Ep. 002 Love Letters to the Misfits

What if I told you that you could make your body of work a love letter to your people?

That's what I did - because that's kind of all I know. As a misfit myself, I've always known I'm for the misfits. And as misfits, it's so important that we know how to find each other, stick together, and change our worlds together.

So my work, my love letters, my bat signal to my kind - it HAS to find it's people. And it always has.

I break it down for you in this episode and invite you to wonder with me - who needs YOU? What would it mean to them to come across your work as a love letter written with them uniquely in mind?

If this is shaking up something in you, I made this for you: MAKE YOUR BODY OF WORK LOVE LETTERS TO YOUR PEOPLE.

Transcript:

All of the answers are in the relationship—in knowing who you are, what you hold, and who you are to them. It is literally relationship and dialogue, and that’s why love letters as a metaphor make so much sense to me. I don’t know—does it make sense to you?

Hi, I’m Joey Young Gen Liu, and this is With Roots. In this podcast, I explore my wonderings about who we need to become to shift paradigms, sustain a healthy world, and make meaning of this human experience we share—with roots growing from so many places, waiting for us to explore, nurture, and reclaim.

Ready? Let’s go.

I started talking about the idea of my work being a love letter to my people pretty early on when I began posting on Instagram. It was just a phrase that flowed naturally for me. I think it started with a simple post—a picture of my younger self with my curly, frizzy hair—and I wrote about how I’m not that different from who I was as a kid: a wild dreamer, full of optimism and love for humanity, someone who didn’t fit into mainstream boxes and refused to believe the agendas pushed on me by dominant societies that sought to limit me.

As I wrote about my story, the phrase came out: My work is a love letter to the misfits, to the dreamers, to the sensitive souls, to the people who were told you’re too much. That language made it to my “About Me” page on my website and became a recurring motif throughout my work. It emerges truthfully and spontaneously whenever I sit down to create.

As I prepared to teach other people how to write to their audiences, I started digging into my own process and realizing how relational and dialogical my work truly is. I can see the person I’m writing to so clearly. If you listened to the last episode, you heard the emotion in how I spoke about my classroom days. It was easier then—I could see someone’s face, talk to them, adjust, refine, and offer my practice to a real human being.

Working online can obscure that sense of relationship for a while, and it did for me. But whenever I felt out of touch, I’d go back to real people I knew I wanted to talk to—because I knew that if they heard what I had to say, it would make a difference. It started with people in my communities—my former students, now adults, navigating their lives and still learning to honor and trust their voices.

Later, as I began working one-on-one with clients, I could hold their faces and stories in my mind when I sat down to write. The result was a voice that felt alive. Whether I was creating an Instagram carousel, drafting a page for my website, or describing one of my offerings, I was never writing in a vacuum.

In business spaces, people often ask, “Who will want this? Who are you talking to?” They design the thing first and then try to figure out who wants it, which can be disorienting. My process was almost the opposite. My years of teaching real people taught me that I already knew exactly who I was for. Because I knew my students so deeply, I also knew their needs—sometimes better than they did. I was trained to design curriculum and experiences for them. My job was simply to communicate that clearly.

That’s why I’ve never had to struggle with questions like Who am I creating for? or What am I creating? It’s all clear when you know who you’re here for.

When I was in the classroom, I knew exactly who I was for. It’s the same now. My work is a love letter to the misfits, the sensitive souls, the ones who refused to give up hope. In a public high school, you meet a cross section of humanity—so many identities, backgrounds, and experiences. You see people group around affinities of shared story or struggle. I always knew I was there for the misfits.

And I don’t mean that word in a demeaning way. I mean it literally: those who don’t fit the boxes of the status quo. Not the ASB kids, not the honors-track students who succeed in systems designed for the mainstream. My calling was—and is—to ask: If this group doesn’t belong, what does it look like to make spaces of belonging for them?

How can we design learning spaces for those who are harmed by existing systems? That’s my ministry, because I was one of them. I didn’t fit. My story didn’t fit. I never attended school growing up—not K through 12. I’m multiracial, multilingual, third culture, neurodivergent, shaped by complex trauma. I know what it means to not belong. Because of that, I know how to serve those who share that experience.

Knowing who you are, what your story has made you hold, what you’ve overcome and learned to metabolize—that clarity shows you who you’re for and what you’re meant to do. Then your work becomes less confusing. You can communicate it clearly, creatively, playfully because it’s true.

And once you know who you’re talking to, you can adjust how you talk to them. If I know my people respond to humor, I’ll bring humor. If they need motivation, I’ll give fire. It’s all relational.

All of the answers are in the relationship—in knowing who you are, what you hold, who you are to them, what you hold does for them, and who they are. That’s why the love letter metaphor makes so much sense.

Make your body of work a love letter to your people. Every word you publish, every creation should feel like that. If you’re a songwriter, write the song that makes someone say, “Oh my God, someone gets me.” Make the course that stirs that same feeling. Show up not for attention, but to be evidence that you exist—for those who need proof that people like you can survive and thrive.

Think about what it would’ve meant to see someone like that when you were still wondering if your dreams were even possible. Someone saying, “Yes, it’s real. You can have this too. Come with me. Your voice is needed.” That’s the power of showing up in love.

So that’s what it means to make your body of work a love letter to your people. It’s not just a poetic metaphor—it’s very practical. It’s about real relationships.

If you’re struggling to know what your work is meant to be, that struggle is an invitation to look closer at your relationships: Who and what are you in relationship with? Who are you here to serve with this life and these gifts? What is your relationship to yourself and your own stories? Can you truly sit with your gifts and see what they want to become through you?

That can be tender work, because once you see it, you can’t unsee it. Clarity brings responsibility, and for sensitive souls with big dreams, taking action can feel scary. It can bring loneliness, estrangement, and misunderstanding from those comfortable in conventional boxes.

I get it. I’m not here to tell you when to move—but if you’re like me, that nudge probably isn’t leaving you alone. The dream keeps showing up, walking alongside you every day.

So if that’s you, I’ll tell you from experience: yes, the questions can be uncomfortable, but clarity is worth it. I’ve taken action and I’m still alive—and I have no regrets. Like when I was in the classroom, I feel like I’m living my deepest purpose.

That doesn’t mean there’s never uncertainty—but I’ll be honest: I don’t swim in confusion about who I am or what I’m here to do. I see things I can’t unsee. And if that sounds delusional to someone who hasn’t gone through the same inquiry, I’d say: try it yourself. There are real answers and clarity waiting for you.

And remember, you’re sovereign. You can see your vision clearly and still say “not yet.” I’ve seen mine and said no many times. I’ve said no because I needed more time to live normally, to rest, to have fun. And that’s okay. That’s part of it too. You are worthy no matter how you move.

Whatever you choose to do, it’s a generous contribution to your community. And if you’re asking questions about being a responsible global citizen, that’s how I know I’m talking to you—someone who already cares deeply. You don’t need convincing to care; you need to feel safe in your choice to act. You need to trust your capacity to take action.

My role, if you choose to see me as a mentor or guide, is to offer evidence with my story—to show you there isn’t just one right way. You can step into your gifts at your own pace, when the support and safety are there. When you do, you’ll be met with blessings you’ve been dreaming about. That’s my truth.

As a teacher, I can also share the tangible tools and methods that have helped me and my students expand our ability to create safe, relational spaces—to communicate our visions and offerings to our communities. That’s how we’ve always survived as a species: through relationship, storytelling, reciprocity. None of this is new. I stand on the shoulders of many elders and lineages that have poured their wisdom into me, and it’s my responsibility to pass that forward.

So I’ll leave you with this possibility: what starts to open in you when I say, Have you ever thought of making your body of work a love letter to your people? Does something start to shift or stir inside you? Follow that.

And if you want more structure for this, I have resources—like my course Make Your Body of Work a Love Letter to Your People, and other smaller or free offerings to help you begin this work of self-inquiry and story. You can find it all at drjoeyliu.com or linked below this episode.

I’ll wrap this episode here. I’m excited to talk again soon—lots more stories, more voices, and a dear guest joining next time.

Take care of yourself. I’m rooting for you.

We’ll talk soon.

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