‘Families Don’t Keep Secrets’: Storytime and Mental Health as an Adoptee in an Asian-American Household

Written by: Ashley Shu

From my position in the living room, the house feels quiet and hollow. The only sources of light are fluorescent lamps in the corners illuminating crevices of Chinese antiques. Per usual, every squeak of the floorboards echoes across the house and begs to be spoken for. 

My dad’s words, “there is something important we have to tell you,” hangs in the air like a stalactite dropping from the ceiling of an underwater cave. Frozen. Pointed.  

I am 25 years-old, a freshly minted graduate from a sociology Master’s program at the University of Washington. I sit across from my parents - a casm of withheld breaths between us - in my childhood home. We occupy three mis-matched sofa chairs facing the center of the living room. As if marking“X” on a treasure map, our three seats are pointed towards the exact square of rug where I practiced endless hours of cello from the ages of 5 to 18. 

Both my parents look stoic and choreographed, yet unmistakeably fragile. Uncertainly, I smile back at them and ask what this important thing is. 

Since my parents and I had been in a cold war for the past year regarding my boyfriend of non-Chinese descent, I thought maybe this would be another lecture about the importance of preserving the bloodline (yikes). 

“There is something we have been waiting to tell you, but not until after you’ve finished college. We understand if you are mad at us for it, but it is our duty as parents to protect you.” My dad’s Cantonese delivers every word as if rehearsed a thousand times. My mom, his scene partner, looks at me for a reaction.  

Oftentimes, my response in nerve-racking situations is to display overt bubbliness - to disperse tension with a sort of emotional carbonation. So, I smack on a fake smile. “Okay,” I say. 

Then, the next ten minutes are a blur. 

I forget the exact sequence of phraseology or nuance of delivery, but the facts are these: I was born on a different continent than the one I had known my whole like, my first months of existence was spent in an orphanage, and I have a different birthday than what I have known my entire life. My parents had waited more than two decades to tell me that I was adopted. And, somehow, every single family member and family friend knew these facts about me… except me. I was impressed more than anything. Part of me was fascinated at the story: surely, this was a movie drama based off of someone else’s life.

“Are you mad?” they ask. 

If one has seen the Pixar production Inside Out, they might be able to imagine the very confused and chaotic set of emotions I was experiencing ‘in headquarters’ at the time. If there was a character I could invent, it would be daze. Daze is a purple amoeba with a constant deer-in-headlights look, floating around with an ethereal fog surrounding it. 

“No, I understand…I’m not mad,” I reply, with as little hesitation as I can manage. Frankly, I didn’t know what to feel. Even though the story felt so fiction to me, I could feel that my parents were desperately hoping for reassurance and security. 

The rest of the night, I curled up in my bed with my headphones on. I logged onto a messaging app, texted a synopsis to my boyfriend (who was in a time zone a few hours ahead and had long gone to bed), and then reached out to my best friend. I told them that I didn’t have the wherewithal to explain everything, but that I just wanted some companionship. So, he called me, and I asked him to catch me up on his life. Because, I was not quite sure what had just happened to mine…

One might expect that I would have pivoted my life after this shocking news, but actually I felt pretty much the same. Logically-speaking, I was the exact same person before and after this awkward sit-down with my parents, and so it made sense for me to continue my life plans as I had outlined them. Two days after that cold winter night, I was scheduled to fly across the country, set up an apartment in a new city, start my first big girl job, and begin “adulting.” So, I did. 

First week on the job, I reached out to a therapist for the first time through my employer’s Employee Assistance Program (EAP). 

While I reasoned with myself - between Target runs for duvet covers and practicing my commute to my new workplace - that there is no good time to tell a kid they are adopted, I also spent many hours on the phone with my closest friends trying to process the facts aloud. 

I thought: my parents did what they thought was best for me, so I had no resentment towards their decision. Since the beginning, they devised a plan to tell me about my adoption only when I was much older and had the mental facilities to process it (and to not feel abandonment), and had raised me no different than if I was their child by blood. In fact, I bet the circumstances of my origins faded way into the distance amidst life’s routines. 

One of my besties, though, suggested that I seek some professional help nonetheless: “You may not think you need it now, but you don’t want to hold anything in and have that bite you in the ass down the line.” 

Okay, fair enough. 

So, while my mental health journey started long ago - adaptating as a third-culture kid in a passive, noncommunicative immigrant household; butting heads with a perfectionist and stubbornly impatient father; and, preserving tradition in the face of assimilation, acceptance, and the melting pot that is America - learning about my adoption story was the single event that made me consider seeking help and guidance for my mental wellbeing. 

Since that first therapist, I have seated myself across from plenty of professionals and family members alike, navigating unbearable conversations of various flavors. Each of these encounters have helped me battle my inner gremlins and supported me with tools to live more freely and authentically. And, as for conversations I am not brave enough to have in real-life (becuase progress and growth takes time), I hold them with imaginary people using therpeutic tools like the “empty chair technique.” 

Today, on a winter’s day four years after that moment my parents sat me down to unveil an unfathomable truth to me, I am just weeks away from getting married to the love of my life and envisioning a life of unpredictable and amazing adventures ahead. I am still working through some challenges, but I feel much more confident, whole, and well than ever before. 

So, to the friend who urged me to seek out a therapist in 2019 - thank you! And, to the many practitioners whom I have seen over the years - from one-on-one sessions, to couples counseling, and group therapy - thank you for your empathy, accountability, and mad skills.