The Stern School of Business had always been my dream college. Exactly three years ago, I was a wide-eyed senior from a no-name public school working tirelessly on my “Why NYU?” application essay. My “why” was simple — to prove that I could make something of myself in the biggest, brightest city in the entire world.

I grew up with a mom who immigrated to small-town Canada at 10 years old. While her family left village life behind in China, their traditional values moved with them. My grandparents kept having kids until they got two sons — but as the eldest of five siblings, my mom is the sharpest and most resourceful. She is a protector at heart and pretty much everything her siblings could ask for in an older sister.

However, none of this mattered to her parents. Following the principles of Cantonese culture, only my mom’s brothers were worthy of being praised in front of uncles and aunties or inheriting the family home. They were the kings, the future breadwinners — my mom, a girl.

But out of her own merit, she went on to become the ultimate career woman. She was the only woman at a top real estate investment firm working as a Certified Public Accountant. She built and sold dozens of multimillion-dollar homes to the wealthiest clientele in Vancouver, earning much more than her husband. 

For my mom, a first-generation immigrant, success meant fighting tooth and nail for everything she ever wanted. She raised me to climb and scratch my way up to the top — naturally, this became my mindset as I entered business school. 

Although I was a highly optimistic Stern first-year ready to tackle any obstacle, I still struggled academically, felt insecure about my social life, got rejected from several clubs and lost the election for Stern class president. Like many first-years, I was craving community. But I also knew that all these challenges were learning experiences — ones I could use to, hopefully, improve my chances of getting into Stern clubs.

Toward the end of my first semester, I asked a couple of upperclassmen if I could get feedback from club executives on how I did in my interviews. One message came back across the board: I needed more conviction.

This didn’t come as a surprise. Conviction is something I’ve always had to work on — when I was eight years old, my mom enrolled me in competitive public speaking classes to get over my shyness. Although I’ve built up my voice since then, the idea of being a consistently confident person still troubles me. Regardless, I took the advice seriously and the following semester, having conviction became my number one priority.

In January 2023, I decided to rush a co-ed fraternity with one of Stern’s best professional networks. At the time, I had high hopes that I would receive a bid — I already knew one of the rush chairs and communicated with them for months prior.

During the rush process, I thought I was doing everything right — showing off a bubbly but not too bubbly personality, laughing at jokes the split second after brothers made them, pretending to be attentive and interested when the brothers droned on about their careers. I consciously pushed myself to have conviction when speaking to them and to exude the same energy as all the other men in the room. This was critical, especially since I was among the few female rushees.

A week flew by, and I didn’t receive a bid. I was sad, but I knew it was by no means the end of the world. I just couldn’t really put together what I did wrong, so I asked the rush chair if they could meet with me to share any feedback.

Going into the meeting, I conjured up all the possibilities I could think of for the feedback. Perhaps I needed to polish my behavioral interview skills or be more strategic about the topics I centered my conversations around. I thought the feedback was going to be tangible, things I could reasonably work on.

I was then told to my face that I was “too much” and came off “too strong” during rush.

Yet, at the same time, I was somehow “too quiet” during lunch with the brothers.

I was the only woman at that lunch.

I was lost for words, and I couldn’t help but think about how there were first-year boys who were just as loud and annoying as I was, if not even more. In the past, I had heard harrowing stories about being discriminated against as a woman in the workplace. Still, I always felt those stories wouldn’t characterize my reality, they were talked away behind a news headline. I just couldn’t believe gender bias was finally happening to me and that I didn’t see it coming sooner. I couldn’t believe how naive I was.

I felt like I failed my mom. I wasn’t able to enter, much less dominate, the male-dominated spaces like she had been doing her whole life. I wasn’t proving my prowess to anyone or anything, and I wasn’t doing justice by the prejudice my mom experienced when she was younger.

While at one of my lowest points, I discovered an open application for the Undergraduate Stern Women in Business mentorship program, which pairs female underclassmen mentees with female upperclassmen mentors. I was eventually paired with a junior who showed me the kindness and compassion I needed — she not only served as a voice of reason for my concerns but also lifted my spirits by taking me out to lunch or coffee.

My mentor was the kind of Stern student I strive to be and was my introduction to the supportive community I help lead today. USWIB, Stern’s largest club, represents thousands of female undergraduate students and alumnae and promotes their personal and professional development through women-only recruitment events, leadership workshops and fun outings. As part of the board of USWIB, we make sure that no woman at Stern feels like opportunities are gatekept, or feels like they can’t be their most authentic selves on campus.

I’m not afraid to champion women’s spaces in male-dominated environments. Every day, women are told that they are too much and not enough at the same time.

I’m proud to say that I don’t aspire to be soft spoken or any louder than I have to be. The Stern School of Business is still my dream school — only when I say it now, I’m carving my journey the way I want it to be.

Contact Andrea Lui at [email protected].