Rising Stars: Meet Sutichai Savathasuk of East LA

Today we’d like to introduce you to Sutichai Savathasuk

Hi Sutichai, can you start by introducing yourself? We’d love to learn more about how you got to where you are today?
Being a Thai-American, autistic middle child of immigrant grandparents, my life was shaped by high expectations and even higher hopes. There’s an unspoken pressure when you’re the “middle child” — not the trailblazer like the eldest or the baby of the family. With the weight of being raised in a household driven by the immigrant dream of “success,” my path was practically written for me before I could even form my own words.

I was a curious, adventurous kid, constantly poking at the world to see what it was made of. I wanted to explore. But exploration wasn’t encouraged. My loving but protective grandma always believed I was too fragile, too “soft” to venture out on my own. My grandparents and older brother often spoke on my behalf, deciding and interpreting the world for me, without ever asking what I thought. It was as if my voice was too quiet, too small to be heard.

The “safe path” was laid out for me — education, stability, financial security, and it was decided: I would become an engineer. It wasn’t a question, it was the answer. To be fair, it made sense. I was good at problem-solving. I had a mind for logic and precision, and STEM fields were seen as “reliable.” So, I leaned into it, learning to be an architect of solutions.
I pursued a degree in engineering at California State University, Northridge, and graduated in 2019.

By all accounts, I had done everything “right.” I followed the plan. I checked all the boxes. I had a degree in a stable field, and with that, I should have had everything I needed to feel secure. During my time at Cal State Northridge, I finally had more independence and freedom. I started hiking more, getting into rock climbing, and honing in on the curious, adventurous attributes I always knew were there but had been stifled for so long. For the first time, I explored the world on my own terms.

But after all that, I was staring into a void of uncertainty. I had done everything I was supposed to do, but I wasn’t whole. I wasn’t seen. I had spent so much time being the person everyone else thought I should be, I realized I had no idea who I wanted to be. I had a steady path ahead of me, but something was missing. I didn’t know what it was at first.

And that’s when I found the mic.

Stepping onto the stage for the first time wasn’t a grand moment of destiny — it was small, tentative, and terrifying. But something about it stuck. For the first time, I wasn’t being spoken for. My voice wasn’t being filtered or translated or muted. It was mine, raw and unfiltered, and people listened. People cared.

At first, it was just therapy — I started going to the mic just to express, to vent, to talk about myself. Something about it stuck. For the first time, I wasn’t being spoken for. My voice wasn’t being filtered or translated or muted. It was mine, raw and unfiltered, and people listened. People cared.

The next chapter of my art began when I took a comedy class at Tao Comedy Studio in January 2021. There, I learned the craft of publicly speaking by embracing the pause. After that, I honed in on being rawer and more authentic.
That was the beginning of the artist’s path.

Comedy soon became poetry. Storytelling. Performance. Creation. I realized I didn’t have to choose between being an engineer and an artist. I could be both. These weren’t opposing forces — they were two parts of the same whole. As an engineer, I create physical structures that people interact with. As an artist, I build emotional connections and bridges between people’s hearts and minds. Both require precision. Both require empathy. Both require vision.

Today, I live at the intersection of these two worlds. I’m an engineer by day, building tangible things — and an artist by night, building experiences, emotions, and stories. I am both. I am more. I’ve taken that passion further, turning it into more than just words. I’ve performed at places like Sunday Jump, Da Poetry Lounge, and Palms Up Academy.
Every experience and every pursuit are rooted in one simple desire: to create something that lasts.

Whether it’s a poem, a performance, a joke, or a building — creation drives me. I’m proud of being multi-hyphenated. I’m proud of existing in spaces where people said I couldn’t or shouldn’t be. I’m proud of holding on to my voice after years of not knowing I had one.

If you asked me 5 years ago if this is where I’d be, I would’ve said no. I couldn’t have imagined it. But I’m here now. And 5 years from now? I have no idea where I’ll be. But I know one thing for sure: I’ll still be building.
Building dreams. Building spaces. Building connections.
This is just the beginning.

I’m sure it wasn’t obstacle-free, but would you say the journey has been fairly smooth so far?
I’d describe the road I’ve been on as unpaved and bumpy with no government funding to repair it. I’d call it an uphill climb — full of moments where I was clawing my way up with nothing but my bare hands.

For a long time, I struggled with having a voice. Not just in the poetic sense, but literally. I was constantly talked over, ignored, and dismissed. In school, I was the “quiet one.” The other kids bullied me for being weird and for not fitting into the social molds that others seemed to slide into so easily. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I was navigating the world as someone on the autism spectrum. I saw the world differently. Felt the world differently. I was living in isolation, trapped in my mind.

I was frequently pulled into conflicts I never asked for. Other kids would invade my personal space, poking and prodding at me, sometimes just to see how I would react. I hated it. I only knew how to respond with my fists over my voice. I didn’t have the words to defend myself, so I was seen as an easy target. The principal’s office became my second home with how often I’d visit there after every fight I got into. I grew hyper-aware of my surroundings, always anticipating the next time someone would push my boundaries.

Depression took root early on. I battled feelings of invisibility and self-doubt. Major clinical depression, autism spectrum challenges, and complex PTSD (C-PTSD) created a never-ending storm in my head. My self-esteem was non-existent. I had no confidence in my abilities, my voice, or my right to take up space.

Home wasn’t much easier. In my household, mental health wasn’t a topic of discussion. It just wasn’t a thing. If you were sad, you swallowed it. If you were anxious, you stuffed it down. It was about “appearing” fine, not being fine. I learned to wear a mask — to smile, nod, and act like everything was okay.

Everything about my life was built on containment. Keep your head down. Be quiet. Be good. Be what others want you to be. But I was suffocating.

That’s why finding the stage, the mic, and poetry was so important to me. It was a place where I could finally take off the mask. No more pretending to be okay. No more hiding. For the first time, I had a space where I was allowed to talk about my pain, my struggles, my inner world — and people listened. They didn’t talk over me. They didn’t ignore me. They listened.

But even that wasn’t a straight road. Speaking out loud, sharing your pain, and being vulnerable is terrifying when you’ve spent your life doing the opposite. I had to unlearn a lifetime of silence. I had to trust that my voice mattered. I had to believe that I had something worth saying. Every performance, every mic, every poem — it’s still a battle to push past that old programming. But I do it because it’s necessary.

The journey hasn’t been smooth, but it’s been worth it. I’m still unlearning. I’m still unpacking. But I’ve come to realize that I don’t have to be “fine” all the time. I don’t have to wear the mask. I’m allowed to feel. I’m allowed to be seen. I’m allowed to exist fully as I am. And if my words can help someone else realize that for themselves, then the struggle has been worth it.

Alright, so let’s switch gears a bit and talk business. What should we know about your work?
I’m also a typewriter poet, crafting spontaneous poetry at corporate events, public pop-ups, and community spaces. With nothing but a typewriter, paper, and a few thoughtful questions, I transform people’s personal stories into something tangible they can hold — often giving them words they didn’t even realize they needed. There’s something magical about turning a fleeting moment into a permanent keepsake.

Beyond poetry, I’m a comedian who thrives on stage, shaping the absurdities of life into humor that connects strangers through laughter. But I don’t just exist in the spotlight — I also find fulfillment working behind the scenes. I’ve directed a music video, worked in audio/visual production, and assisted in theater production, playing roles that bring creative visions to life from the ground up. This duality — thriving both as a performer and a creator behind the curtain — is something I’m proud of.

What sets me apart is my versatility and my deep desire to create genuine human connection. I’m not limited to one medium or one role. From poetry to comedy to production work, my goal is always to make people feel seen, heard, and understood. Whether it’s a poem typed on the spot, a laugh shared in a crowded room, or a seamless production that brings a story to life, I’m most proud of my ability to craft moments that stay with people long after they’ve passed.

Risk taking is a topic that people have widely differing views on – we’d love to hear your thoughts.
Risk, for me, isn’t about recklessness — it’s about trusting that something greater might be waiting on the other side of fear. It’s about walking into the unknown and believing that, somehow, you’ll figure it out. I don’t think I’ve always been a “natural” risk-taker. Growing up as a lonely, introverted, anxious kid with little social skills and an overwhelming sense of being unseen, risk felt like something to avoid at all costs. But all it took was one moment to change that.

My first great risk was stepping up to the mic at an open mic night. Before that, I was just a quiet observer, content to sit in the crowd and watch others pour their hearts out on stage. But one night, something changed. I met an engineer-songwriter I met months before. Seeing someone like me — logical, technical, yet deeply creative — own their space on stage did something to me. It sparked this realization that I didn’t have to stay hidden in the crowd. I could be both seen and heard. It wasn’t planned, but before I knew it, I found myself walking toward that mic, heart pounding, mind racing, every inner voice telling me to turn around. But I didn’t. I shared my piece, raw and unpolished, and for the first time, I felt my voice reverberate in a space filled with strangers. I didn’t know it then, but that moment would change my life.

The second greatest risk I took was in August 2021, when I quit my stable engineering job. Walking away from a job with financial stability is terrifying — especially for someone from an immigrant family, where security and success are prized above all else. But I took that leap of faith to pursue a dream that was quietly building in the back of my mind: to write and publish my first book. I enrolled in the Community Literature Initiative (CLI), a year-long rigorous weekly workshop focused on the craft of publishing a poetry collection with the goal that by the end of the course, you’d have compiled a completed manuscript to be published. Week by week, I poured myself into the process, shaping what would become How Chai Tea is Made, a collection of poetry chronicling my journey through identity, family, mental health, and finding my voice.

Risk-taking, for me, isn’t about chasing thrill or adrenaline. It’s about chasing growth. It’s about recognizing that staying in one place might feel safe, but it’s also how you stagnate. Risk doesn’t always mean betting it all, but it does mean betting on yourself. Every major leap I’ve taken has left me stronger, more creative, and more in tune with who I am. And if nothing else, I’ve learned that even if you fall, you can still fall forward.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://www.mrchaitea.com
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/mr.chai_tea
• Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@mr.chaitea839
• Yelp: https://morty.app/@yay842
• Other: https://a.co/d/01rjR3KJ (my book, “How Chai Tea is Made”)

Image Credits
Sutichai Savathasuk