Call me Bob the Builder: When an issue arises, I’ll immediately try to fix it. I think this instinct subconsciously developed from being my family’s consultant growing up, translating documents, troubleshooting tech issues and handling everyday challenges posed by their language barrier. 

Lately, I’ve been questioning my motives for why I lend a hand. Am I being helpful or becoming a control freak? 

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I feel like an architect laying the foundation for my family, and without my support, I worry everything might fall apart. This internal conflict between supporting my family and overstepping boundaries is even more apparent when I return home from college like I did this summer.

Constantly choosing between myself and my family’s needs reflects a common struggle for many in similar cultural positions. Is it worth emotionally draining myself by continually stepping in, or should I be giving my family the independence they deserve? This internal conflict reflects a broader challenge that many first- and second-generation immigrant children in the United States face as they navigate the complexities of family responsibility, often because of their ability to communicate in English.

These sacrifices also highlight a broader, often unspoken reality deeply rooted in cultural expectations and gender roles. Disney Princess Mulan is expected to bring honor to her family, upholding traditional filial expectations in Chinese culture. Luisa of “Encanto” (2021), the first-born daughter of a Colombian family, quietly manages responsibilities underneath the surface. 

Despite the catchy tunes the characters sang, their sacrifices carry an emotional burden. I see myself in both characters, constantly striving to meet expectations while carrying hidden loads that go unrecognized. Being a daughter in a family of refugees, I’ve felt the weight of these cultural pressures firsthand — balancing the need to honor my family’s legacy with the personal challenges I face.

The rarity of hearing “I love you” or “I’m proud” has shaped my self-perception. I rely heavily on external validation, particularly from my family, to gauge my worth. When my efforts and feelings go unrecognized, it’s easy to fall into a cycle of self-doubt. 

Yet, I rarely share with my family the hoops I jump through to get things done — Advanced Placement/International Baccalaureate classes and exams, college applications, Free Application for Federal Student Aid forms and more, that led to my acceptance and enrollment at USC. This lack of affirmation has made it difficult to believe in myself without external reinforcement, but I also recognize that my silence contributes to this struggle. 

Like Mulan and Luisa, I hesitate to share my struggles because I don’t want to burden my family with my worries because they have limited resources and knowledge about the issues I deal with, especially academics. It’s easier to explain the destination because it’s tangible, unlike the journey, which is more abstract. This silence — meant to protect them — ends up deepening my own sense of isolation. It’s a paradox: The more I hold back, the more I distance myself emotionally from the very people I’m trying to protect.

Because my family was never good at explicitly expressing their emotions, I also struggle with articulating mine. It feels like a trait I inherited, passed down through generations due to the way we were raised.

However, I’m finding solace in social science to help me better understand and articulate these emotions. The concept of invisible labor describes the invisibility I feel from the work I do for others, such as my family. This feminist theory explains how tasks traditionally assigned to women often feel undervalued and unseen, despite the significance of their work, because they are expected from routine. ​​Globally, women perform 75% of unpaid labor, which was valued at an estimated $10.9 trillion in 2020. It’s not just receiving a thank you; it’s about the systemic undervaluation of work that is expected but never acknowledged. 

I’ve been practicing advocacy for my needs — even for my family — easing me to validate my emotions and in return improving communication of my feelings. Though it can be unnatural, it has strengthened my relationships with my family, allowing them to support me in return.

To be loved is to be seen; I’m still learning to balance my own feelings with acknowledging others’ when I help them. By making an effort to bring visibility to those around me — whether it’s by saying “I love you” first to my mom, wishing the yellow jackets I pass by a good day or night or writing heartfelt cards to my professors — I nurture my own emotional needs and honor their humanity.