Healing Against Silence by Chi L.

I smiled when my grandfather passed away three years ago, the same year I first immigrated to the United States. Standing with my family between time-worn wooden benches, I only registered the surreality of the situation as I looked into his closed eyelids, dotted with freckles. Amidst the chaos of melodic funeral chants, ringing percussion, and people crying, I felt appalled—without guidance from my parents on how to process death, I could only smile as a weak attempt at remaining calm.

I had left a part of me back in Vietnam, by that open casket, torn between memories of my birth country and the luster of America. My body seemed to move on its own through cycles of mindless studying, quiet dinners, and irregular sleep. I was skeletal and sluggish. Yet, I failed to uncover the root of my uneasiness—until I forced myself to confront the past again.

The first time I asked my mother about going to therapy, she responded, “it’s only for crazy people.” The second time was when she found me crying on my bed after ending a call with the suicide hotline at 15. In Vietnamese culture, being sick was a burden to others one should feel guilty for imposing. Like a shameful disease that infested the mind but not the body, it felt trivial enough that it only required some willpower to dispel.

My parents raised me with an independent mindset and the fear of inconveniencing others. Guilt plagued me when I accepted snacks from friends during school recess; when I ate food at their houses even after an invitation. It was there when I finally asked my mother to see a therapist, which sounded like, “Could you waste your money on curing a problem that I could’ve just solved if I sucked it up and became an adult?” to me. Throwing away the life they had worked so hard to nurture meant dishonor, dependency, and ungratefulness.

Often, such ideas of tolerance and self-effacement have been passed down through generations. Just as my grandparents were stern and violent towards my father in his childhood punishments, these aftermaths bleed into how my siblings and I were raised. We were taught to internalize emotions to maintain a sense of normalcy in life. We weren’t taught how to process feelings and channel volatile feelings into healthy coping mechanisms to avoid hurting others and ask for support. There was a lack of education on mental health and even fewer talks on how to establish healthy coping mechanisms.

As time passed and Vietnamese society recovered from economic decline, I noticed that topics such as social justice and parenting began to emerge through the media. My parents picked up books on parenting and child psychology and worked inwardly to destigmatize mental health and reflect on their actions. They became more emotionally available, and attentive toward my needs and feelings. Despite growing closer as a family, many of the old pains remained throughout my adolescence.

I believe the first step toward addressing and improving the mental well-being of the Asian-American community should come from parental figures. They must break the cycle of unhealthy behaviors and accept that they are also guilty of imposing these ideas upon children. Parents who carry the burdens of generational trauma should search for ways to heal themselves emotionally before deciding to bring a child into the world. By recognizing these harmful traits, they can rectify them and prevent them from being passed down. Providing a safe space and encouraging talk on emotional conflicts is crucial to lightening the burdens of grief and misunderstanding.

Secondly, children should acknowledge that parents are also victims and find a mutual willingness to sympathize with their upbringing. Having a reliable support system and affordable, professional resources will also help an individual heal with time and find courage to seek help. Experimenting with healthy coping mechanisms like journaling, art, and consuming empowering media alleviates the pressure to internalize depression and anxiety.

For me, I found solace in reading and writing as a form of self-expression and in addressing and dissecting any anxieties with my friends and family, allowing them to lighten parts of my baggage. I shared them, whether with loved ones or with my school’s therapist. I watched movies or play piano whenever I felt stressed or upset.

Eventually, I submitted my writing to my school’s literary magazine. Surprisingly, classmates came to me afterward to share their experiences with depression and loss. As such, I grew closer to forming a supportive community within my medium, allowing me to explore the traumatic themes without directing them inward. I write in hopes that my stories resonate and connect me to others, allowing room for mutual healing and understanding to thrive. Ultimately, it wasn’t about the weight I carried, but how I carried it.

I returned to Vietnam this summer to visit the crematorium where my grandfather rested. A bittersweetness washed over me as I let go of my grandfather ’s weight and moved on, clearing the fog that prevented me from registering my grief. Despite the arrival of sadness this time around, I confronted it with hope. I became a translator—not one of languages but of emotions. Behind the hazy incense smoke, his picture smiled at me—and for the first time in four years, I found myself smiling back.

They Will Know by Bella

G.

7pm on a Friday evening

Words fly from my Mother’s tongue

Each syllable piercing with the force of an arrow

My words don’t seem to amount to hers Blunt sticks to her sharp arrows

And I find I can no longer hide under this polished mask It has begun to chip away

Instead, I blend into the background, wordlessly Beneath my skin and let my dark, long hair cover my eyes I will let myself fall, and be Silently concealed amongst everything in the universe

Eyes lay heavy and weary

A reminder of the feelings I have bottled in A plate of Philippine mangos gazes alluringly at me from my bedside table

Each mango delicately cut, blossoms

It is a flower of apology

I am not the girl that I used to see in the mirror

There is no sorrow behind my eyes Throw me against the white background

But don’t let the dark hue strip me of my power

I will not bottle it in any longer I will not chain myself to this wooden floor Forever bound to my own pain

Instead, I will write A bamboo cover pulls together frail, filled, pages

Spill my burdens onto the page

Find solace in the power of expression

I call you to use your voice

There's no more time to hide from emotion

Let them know who you are

And find blessing in your imperfection