By Jasmine Nguyen
Our parents were the “boat people,” part of the million Vietnamese who fled persecution, poverty, and violence after the fall of Saigon in 1975. An estimated 200,000 lives were lost in that perilous journey across the sea. Those who survived resettled in countries such as the United States. We are their children, born in the aftermath of war and displacement—their collective hope that their survival and journey would lead to something better. Their survival gave us life, but their trauma still shapes us. Fifty years later, second-generation Vietnamese Americans must break the silence around mental health, confront inherited struggles, and lead the way toward healing as the truest way to honor their sacrifices.
Today, more than two million Vietnamese Americans live in the United States, making us the fourth-largest Asian origin group in the country, according to the Pew Research Center. Washington state is home to more than 100,000 Vietnamese Americans, one of the largest Asian ethnic groups in the region. Though born after the war, we still carry its weight. Refugee parents carry struggles they rarely voice, and those still shape the way they raise us. Even without words, their past shows up in our lives—through family expectations, the way love is expressed, and the rules we grow up with. For many of us, this can feel like constant pressure, silence regarding our emotions, or confusion about identity. It can lead to stress, anxiety, or tension in our relationships with parents and siblings. Researchers call it “intergenerational trauma,” but for us, it’s the reality of growing up between two worlds—the world our parents carried with them from before they came, and the one we navigate here and now.
In Vietnamese culture, the shame and stigma of being labeled điên (“mad”) stains reputations and fractures relationships. Mental health is often seen as weakness or lack of willpower; it is whispered about, if spoken at all. Stigma is one of the greatest barriers keeping Vietnamese American college students from care, leaving many of us more willing to confide in peers than in family. The lack of open conversations costs us. When mental health is minimized or dismissed, young people are less likely to seek care, leaving stress and depression untreated. Over time, this silence fuels burnout, stress, anxiety, and strained relationships.
Our parents’ “tough-image mentality” warrants respect. It helped them persevere through instability, war, displacement, and rebuilding their lives in an unfamiliar land. But when resilience is framed as the only acceptable response, it can imply that mental health challenges are minor compared to past hardships. Many families emphasize perseverance and achievement as a way of honoring parental sacrifice, but these expectations can create tension for younger generations navigating different cultural contexts. The result is a generational divide—a gap in communication that leaves both us and our parents carrying hurt that is unspoken and unprocessed.
Filial piety teaches us to honor our parents; collectivism and expectation direct us to avoid seeking professional help; and our love for our parents always prevails. Their dreams became our responsibilities, and their sacrifices the foundation of our ambitions. Despite the pressure, we want to repay our parents, to care and provide for them as they cared for us, and to ensure that their lives in America are not solely defined by struggle. To move forward, second-generation Vietnamese Americans must break the silence, confront inherited trauma, and lead the way toward family healing. Healing begins when we recognize that our parents’ pain has shaped us, and that our own journey of healing is part of theirs. By tending to our mental health, setting boundaries, and practicing compassion, we can create space for ourselves and our family to grow.
These conversations don’t need to be dramatic. Ask your parents at the dinner table about their childhood memories, their journey to America, or the traditions and values they most want to preserve. When the time is right, use phrases like “I want to understand our family better” or “Can I ask you something about your childhood?” Ask with curiosity, not blame, and protect your peace by setting boundaries. Know when to take a step back if emotions run high and to keep the first conversations short and manageable. And if family relationships feel too damaged or unsafe, professional guidance and community support are necessary steps toward healing. We must also push for and support culturally competent mental health services on campuses and in communities, so healing isn’t left to families alone. In the Pacific Northwest, there are already organizations like the Asian Counseling and Referral Service (ACRS), which provide multilingual, culturally responsive counseling and wellness programs for Asian American and Pacific Islander communities.
By speaking openly, we honor our parents’ sacrifices while ensuring that trauma does not define our present and future. With shared understanding, we can create space for trust, empathy, and connection—reducing misunderstandings, strengthening family bonds, and creating pathways for intergenerational healing.
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