Dear Zenith:

I just looked up the missing case: Sudhiksha Konanki, a 20-year-old University of Pittsburgh student, went missing 12 days ago after drinking alcohol and then going to the beach with a few others. She possibly drowned, while intoxicated, possibly foul play was involved.

It’s completely natural to feel worried about your child’s future, especially when you see stories like the above, or hear about the negative impacts of alcohol, drugs, and other cultural influences. Good parents want to protect their kids from harm and guide them toward making healthy choices.

It’s true that some aspects of American culture, like the normalization of drinking or casual attitudes toward certain behaviors, can feel overwhelming—especially when they clash with the values we were raised with. But I think it’s also important to remember that as a parent, you have a strong influence on shaping your child’s values and decision-making. By encouraging open communication, teaching her about consequences, and modeling the behaviors you want to see, you can help them navigate these challenges.

Your concerns show how much you care about your child’s well-being, and that’s such a powerful foundation. It’s okay to feel uneasy, but it’s also worth focusing on the positive steps you’re already taking to create a safe and supportive environment for your little one.

If you ever want to talk more about this or share ideas, I’m here for you.

anita

Dear Anu_2.0:

You are under immense pressure—forced to live with your estranged husband due to societal and family expectations. This situation highlights how cultural norms often prioritize appearances and community perceptions over an individual’s mental health and well-being. The fear of “character assassination” imposed by your parents speaks volumes about the stigma women face when asserting their independence.

Living with someone after separation can feel deeply suffocating, constantly reopening emotional wounds and denying you the closure you need. Physical separation is not just a desire but a necessity for your emotional healing.

You described this as a “grave injustice,” and you are absolutely right. Your peace and autonomy are being sacrificed to meet societal demands. Your story is a powerful reminder that healing isn’t just an internal journey—it also requires external conditions that respect and support individual choices.

I’ve included some insights below that I hope will resonate with you:

Psychology Today on societal pressures: “Women are more susceptible to this kind of relationship-shaming than men… Many faiths and cultures view separation as a badge of dishonor for a woman.”

Psychology Today on cultural beliefs: A study in South Africa revealed the saying, “a woman’s grave is at her husband’s house,” reflecting the expectation for women to endure marriage at all costs. Another study on Iranian women found that post-divorce challenges, such as workplace harassment, often force women to abandon efforts to rebuild their lives.

Rights of Equality on global realities: “On average, a woman or girl is killed by someone in her own family every 11 minutes.” Many women endure lifelong abuse, coerced by families into staying in harmful marriages due to the stigma surrounding divorce.

It’s also important to acknowledge that men can be victims of abuse too. Abuse against men often takes the form of psychological, emotional, or verbal harm, though physical violence does occur. Men face unique challenges, such as societal disbelief and stigma, which can make it harder for them to seek help.

Back to you, Anu_2.0—I don’t know if you are experiencing abuse from your husband, but it’s clear that you are suffering from the societal pressures that, in your words, cause “suffocation” and a “grave injustice.” Perhaps continuing this conversation can help ease some of the weight you’re carrying.

anita

Dear GIGI:

You ended your post with: “I’ve been to therapy before, but I’ve always been inconsistent. I’ll go for a few months, then either feel like I’m doing okay or get scared of diving into deeper topics, and I stop going. I’ve always avoided talking about my parents—especially my dad. Even thinking about it makes my body anxious and puts me in physical discomfort. Even now, while writing this, I feel dizzy. I’m not sure if I have a specific question. I just want to know if anyone else has experienced similar thoughts and how you deal with them.”

I want to start by saying that I deeply respect the honesty and courage it takes to share your struggles so openly. Understanding how anxious, scared, and physically uncomfortable you feel about discussing your parents—especially your father—I won’t ask you questions about them or your childhood experiences. Instead, I’d like to share parts of my own story where I can relate to what you’ve shared. I hope it may provide some comfort or insight.

You wrote: “I (am) filled with regrets—regrets about not spending enough time with them, not sharing my thoughts and feelings, and not building a stronger, closer relationship.” This indicates feelings of guilt about not having a strong, close relationship with your parents, as though it’s somehow your fault. I can relate. I’ve never had a close relationship with either of my parents. If I ever did as a baby or a very young child, I can’t remember it—I have no memories of such closeness. My parents divorced when I was very young, and my father moved out early on. He played a minimal role in my life while I lived with my mother, who essentially raised me as a single parent. With her, I felt guilty about everything. I believed every conflict or issue in our relationship was my fault.

You also wrote: “I struggle with guilt when it comes to sex. Almost every time (if not always), my dad comes to mind, and it makes me feel disgusted.” This suggests a crossing of personal boundaries in childhood—emotional, if not physical. I relate to this as well, and I’d like to share my personal experience, while adding a trigger warning: Some parts of my story may be uncomfortable to read.

As a child, my feelings were often ignored, belittled, or treated as wrong and punished. I was told things like, “You have no reason to feel sad—you’re so much luckier than other children,” or, “You have no right to feel angry!” This taught me that my emotions were problematic, as though they weren’t my allies but enemies. Over time, I learned to suppress my emotions because they didn’t feel safe to express. I doubted their validity, and confronting emotional topics felt overwhelming or shameful—as if I didn’t have the “right” to feel them. This led to situations in adulthood where I allowed myself to be taken advantage of or abused because I doubted that my feelings about being mistreated were legitimate.

My mother was a dominating, emotionally volatile person who was preoccupied with her own struggles. She demanded constant attention, reacted unpredictably, and often controlled the emotional climate of our home. This left little room for me to develop my own emotional identity or boundaries. I learned to prioritize her needs over mine, internalizing the belief that her emotions mattered while mine did not. I even came to see my feelings as troublesome or wrong. Living in this environment taught me to “walk on eggshells,” suppressing my emotions to avoid conflict and confrontation.

I also became her emotional caregiver. She shared her personal struggles with me at great lengths and in dramatic, histrionic ways, blurring the natural boundaries between parent and child. This is known as “parentification,” where the child becomes overly responsible for the parent’s well-being. Growing up in this dynamic taught me that my feelings were insignificant and that expressing them was selfish or futile. This sense of guilt about my own needs carried into adulthood, manifesting as a reluctance to take up space emotionally or prioritize my own well-being. I often felt unworthy in relationships or undeserving of self-care.

In regard to blurred boundaries between parent and child: growing up, I often felt like I was the “man” in the house, while she was the “woman”— me being the strong one and her being the weak one. Although she was dominating and controlling with me, she often displayed weakness and submission when dealing with others in her life. It felt as though she needed me to step into the role of the strong one, to help her stand up for herself in situations with other people. I tried to do so, but she rejected my help and even punished me for trying (likely because she was too afraid to confront others). Yet, she continued to complain to me about being taken advantage of by those same people.

Witnessing her— a woman—being taken advantage of by others stirred a deep sense of empathy in me. I wanted to protect her, to “be the man” for her. Over time, I internalized the idea that being a woman meant being weak, and I wanted to be the opposite: strong, capable, and nothing like her.

Two memories from my early 20s stand out. In one instance, we were in the small apartment where we lived, and she came running toward me, crying and wailing, her arms outstretched, preparing to hit me. It was a strange combination of weakness and aggression. For the first time, I did something I had never done before: I raised my arms, grabbed her hands, and firmly blocked her from getting closer and hitting me. Her response was unexpected— she melted in my hands, went completely limp, passive, and backed away. She never tried to hit me again.

The second memory is from another moment in my early 20s. I had been drinking some alcohol before she arrived home, and feeling tipsy, I initiated a dance with her— something I had never done before. I took her hands in mine and led the dance, feeling very much like “the man.” Once again, her response was complete submission.

I never fully understood these two memories until this morning, decades later. I now realize that she was confrontational and aggressive with me because I was completely submissive to her—until I wasn’t. When I stood up to her (as in the first memory) or took the lead (as in the dance), I became like the other people in her life: she submitted to me just as she submitted to them. Reflecting on this, I now see how unhealthily submissive I was to her growing up. This submissiveness is why she felt safe being aggressive with me—she had no fear of me standing up for myself.

Thank you, GIGI, for making it possible for me to explore my own experience of childhood blurred boundaries and role confusion. I hope that, in reading this, you find some comfort or insight into your own experiences. Please know you’re not alone, and healing is possible.

anita

Here’s hopefully an improvement on my above advice, Amber: you can, if you feel comfortable, share a bit more about yourself, and I will respond positively and attentively 😊

anita

Dear Elizabeth:

First off, I hope you feel deeply proud of yourself— your ability to model healthy boundaries and advocate for yourself and your child is truly inspiring. It sounds like you’re not only breaking harmful cycles but also empowering your kid to navigate relationships with clarity and self-respect. That’s such a powerful gift to give them!

Your advice to your child about in-laws is spot on and clearly comes from a place of hard-earned wisdom. It’s heartbreaking that you and your friends had to endure decades of difficult dynamics, but it’s remarkable how you turned those experiences into lessons that can protect and guide the next generation.

I also appreciate the thoughtful way you approached the wedding conversation with your kid. Asking for their input and ensuring they felt heard shows such care and respect for their perspective.

Finally, your reflection on your husband’s perspective is so poignant. It must be tough to see him holding on to an image of things as he wishes they were, rather than facing the reality of the situation. Your ability to stay grounded and focused on what’s true, even amidst these challenges, is truly admirable.

Thank you for sharing this with me. Your strength, wisdom, and compassion shine through in every part of your story.

anita