In many immigrant and Muslim families, parents aren’t just caretakers—they’re the compass we’re taught to follow. We're taught to love them, honor them, never cause them pain, and always make them proud. Their happiness often becomes our responsibility.

But somewhere along the way, love starts to feel like pressure.
And the pressure slowly becomes fear.

Not fear of punishment—fear of being truly known.

I hear it often in therapy:

• “If they knew I don’t pray every day, they’d be devastated.”
• “If they knew I’m seeing someone, they’d never speak to me again.”
• “They only love the version of me I let them see.”

When your real life doesn’t align with the life your parents expect of you, you’re left with an impossible choice: authenticity or acceptance.

And many of us choose silence. We shrink. We play roles. We become who we need to be around them just to avoid conflict.

But the cost is high: emotional exhaustion, inner conflict, and the deep grief of feeling unknown by the people who raised you.

Why Hiding Becomes the Default

In many collectivist cultures—including most South Asian, Arab, and Muslim households—individual expression is often secondary to family reputation and harmony. Research shows that in collectivist systems, decisions are guided by how they’ll affect the family, not just the individual (Triandis, 1995).

So when you choose to live life differently—whether it’s how you dress, who you spend time with, what you believe, or what you want from your future—you may feel like you're not just disappointing your parents... you’re betraying them.

This kind of pressure can lead to identity incongruence, which research links to increased anxiety, depression, and a fragmented sense of self (Ryan & Deci, 2000).

But here’s the truth:
You are not betraying your family for becoming who you are.

You are honoring both your history and your future.
And your peace is just as important as their expectations.

A Personal Note: I Chose the Path They Didn’t Understand

When I decided to become a therapist instead of a doctor, my parents didn’t approve.

They weren’t trying to be unsupportive—they just didn’t understand. Their lack of knowledge about mental health came from their own upbringing, where emotional pain wasn’t discussed and psychological support didn’t exist in the way we understand it now. Therapy was foreign to them. And at first, so was I.

For a while, I felt like I had to constantly justify myself. I was excelling academically, and to them, that meant one thing: medicine. So choosing a different path felt like failure in their eyes—and for a time, in mine too.

But I did it anyway.

It was incredibly difficult—but also deeply rewarding. The further I stepped into this work, the more I saw how desperately it was needed. Slowly, they started to see it too.

They asked more questions. They listened more. They began to understand that helping people heal emotionally and mentally is just as valuable as helping them heal physically.

Now, they speak highly of my work. They’ve become proud of what I do—sometimes even telling others about it with more excitement than I would. It didn’t happen overnight, and it didn’t come without pain. But it reminded me that approval doesn’t always come first—sometimes, it follows courage.

Our Parents Don’t Need to Know Everything to Love Us

Here’s something many of us were never told:

Your parents don’t need to know or accept every part of you in order for you to be whole.

We often grow up believing that love requires full transparency. That if you’re not fully open, you’re being fake or dishonest. But that’s not always true.

There are parts of you that can remain private—and still be sacred.
There are dreams and decisions that can be yours alone—without guilt.

Sometimes, protecting your peace means not disclosing every truth.
Especially when that truth might be met with shame, fear, or rejection.

This isn’t deception.
This is discernment.

You’re allowed to decide what’s safe to share—and what’s safe to keep to yourself.

Boundaries Are a Form of Self-Respect

Setting limits with your parents doesn’t mean you love them less.
It means you’re finally loving yourself, too.

It might sound like:

• “I’m not ready to talk about that yet.”
• “That’s something I’m still figuring out.”
• “I appreciate your concern, but I’ve made my decision.”

These kinds of boundaries are not rude or rebellious.
They are a healthy way of preserving your emotional well-being in relationships that may not have the capacity to hold your truth.

And if your parents don’t understand?
That doesn’t make you wrong.
It just means their love is shaped by a different lens.

Healing Doesn’t Require Their Approval

Many of us wait years for our parents to say:

• “I’m proud of you.”
• “I accept you just as you are.”
• “Even if I don’t understand, I still love you.”

But that moment may never come.

Healing begins when you stop waiting for that—and start offering it to yourself.

Carl Rogers once said, “When I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.” You don’t need your parents to validate your life in order for it to be real, meaningful, or right.

Their inability to understand you doesn’t mean you’ve failed them.
It means you’ve outgrown the version of you they were able to imagine.

Therapeutic Exercise: The Letter You Don’t Send

One step toward healing?
Write a letter to your parents—not to deliver, but for your own clarity.

• Say the things you’ve never been able to say.
• Share the truths you’ve hidden.
• Name the parts of yourself that feel silenced.

Then read it aloud to yourself.

Let yourself be the one who hears, holds, and honors the real you—maybe for the first time.

You Are Not a Bad Child for Becoming Yourself

To the person navigating hidden identities, private decisions, or a quiet inner rebellion—you are not a bad child.

You are growing. You are protecting yourself.
You are choosing to be honest, even if only with yourself for now.

And that’s enough.

References:

• Triandis, H.C. (1995). Individualism & Collectivism. Westview Press.
• Ryan, R. M., & Deci, E. L. (2000). Self-determination theory and the facilitation of intrinsic motivation, social development, and well-being. American Psychologist.