2025 BAAFN Award
Hannah Goodwin, 2025 BAAFN Award winner receives award from Giles Li, essay contest co-chair
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Click on the image above to view the recording of Hannah reading her essay
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Grounded In Change
by Hannah Goodwin
I have never stayed in one place long enough to grow roots, but I've learned to carry the soil with me.
Change is constant in my life. I was born in China but grew up in America, navigating worlds where I was never just one thing. In some places I was too Asian to blend in, in others, not Asian enough to belong. Every time I learned the flow of things, life shifted again. Some fear change; I expect it.
If superpowers help us to survive, mine is adaptability. It's not a flashy ability that stops time or reality. It's quieter, lingering beneath the surface until it is needed. This unseen force has shaped me more than anything. I've learned to be both constant and fluid, to observe, adjust and translate myself into spaces not made for me. Adaptability is more than survival; it's an instinct, a skill, a way of seeing the world that allows me to move through it with confidence, even when unsure where I belong.
Moving to Westchester, NY, was the first time I realized I was different. My features, my food, my middle name, people pointed them out before I understood what they meant. I felt like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong picture: visible but never quite fitting. So, I learned. I studied how people spoke, what they laughed at, how they carried themselves. I folded into the background, not to disappear, but to understand. Blending in was a tool, but true adaptability was salvation. It wasn't about losing myself, but about knowing how to exist anywhere, even when nowhere felt like home.
Brookline was another shift, another environment to figure out. By then, I'd mastered transition. I could read a room before stepping into it. I knew how to shift just enough to fit without losing myself. With each move, I became more attuned to the unspoken languages of belonging - the pauses that mean more than words, the subtle ways people connect. But no matter how well I adapted, I could never escape the questions:
"Where are you from?"
"No, but where are you really from?"
My identity has never been something I could simply exist inside; it's something I'm asked to explain. Strangers, classmates, even well-meaning teachers. People notice me before they know me, searching for an answer before I can give one. The need to define me has always felt more urgent to them than it does to me.
Being Wasian means walking a tightrope between two worlds. It means switching between, languages, cultures and expectations. It means never feeling enough of one thing, yet always too much of another. It is code-switching without realizing it, adjusting my tone, interests, and demeanor depending on who I'm with. At times, this constant shifting made me wonder if I had an identity at all, as though I was just a reflection of my surroundings. But over time, I realized adaptability isn't erasure. It's understanding. It has given me the ability to navigate different spaces, see the world from multiple perspectives, read between the lines and sense the unspoken. That is its own kind of power.
Yet power does not always feel powerful. There are moments I wish I could exist without explanation, in a space where I don't have to adjust. But I've come to accept that my identity is not fixed, but fluid and expansive.
Some fear change because it threatens what they know. I welcome it because it has made me who I am. Adaptability has made me observant and empathetic. I see the hesitation in others, the small ways they shrink to fit in. I recognize it because I lived it. I've learned to create space for others, knowing what it means to feel out of place. True belonging isn't about fitting in perfectly, but forging connections. There was a time I resented the constant shifting, the feeling of never being fully anchored. Now, I see it differently. My ability to adapt does not mean I am lost. It means I can find home in many places.
My superpower is not standing still. It's not needing a fixed place to feel whole. It's the ability to move forward and embrace the unknown without losing myself. Adaptability is more than survival. It's transformation. It's the ability to grow, to exist fully in different worlds without being defined by them. If life is constantly shifting, I will shift with it.
If I cannot plant roots, I will grow wings instead.
Change is constant in my life. I was born in China but grew up in America, navigating worlds where I was never just one thing. In some places I was too Asian to blend in, in others, not Asian enough to belong. Every time I learned the flow of things, life shifted again. Some fear change; I expect it.
If superpowers help us to survive, mine is adaptability. It's not a flashy ability that stops time or reality. It's quieter, lingering beneath the surface until it is needed. This unseen force has shaped me more than anything. I've learned to be both constant and fluid, to observe, adjust and translate myself into spaces not made for me. Adaptability is more than survival; it's an instinct, a skill, a way of seeing the world that allows me to move through it with confidence, even when unsure where I belong.
Moving to Westchester, NY, was the first time I realized I was different. My features, my food, my middle name, people pointed them out before I understood what they meant. I felt like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong picture: visible but never quite fitting. So, I learned. I studied how people spoke, what they laughed at, how they carried themselves. I folded into the background, not to disappear, but to understand. Blending in was a tool, but true adaptability was salvation. It wasn't about losing myself, but about knowing how to exist anywhere, even when nowhere felt like home.
Brookline was another shift, another environment to figure out. By then, I'd mastered transition. I could read a room before stepping into it. I knew how to shift just enough to fit without losing myself. With each move, I became more attuned to the unspoken languages of belonging - the pauses that mean more than words, the subtle ways people connect. But no matter how well I adapted, I could never escape the questions:
"Where are you from?"
"No, but where are you really from?"
My identity has never been something I could simply exist inside; it's something I'm asked to explain. Strangers, classmates, even well-meaning teachers. People notice me before they know me, searching for an answer before I can give one. The need to define me has always felt more urgent to them than it does to me.
Being Wasian means walking a tightrope between two worlds. It means switching between, languages, cultures and expectations. It means never feeling enough of one thing, yet always too much of another. It is code-switching without realizing it, adjusting my tone, interests, and demeanor depending on who I'm with. At times, this constant shifting made me wonder if I had an identity at all, as though I was just a reflection of my surroundings. But over time, I realized adaptability isn't erasure. It's understanding. It has given me the ability to navigate different spaces, see the world from multiple perspectives, read between the lines and sense the unspoken. That is its own kind of power.
Yet power does not always feel powerful. There are moments I wish I could exist without explanation, in a space where I don't have to adjust. But I've come to accept that my identity is not fixed, but fluid and expansive.
Some fear change because it threatens what they know. I welcome it because it has made me who I am. Adaptability has made me observant and empathetic. I see the hesitation in others, the small ways they shrink to fit in. I recognize it because I lived it. I've learned to create space for others, knowing what it means to feel out of place. True belonging isn't about fitting in perfectly, but forging connections. There was a time I resented the constant shifting, the feeling of never being fully anchored. Now, I see it differently. My ability to adapt does not mean I am lost. It means I can find home in many places.
My superpower is not standing still. It's not needing a fixed place to feel whole. It's the ability to move forward and embrace the unknown without losing myself. Adaptability is more than survival. It's transformation. It's the ability to grow, to exist fully in different worlds without being defined by them. If life is constantly shifting, I will shift with it.
If I cannot plant roots, I will grow wings instead.
