"It's Not a Thing": The Culture of Silence on Mental Health in the Asian Diaspora

In my research on the counselling experiences of Asian Canadian women, the phrase I heard over and over was "it's not a thing." Even now in my clinical work, I hear from my Asian clients that the concept of mental health is "just not a thing" within their family contexts. The absence of conversations about mental health make it that much harder to address. Not only do we face fear, stigma, and shame in asking for help, but we also often contend with having no words to describe our experiences. How do we tend to what we cannot name?

There may be many roots that cultivate and valourize this culture of silence, from "emotional stoicism", "saving face" to "eating bitterness". While the manners in which silence manifests often differ between Asian communities, we cannot deny that silence is prevalent across the diaspora. At times, the roots of cultural silence ensnare with Western expectations, exacerbating the reticence about speaking up. When the Asian diaspora is positioned as the model minority, for example, our resilience becomes weaponized against us. The culmination of these elements can make reaching out for help nearly impossible and seeking counselling utterly daunting.

The Pain of Silence

When there are no words to speak about our inner world, it can feel like no one sees or understands us. Recently, my friend, who is a White doctoral student, invited me to her virtual panel presentation about the pitfalls of risk assessments. She mentioned that both her parents will attend her talk. At first, I was filled with joy and awe that her parents would support her in this way. These warm emotions were immediately followed by a small poignant sting, and then guilt for feeling this way about someone I care about.

Of course, I was happy for my friend, but I couldn't help but think of my own parents. My parents, who are first-generation immigrants, don't truly know what I do. Even if my parents were interested in my work, they will never fully grasp one of the most significant parts of my identity. They do have a vague approximation of my career -- that I completed a Masters degree and that I work in the field of psychology. I recall sharing the news with my parents when I got my first paid job out of grad school.

"What kind of job is it?" my parents asked in Cantonese. I stared blankly at them as I realized I had no idea what "counsellor" or "counselling" was in my mother tongue.

"Um, I'm like a psychologist but not quite," I responded with whatever Cantonese I could muster.

"Oh, so you help crazy people."

I rolled my eyes as I pulled out my phone. "No. I talk to all kinds of people about all sorts of things."

I showed them whatever Google conjured for the translation of "counsellor", and we gawked at each other for a while. We went back and forth with Google until we landed on 心理輔導. I still don't know if this is the correct term for what I do.

The very concept of mental health within my parents' understanding is dichotomized into insane or sane, weak or strong. Despite studying and working in mental health, I still find myself getting caught up at times in this dichotomy when I face my own tribulations. I had and still have unlearning to do for my personal counselling journey. I yearn to celebrate my accomplishments with my parents, to whom I owe so much for my victories. I long for conversations with them about the detriments of cultural silence, the nuances of counselling, and the falsity of the model minority stereotype, but this language is inaccessible to us. So, the content and meaning of my work remain unknown to my parents. They never have nor will they ever attend my talks.

The culture of silence convinces us that our emotions and experiences are our own burden to hold and ours alone. It confirms that no one understands and that we are the only ones who go through this struggle. The outward appearance demonstrates that everyone else can endure, so it begs the question, "why can't I?" It is no wonder many of my clients feel like they are suffering alone. Oftentimes, the solitude is worse than the depression, emotional wound, or whatever ailment my clients initially seek help for. My story is but one of countless stories about the culture of silence and the anguish of isolation -- each story with its own twist, depth, and intensity. When I hear these stories from my clients, it takes everything in me not to scream, "You too?!" or "I heard this story just yesterday!"

Lost in Translation

When I witness folks finally breathe life into the stories they have kept hidden for so long, I see their whole bodies release. Yet, this can be fleeting as it quickly turns into anger and disdain. One might think, if I don't subscribe to stoicism or saving face, then I must be a bad Asian. Or Asian culture taught me all these unhealthy beliefs; there is so much wrong with my culture. After breathing a sigh of relief, I sometimes see a darker wave that follows -- a sense of rejection.

It would be easy for me to chalk my parents' "crazy" comment up to being uneducated and to fault them for passing down this culture of silence onto me. It would be easy for me to attribute their response to their backward values and beliefs. But I remind myself that concepts of counselling and mental health as we know them today are Western constructs. There are many cultural ways of healing that are not represented within mental health institutions. Not only are these modalities absent, but some, like traditional land-based healing practices of Indigenous peoples, have been violently eradicated.

Throughout my whole life and even now, I have witnessed my parents open their home to extended family and friends who have newly arrived to Canada. Although my family might not have spoken outwardly about difficult emotions and struggles, I have seen collective efforts to pool resources to lift each other out of adversity. When I was a child, I remember my grandpa regularly practicing tai chi, an ancient Chinese meditative practice -- you know, the very somatic-based mindfulness concept that underpins most of Western counselling and psychotherapeutic approaches today. Examples of my family coping and improving their mental wellness are harder for me to recognize since, yes, struggles are shrouded in silence, and because they do not fit the conventional narratives of mental health practices that I was formally trained in. In some ways, my ancestral ways of healing are erased and silenced by Western society.

Indeed, the culture of silence has brought forth many challenges for Asian folks living in Western contexts. Maybe our parents do not talk about mental health the way Western norms dictate that we should. Perhaps your parents really do not practice mental wellness even within the cultural frameworks available to them. Maybe these traditions were lost somewhere in the process of migration or assimilation. But mental wellness practices are very much a thing within our traditions -- even if they do not directly translate into familiar language we see in Western contexts.

While this does not necessarily stop the pain of never truly being seen by my parents, my own journey along with decolonizing frameworks have taught me that reconnecting with culture is an integral part of healing and wellness. I can reject the culture of silence but accept my culture. I can reclaim parts of my culture and redefine stoicism. My ancestral resilience is what gives me the strength to show up and bear witness to my clients' deepest pain. It is what gives me endurance to resist and fight against oppression. For me, it's not about one cultural value being better than another. I have access to and learn from each to create a new path forward -- one that accepts all parts of me. This is at the very least salve for the silence.