Fear Vs Authenticity

The Perfect Facade

There’s only one way I managed to keep up the facade of perfection for my family: by showing only the good and hiding all the bad. This is what I learned from my parents. Hide your tears, hide your sadness. If you show any vulnerability, it’s a sign of weakness.  Show only your achievements or nothing at all, that would only show strength. My parents only cared with focusing on school, work, and having a family. Anything outside of these were distractions. 

My siblings and I focused on something else hiding. We had a mantra, “ignorance is bliss” The more we hid, the more we could live our own lives. While my siblings hid certain things, they really followed the prescribed path seamlessly. They adhered to the timeline, of getting married a couple year right after graduating university. 

That timeline and the path, was not the one for me. Although I tried in the reality was that there was a thirteen-year gap between when I graduated college and when I got married. 

During those thirteen years, I endured many heartbreaks, toxic relationships, had a mental breakdown, changed careers, moved to multiple locations, and had periods of despair. In those thirteen years, most calls with my mother revolved around two questions: "What did you eat today?" and "When are you finally going to settle down?"

“Settle down” was such a loaded question. I couldn’t tell her I was dating because then it would lead to “being dirty”. And I was going to avoid  that topic altogether. She never wanted to hear about the journey. Instead, she lectured me about settling down, implying there was something wrong with me. I need to be more prim and proper. I need to stop having pictures taken of me with other boys. I need to focus more on getting married. "Quit partying and settle down already so I don’t have to worry about you," she said. “I thought to myself, do you even know what that means in the States?” My mother was practically arranged. 

My mother’s constant judging only compounded my insecurities. Instead of support, I got fear and sadness. So, I smiled, sucked up my feelings, and told her I was focusing on my career, leaving it at that, then blocked her on all social media outlets and changed my name. 

During this time, I organically found my own support and created a chosen family. Friends who held me when I cried, who took me in when my boyfriend was toxic, who gave me a place to stay when I had nowhere to go. Friends who listened when I was sad and celebrated my wins. They accepted me even when I was wrong and forgave me. They didn’t throw me away or threaten me. They accepted me, flaws and all. Through this chosen is how I met my husband. 

So what happens when I finally close the circle, get married? When I finally found my voice and am pretty content with my job? Well, I found resentment.  

After that long journey, my parents never told me they were proud of me. The closest thing was indirectly, when my mother talked about my successes, she talked about it as if it’s because of how she was such a good mother, claiming I’m the way I am because of her. I want to scream, “I’m here despite you.” But I don’t. I smile, nod, and say nothing. Frustration flows through me as I think, “Why should I celebrate my wins with you and give you credit when you were never there for the journey that got me here?” 

My parents don't know me. They know the curated, filtered version I presented to them—something they taught me to do. I worked so hard to show them this version of myself, only to realize that the person I want to be and the happiness I seek are not rooted in their approval. The moment I had been waiting for was bittersweet. They didn't know the real me, and I was angry at them for not supporting my journey. So, what’s better: the roller coaster ride my chosen family saw, or the perfect image my real family believes, just the end result.

A reflection of my parents

When I think about life, I’ve learned that people teach what they know, and same thing about my parents they only teach what they know, and throwing it back at them. While I show my curated self, it wasn’t until recently until I realised they were doing the same thing. 

They too curated their best selves. I think my parents had their own set of issues—money problems, job insecurities, the reality of their children moving on without them. My mother, who didn't go to college, might have clung to my successes to validate her own. My father, unable to help with my homework, resorted to yelling because it was the only tool he knew. My mother, pushing for marriage, likely reflected her own limited choices. Did they feel inadequate for not providing the future I wanted? Did they fear my independence, not understanding it themselves? These questions lingered, unanswered.

We remained strangers, filtering and curating our interactions. My attempts to discuss these topics were hindered by language barriers—my limited Vietnamese and their limited English. Vulnerability has no place in our conversations. So instead I answer my mother’s question asking, "What did you eat today?”