A Silent Struggle Behind the Smile

After nearly twenty years in Aotearoa, I’ve become used to walking a tightrope—one foot in the world I left behind, the other planted firmly here. It’s a balancing act that becomes second nature. You find your rhythm, learn the rules, and build a life. But every so often, something jars you. Something reminds you you’re still standing just outside the circle.

Not long ago, I was tapped on the shoulder for a promising opportunity in a senior IT leadership role. My former manager believed in me. I believed in myself, too. It felt like one of those rare chances where hard work might finally meet the right timing.

But as I prepared my application, I couldn’t help noticing something unsettling. The company was startlingly homogeneous. Faces like mine were few and far between. There were hardly any at all.

When the Ceiling Isn’t Made of Glass but Culture

We often talk about the “glass ceiling” as though it’s a single, shatterable layer. But for first-generation migrants, especially those from non-white backgrounds, the ceiling’s more like layered glass—thick, reinforced, and sometimes frosted so you can’t even see what’s above.

The job itself was well within my scope: technical architecture, IT process leadership, and managing people. I’ve done all of that, many times over. Still, I had this quiet doubt—how do you lead in a space where you’re not seen as part of the fabric? How do you bring change when your presence already feels like a disruption?

It’s Not About Crying Foul—It’s About Asking Why

I went through the process anyway, and predictably, didn’t land the job. The feedback wasn’t scathing. The recruiter said I’d done well. Then, he said something that stuck: the chosen candidate, in his words, “aligned better with the current team culture”, which if we’re being honest, meant they looked the same.

Now, I’m not someone who throws the race card around. I’ve grown a thick skin over the years. But that comment confirmed what I’d already sensed: sometimes, the decision isn’t about capability. It’s about comfort. And people hire what feels familiar.

Hope Isn’t Naïve, It’s Necessary

That sting of rejection wasn’t new. But it hit differently this time. I wasn’t just disappointed for myself. I found myself thinking about my kids.

Will they face this too?

They sound more Kiwi than I do. Their lunchboxes have sandwiches, not leftovers. They know rugby rules better than I ever will. But will they still be seen as a “good cultural fit”? Or will their surnames and skin tone still signal “other”?

Maybe the Battle Changes, But It Doesn’t Disappear

We want to believe the next generation will have it easier. And maybe in some ways they will. They won’t carry the same accent or wear the same cultural discomfort like a second skin. But I wonder if the expectations will just shift. If instead of fighting for a seat at the table, they’ll have to constantly prove they belong at it.

Still, I hold onto hope—not blind hope, but measured, watchful hope. Maybe the glass won’t shatter all at once, but perhaps it’ll crack in places. And maybe, just maybe, our kids will find enough light shining through to keep going.

And Us? We Keep Walking

I didn’t get that job. But I didn’t lose myself either. I’ll keep showing up, keep contributing, keep doing the work. Because part of breaking the ceiling—any ceiling—is continuing to press against it, quietly, firmly, again and again.

Not because we’re owed anything.

But because we still believe change is worth the effort.