Today is my father’s 80th birthday.
So it got me thinking about my years growing up with him. Our relationship has always been cordial, but distant.
My childhood memories are filled with an emotionally distant father who only showed one emotion…anger.
I remember having silent dinners while he read the newspaper, and then more silence afterwards as he migrated to his bed to watch rented videotapes of Chinese drama.
If the kids dared to disturb him by being too loud, we would get yelled at (ironically).
The rest of the time he was physically absent at work, which was 6 days a week, morning ‘til evening.
I remember watching American TV shows like the Brady Brunch, Happy Days, and Full House where fathers and children would have heart-to-heart talks, share warm embraces, or simply say “I love you” without hesitation.
In our house, love was expressed through different currencies – academic expectations, financial provision, and sacrifices that were never discussed but always felt.
For years, I carried a complex mix of emotions: gratitude for his sacrifices, resentment for his emotional and physical absence, and a deep, unspoken longing for the kind of father-child relationship I saw others having.
But as I grew older, something shifted in my understanding.
I began to see my father not just as a parent, but as someone’s son too.
I learned about his own childhood, about my grandfather who worked endless hours and was often away, who believed that providing food and shelter was the ultimate expression of fatherly love.
I began to understand that my father’s emotional and physical distance wasn’t a choice – it was an inheritance.
This revelation was both heartbreaking and liberating.
Heartbreaking because I realized that my father, too, probably yearned for emotional and physical connection, but never received it.
Liberating because it helped me understand that his limitations had nothing to do with me being unloveable, but instead were the product of generational patterns deeply rooted in intergenerational trauma.
In Asian culture, we often normalize these patterns of our fathers. We accept emotional and physical distance as the natural order of things. “That’s just how Asian dads are,” we tell ourselves, finding comfort in the shared experience.
But just because something is the norm, it doesn’t mean it’s “normal” or healthy. Just because it’s common doesn’t mean it should continue.
As I think about my dad, I’m struck by compassion, gratitude, and resolve.
Compassion and gratitude for a man who did his best with the emotional tools he had (or the lack of), who loved in the only way he knew how.
And resolve to be different – because I now know better.
To the men who carry similar childhood stories, I want to say this: You have the power to change this narrative. You can acknowledge your fathers’ sacrifices while choosing a different path.
You can be the fathers who break this cycle of emotional and physical distance, who show your children that strength lies not in stoic silence but in emotional availability.
(To the women, I’ll address your part in the next newsletter.)
Being a cycle breaker isn’t about rejecting our cultural heritage or dishonoring our fathers’ sacrifices. It’s about taking the best of what they gave us and adding what was missing. It’s about creating a new normal where Asian fathers can be both strong and nurturing, successful and emotionally present.
As I celebrate my father’s 80th year of life today, I’m also celebrating the possibility of change. The possibility that future generations of Asian sons will learn emotional connection and vulnerability (including my two sons). The possibility that they’ll grow up knowing that true strength lies in the ability to be both provider and nurturer, protector and confidant.
Men, this is your challenge, and your opportunity: to be the fathers you needed when you were young. To rewrite the story of Asian fatherhood, one vulnerable conversation, one warm embrace, one “I love you” at a time.
