Family Therapy Was a Lifeline

I was 15 and living in a residential center in Denver, where I was being treated for anorexia and depression. In addition to individual therapy, I had a weekly family therapy session, where my parents and I were practicing communication. My therapist knew I had been struggling with suicidal thoughts for a while; part of family communication was sharing this with my parents.

I sat, my body tense, in my therapist’s office. My eyes drifted to the bookshelf, where there was a turquoise origami capybara that I’d made in art therapy. The room was quiet as I sat next to my therapist while my parents, who were home in New York, were on Zoom. I looked to my therapist and she nodded. It was time.

 “I’ve been experiencing suicidal thoughts lately and they’ve been worse this week,” I stuttered. I expected my parents to get mad or upset, or even to blame me, so I was shocked by their calm reaction.

“Yes, we understand, and we already know,” they said.  I wondered how they were so accepting. In fact, their calm reaction annoyed me. I rolled my eyes, and thought “cut the act,” assuming they were trying to prove they were “good” parents in front of my therapist. I was annoyed as my therapist and my parents discussed ways they could both intervene and give me space when I experience suicidal ideation.

Although I was frustrated, the fact that we were even in family therapy was groundbreaking for us. Just a few months before, it would have been unthinkable. But the previous few months had turned into a life or death situation, and it had become clear that therapy, including family therapy, was necessary.

Bottling Up My Feelings

Before 2024, my parents saw mental illness as a shameful burden. They’re from China, where prioritizing mental health was not important. They avoided emotions and pretended everything was fine when it really wasn’t.

Whenever I expressed a negative emotion, they told me that my life was easy and I shouldn’t be upset. For example, if I was upset about fighting with my brother, they would talk about how difficult life was for them when they were young, preaching about how poor they were, how little there was to eat, and how they were forced to work and participate in military practice. I believed them, but their stories didn’t help me feel better.

Another thing they weren’t sympathetic about was my body image struggles. I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror, but compared to my parents’ burdens of paying bills, work, and taking care of me, my body image issues and “too intense feelings” seemed like nothing. I learned to negate my feelings because my problems “weren’t big enough.”

I denied all my feelings—the good, the bad, everything. My feelings were just feelings and that was it. There was nothing more to them.

I bottled up my emotions, but they eventually came out. In 10th grade, I started having panic attacks if I had to speak in front of people, even if it was just a small group. I would get extremely nervous and dizzy, and my breathing would become shallow. I knew I couldn’t tell my parents how I felt, but I did have a friend I could talk to.

Inspired to Ask for Help

I met one of my closest friends, B., in 9th grade. We bonded over playing volleyball and being bad at physics. We would talk about our struggles with mental health in a way my parents wouldn’t understand. I would tell her how I wanted to cut myself when I was upset, and B. would encourage me to find other ways to cope. She suggested I find a therapist.

During freshman year, B. got very depressed. She struggled in school, and said she didn’t want to be alive anymore. I encouraged her with the same advice she had given me, to find a therapist, and eventually she did.  I was proud of her. As the months passed, I noticed she looked happier and was engaging with friends more.

Seeing her get better prompted me to think there might be a way for me to feel happier, too. Maybe there was a way out of this hole, and maybe I wouldn’t always feel this bad. Therapy was helping B. a lot and I hoped that it would help me too, if my parents allowed it.

“You know, B. has a therapist,” I told my parents one day in our living room. “I was wondering if I could get one too?” I hoped that by referencing B., my parents would see that seeking mental health resources was OK.

My parents frowned. I told them I felt anxious all the time, and they seemed surprised. They said I must be anxious because I stayed up too late and took too many classes. Pretty quickly, they started yelling: “Why did you do this to yourself? I knew you would end up like this with all the stress you put on yourself.” In reality, schoolwork was the only thing distracting me from my anxiety.

I continued to feel like I wasn’t seen or understood. I felt alone and desperate. Without any chance of getting help, I deemed my sorrow as unbounded and without end. It felt like a life sentence of being mentally ill.

A Breaking Point

I became more and more depressed—and angry. I would isolate myself in my room and lash out at my parents. When they checked up on me, I’d scream, “What is your problem? Stop looking at me!”

I felt like I had no control over my emotions. As a result, I tried to control the one thing I could: my body. I told myself: “If I skip this one meal, I can keep going and become a person I will like.” I developed an eating disorder that provided the sense of control that I yearned for.

By April of 2024, I hadn’t eaten anything  for two weeks and only had water. My weight dropped drastically. I eventually had to be hospitalized because of my rapid weight loss. I had to have a feeding tube and was so depressed that I was considered a danger to myself. My parents had been concerned enough about me to take me to the hospital,but they were still shocked that I needed so much help. Although I was frustrated that I was trapped in a hospital with a feeding tube, I was thankful my parents put me there because it saved my life.

Following the hospitalization, I was sent to multiple residential programs until I found the one in Denver, which felt like the right fit for me because it addressed my depression, anorexia, and anxiety. Though residential life had its lows—like being pressured to finish every meal under supervision—there were highs, as well, like  making new friends and family therapy.

How Family Therapy Changed Us

Despite my initial suspicion that my parents were just acting like “good parents” in front of my therapist, I realized that their reaction was truthful when they said “Yes, we understand, and we already know,” to me revealing I had been experiencing suicidal thoughts. After all, despite the mental health stigma present in Chinese culture, they got me the mental health services I required. They made sure I was safe, mentally and physically, which is why I was at this Denver treatment facility to begin with.

We learned that emotional validation means acknowledging and understanding another person’s emotional experience without judgment.

During our weekly family therapy sessions, we learned that emotional validation means acknowledging and understanding another person’s emotional experience without judgment. My therapist often prompted us to voice our feelings, with questions like, “I believe Jacqueline has something she would like to say. Jacqueline, how do you feel?” and, “Parents, what did you think about what Jacqueline has said? How does it make you feel?” 

The therapist helped me admit things I wouldn’t have been able to before, and my parents learned to listen. For example, in one session, I told them: “I just feel that I am not ready to go home yet.” My parents nodded and didn’t say much, which seemed like they were accepting how I felt.

My parents started to shed some emotional avoidance. They began to encourage me to share how I was feeling and support me. Instead of lashing out at me for needing help, they learned to engage me in discussions about possible solutions and things to make me feel better. They told me they were  proud of me when they saw me use the skills I was learning to regulate my feelings, like making origami figures instead of staying distressed and emotionally dysregulated. (Though they still said I needed to “try harder,” which didn’t help.)

At the same time, I learned to accept my own feelings and express them to my parents without as much fear or anger about how they’d respond. However, I’m not always willing to be vulnerable. Sometimes, I’m afraid that if I share something too personal, my parents may use it against me in arguments. Still, things improved.

Back Home

I spent three months in residential treatment. I liked being away from my parents. I liked that my parents weren’t the ones watching me. But eventually it was time to come home. Family therapy helped my parents and me build a better relationship so we could start over.

I was grateful to be home, but I definitely needed to continue individual therapy. This time, my parents were fully on board. They found a therapist for me, and they even found a dietitian who not only manages my meal plan, but also talks to me on an emotional level.

These days, we’re continuing family therapy in a new way—group family therapy. I feel relieved to be surrounded by people who’ve experienced similar hardships; we can grow and learn together. And my parents appreciate seeing other families who have been in family therapy longer because it brings them hope that we can continue to improve, too.

 I still resent my parents for years of denying my feelings, but I can admit they’ve come a long way. They deserve some credit for everything they’ve done for me. After all, when I was really in danger, my parents were there by my side every step of the way, from the hospital to the treatment center and now at home.

We’ve all learned that seeking outside mental health help is sometimes necessary. I think it’s actually one of the bravest things you can do. Despite all the mental health stigma and cultural values that deemed me “weak” and “undisciplined,” I am living proof that I am not. I still struggle with occasional suicidal ideation, and I still feel uncomfortable talking to my mom about my feelings; I would rather talk to a therapist. But now I know my mom wants me to communicate with her and I know she’d listen instead of blaming me for my problems. Just the other day, my mom noticed I was upset and said, “I am sitting outside if you need anything from me.” I didn’t go outside to talk with her that day, but I hope someday I’ll be able to.