On Growing Up with Asian Parents
by Randy Xia
Growing up with immigrant parents who carried both the weight of their tradition and the hope for something better has never been simple.
From an early age, I lived beneath expectations that seemed to stretch higher each year, like a ladder that kept adding new rungs just as I reached the last. Achieving good grades and showing discipline never felt like an end point, but rather each success quickly became the new baseline. My parents’ vision of what my life should look like – education, career, the path to stability – was so clear in their minds that it often felt as though my future had already been drawn before I even learned to dream for myself.
Much of this came from more than just my parents’ personal hopes – it was deeply rooted in the culture that shaped them.
In many Asian families, respect for elders is often more than just a value; it is a quiet, unspoken rule stitched into the fabric of daily life. For me, that rule made speaking up feel impossible. It wasn’t just the fear of disappointing my family; it was the sense that even if I found the courage to share my thoughts, they would not be heard or received. Whenever I tried to explain a different perspective – about what I wanted to study, how I wanted to spend my time, or even how I saw the world – it felt like my words would hit an invisible wall. My parents carried their own assumptions, built from the culture and struggles of their upbringing, and those assumptions shaped a fixed idea of what a “good life” should be. To them, their blueprint was an act of love and protection. But to me, it sometimes felt like a suffocating silence I couldn’t break. Over time, that silence began to shape the atmosphere of our home, turning unspoken words into a continuously growing tension.
At home, love sometimes wore sharp edges, arguments would flare, sometimes loud, sometimes violent, and in those moments the distance between us felt like a canyon. We were each shaped by different worlds: them by the culture they grew up in, and me by the one I was born into. We often struggled to meet each other in the middle, seeming as though we were each translating a language the other had only half learned.
Yet, as I look back on these experiences, I see that these struggles have also been my teachers. They have taught me resilience. The kind that quietly strengthens over years. They have shown me how to stand firm in my own identity, even when it feels uncertain, even when it cannot be spoken out loud. I have learned to listen deeply and to speak carefully, and to balance the respect my culture honors with the need to express my own truth. Not every disagreement needs to be hashed out, and not every belief needs to be voiced out loud to be valid. And while these lessons were not always gentle, they have shaped a steadiness in me that I can now carry with pride.
Most importantly, I’ve come to believe that my relationship with my parents, no matter how imperfect or bruised, is worth tending and possibly even mending. Time softens sharp memories, revealing the hidden intentions beneath them: love expressed through worry, discipline born of sacrifice. Maintaining our connection is not about forgetting the pain; it is about recognizing the humanity on both sides. My parents and I continue to grow, individually and together, learning how to bridge the space between our worlds.
What once felt like a clash of cultures now feels like a slow, evolving conversation. And in that conversation, I have found not only my voice, but a deeper understanding of what it means to love and to be loved, even when love does not always look the way we expect.
About the Author
Randy is an intern at FAUNA Mental Health Foundation, and is currently a student at the University of Washington.
