06/16/2026
Growing up, we did not have language for what I was feeling.
We had expectations.
You work hard.
You carry your family.
You do not fall apart.
You are stronger than that.
The silence around difficult feelings was not unkind. It was cultural. It was love, expressed as endurance.
But I grew up and became a mental health nurse practicioner.
And I started sitting across from women who looked exactly like the women who raised me: high-functioning, capable, quietly drowning.
That is when I understood something:
The absence of language is not the absence of pain.
It just means the pain has no place to go.
Part of why I do this work the way I do it is because cultural context matters. What someone was taught to carry matters. The roles they inherited matter. The silence they survived matters.
Psychiatric care cannot ask someone about symptoms and ignore the world that shaped them.
I grew up in it.
I am not leaving it at the door.