Working 12-Hour Shifts in New York, I Thought I Was Lazy — Until I Learned the Truth

When I first came to New York City, I believed one thing:

If you worked hard enough, your life would improve.

That belief was simple.

Clean.

Comforting.

It was also incomplete.

My first job was in a small Chinese restaurant in Chinatown.

Not the kind tourists visit.

The kind immigrants depend on.

The kitchen was narrow, loud, and always slightly too hot. The walls were stained from years of oil and steam. The floor was never fully dry.

My shift started at 10 a.m.

It usually ended after 10 p.m.

Twelve hours.

Six days a week.

Sometimes seven.

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“You’ll Get Used to It”

On my third day, my feet hurt so badly I could barely stand.

I leaned against the counter when no one was looking.

The head chef, Mr. Chen, noticed anyway.

He was in his fifties. Quiet. Efficient. The kind of man who didn’t waste words.

He walked past me and said in Mandarin:

“You’re tired?”

I nodded.

He shrugged.

“You’ll get used to it.”

Then he picked up his knife and continued chopping vegetables with mechanical precision.

I didn’t know if that was encouragement or resignation.

Maybe both.

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Food Became My Only Comfort

Every night after work, I told myself I would cook something healthy.

Every night, I was too tired.

There was a fried chicken place on the corner. The workers there never asked questions. You pointed. You paid. You left.

The food was hot.

Heavy.

Reliable.

I ate alone in my small rented room.

A mattress.

A table.

A chair.

Nothing else.

I watched videos on my phone while eating, not because I was interested, but because silence made the room feel smaller.

I told myself it was temporary.

Everything was temporary.

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The Weight Came Quietly

No one gains weight overnight.

It happens in silence.

Your face becomes rounder in photos.

Your clothes feel tighter.

Your body moves differently.

But you don’t notice.

Because every day feels the same.

Work.

Eat.

Sleep.

Repeat.

One afternoon, about eight months after arriving, I stepped on a scale in a pharmacy.

I stared at the number.

I had gained over 30 pounds.

I stepped off.

Then stepped back on.

The number didn’t change.

I laughed quietly.

Not because it was funny.

Because I didn’t know what else to do.

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I Thought It Meant I Was Weak

That night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling.

One thought repeated itself.

You are lazy.

Other people worked hard and stayed in shape.

Other people had discipline.

Other people had control.

I had none.

At least, that’s what I believed.

Shame is a quiet voice.

It doesn’t scream.

It whispers.

And over time, you start believing it.

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The Moment That Changed Everything

It was winter.

Cold enough that your face hurt when you walked outside.

Business was slow that day. Around 3 p.m., the kitchen was unusually quiet.

Mr. Chen sat on a plastic stool, drinking tea from a metal thermos.

I sat across from him.

He looked at me and said, in Mandarin:

“You’ve gained weight.”

He didn’t say it cruelly.

He said it like an observation.

I nodded.

“I know.”

He took another sip of tea.

Then he said something I didn’t expect.

“When I first came to New York, I gained 40 pounds.”

I looked at him, surprised.

He didn’t look like someone who had ever struggled.

He continued.

“I worked. Ate. Slept. Worked. Ate. Slept. No life. Only survival.”

He paused.

“You think that means you’re lazy?”

I didn’t answer.

He shook his head.

“No. It means you’re tired.”

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No One Had Ever Said That Before

Not lazy.

Tired.

The word changed everything.

Lazy meant failure.

Tired meant human.

He continued:

“When you are tired all the time, your brain doesn’t think about the future. It thinks about relief.”

Relief.

That word described everything.

Food wasn’t the problem.

Exhaustion was.

Loneliness was.

Survival was.

For the first time, I stopped seeing myself as the enemy.

I saw myself as someone adapting to pressure.

Like anyone would.

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I Didn’t Change Everything — I Changed One Thing

I started walking home.

Not every day.

Some days.

One subway stop.

Then two.

The city felt different on foot.

I noticed things I had never seen before.

Light in apartment windows.

People laughing inside restaurants.

Lives that existed beyond survival.

Slowly, something inside me changed.

Not dramatically.

Gradually.

Over the next year, I lost the weight.

But more importantly, I lost the belief that I was powerless.

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The Truth Was Never About Weight

Weight was the symptom.

The real issue was identity.

I had stopped seeing myself as someone worth caring for.

New York hadn’t done that to me.

Survival had.

Immigration had.

Loneliness had.

But awareness changed everything.

Once I understood the cause, I could change the pattern.

Not perfectly.

But permanently.

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What New York Really Teaches You

New York doesn’t teach you through comfort.

It teaches you through pressure.

It shows you who you are when nothing is easy.

It strips away illusion.

It forces adaptation.

And if you survive long enough, it gives you something unexpected.

Clarity.

I came to New York believing success was about working harder.

I learned it was also about understanding yourself.

The day I stopped calling myself lazy was the day I started changing my life.

Not because my body changed.

Because my mind did.