Breaking the Silence: Vulnerabilities of Mental Health in Asian Immigrants

For many children of low-income, non-English-speaking immigrants, acting as a translator is a rite of passage. We grow up helping our parents read mail, navigate doctor’s appointments, and make sense of bureaucratic systems. Even as kids, we learn to interpret more than just words — we decode cultural expectations, shield our families from misunderstanding or judgment, and quietly shoulder the emotional weight of being their link to a world they don’t fully trust.

That responsibility became real for me after my parents divorced while I was in college. My dad, the only English-speaking parent, was no longer in the picture. My mom, newly independent and seeking a better life, was suddenly alone in navigating systems she had never been equipped for. The strength it took to leave came with a steep price: facing a foreign world without support. I became more than her daughter. I became her interpreter, her advocate, her emotional anchor — someone who helped her face a system that was never built with her in mind.

This isn’t just my story. It’s one many first-gen children know intimately. But what’s talked about far less is the mental and emotional toll — not just on us, but on our parents. The shame they feel when they can’t understand something. The fear of being a burden. The quiet heartbreak of wanting to protect their children, yet needing to rely on them. And as we grow older and build our own lives, that emotional distance can open space for unimaginable harm.

“One night, after watching a YouTube video of another Chinese woman who had been scammed by someone in her religious community, my mom turned to me and asked, “So I’m not the only stupid one?” Her eyes filled with tears — this time, not from pain, but from relief. That moment hit me hard. Not just as her daughter, but as someone who understood how powerful it is to feel seen.”

In July 2023, just a few months before starting my graduate program, I found out that my mom had been defrauded out of her property — our home — by a trusted member of her religious community. It wasn’t just any home. It was the one she bought with the settlement money from her divorce, the symbol of everything she had built for herself after years of sacrifice, labor, and resilience as an immigrant.

The most devastating part wasn’t just the loss. It was watching my mom feel completely powerless, unsure of where to turn or what to do next. The aftermath was overwhelming — filled with deep fear, confusion, and anxiety. She didn’t know where to begin, who to trust, or even that she had legal rights she could fight for. Navigating the legal system in a second language wasn’t just difficult; it didn’t even seem like an option. I knew I had to figure something out, even if I didn’t yet know what.

During my first year of graduate school, I found myself straddling two worlds. I spent my nights searching for legal representation, learning how the legal system worked, and translating complex documents — while trying to stay present in class during the day. But as I helped my mom fight back, I realized something terrifying: If I hadn’t been there, she wouldn’t have stood a chance. The language barrier, the cultural pressure to stay silent, the unfamiliarity with systems not built for non-English-speaking immigrants — all of it left her isolated, with no clear way forward. And it made me think about everyone else who doesn’t have someone to step in when injustice happens.

The emotional toll was crushing. My mom spiraled into anxiety, depression, and self-blame. “How could I have been so stupid?” I heard her whisper one night. But what broke me was the guilt she carried — not just for being scammed, but for needing me to carry the weight with her. The cultural burden made it even harder. In many Asian immigrant communities, we’re taught to endure, stay quiet, and avoid conflict at all costs. Vulnerability is equated with failure. Asking for help is seen as weakness. There were no therapists who spoke my mom’s language, no culturally competent resources to help her process the trauma. So, she suffered in silence like so many others.

I tried everything I could to help her stay afloat — mentally, emotionally, anything to keep her from spiraling. It was too soon to talk about healing; we were still just trying to process what had happened. I suggested prayer, dance, meditation, even watching lighthearted movies to take her mind off it. But surprisingly, what helped the most wasn’t therapy or any wellness practice. It was something much simpler: hearing stories from others who had been through the same thing.

One night, after watching a YouTube video of another Chinese woman who had been scammed by someone in her religious community, my mom turned to me and asked, “So I’m not the only stupid one?” Her eyes filled with tears — this time, not from pain, but from relief. That moment hit me hard. Not just as her daughter, but as someone who understood how powerful it is to feel seen.

As I began sharing our story more openly, I was stunned by how many people quietly said, “Something like that happened to me, too.” Friends, relatives, coworkers — many of them Asian immigrants who had been defrauded in some form. Some had trusted the wrong person. Others didn’t understand what they were signing. Many were too ashamed to speak up or ask for help. The details differed, but the pattern was clear. What they lost wasn’t just money or property. They lost a sense of safety, trust, and in some cases, their will to keep going. In fact, 72% of fraud victims experience emotional, physical, or mental health effects. For immigrants facing language barriers, cultural stigma, and a lack of accessible resources, those effects can be even more severe. And too often, they remain invisible.

That realization became the heart of my Health Equity Challenge project. This wasn’t just about fighting fraud — it was about addressing the emotional toll that so often goes unspoken. It was about advancing mental health equity in Asian immigrant communities, where language barriers, cultural stigma, and a lack of resources too often leave people like my mom to suffer alone.

Through this project, I’ve had the privilege of connecting with Asian Americans Advancing Justice Southern California (AJSOCAL) to explore my project aimed at bringing culturally responsive mental health support, community storytelling, and trauma-informed resources to older Asian immigrants impacted by scams. No one should have to battle shame, fear, and isolation just to survive something that never should have happened in the first place.

The UCLA Health Equity Challenge has given me the opportunity to shed light on an overlooked crisis and begin a broader conversation about the intersection of mental health, trust, identity, and justice in immigrant communities. This project is for every person who has been taken advantage of and left to carry the emotional burden alone — a reminder that they are not invisible, and they are not alone.

Above all, it’s a testament to how even our most painful experiences can be transformed into something powerful when we choose to speak out and fight for equity.