness to take up space, I cultivated belonging not only for myself but for a higher purpose: inspiring change through representation.
Cultural lenses on neurodivergence
Neurodivergence itself looks different through cultural prisms. What Western contexts often frame as deficits can be neutral or even valued traits in other cultural settings. In many Asian cultures, limited eye contact from younger people speaking to elders signals appropriate respect, not social awkwardness. Being quiet and reflective suggests depth of thought rather than disengagement or incompetence. Using technology in hospitality settings demonstrates efficiency and care rather than coldness.
These differences highlight why diverse representation matters. When neurodivergence is portrayed exclusively through Western cultural frameworks, countless people remain unseen and unrecognised—even to themselves.
What harmony looks like to me
As Australia celebrates cultural diversity with events like Harmony Day, I see a parallel opportunity to explore neurodiversity through different cultural expressions. True harmony requires all voices—especially those at complex intersections of identity—to be heard and valued.
I want young neurodivergent people of colour to know their differences make them unique and represent their greatest contribution to the world. They deserve to be the heroes of their own stories. Their experiences matter and are worth sharing.
My vision for representation—whether in fiction, advocacy, or leadership—embraces both light and shadow. I celebrate the remarkable strengths and beauty of neurodivergence while acknowledging the real challenges of navigating structures not designed for minds like mine, and made harder through intersectionalities like culture and ethnicity. Most importantly, I want to show that neurodivergent people of colour can be heroes, leaders, and changemakers too.
The world becomes richer when every story is told, when every experience is honoured. None more important than another, but all equally valued. Looking towards the future, I hope to see more narratives that reflect the full diversity of human experiences across every cultural background—stories that might have helped my younger self feel seen decades earlier, but will certainly help countless others recognise themselves today and tomorrow.
