Henry's Story
Henry shares how his upbringing as an Asian man made it difficult to open up about mental health, and how he's worked to break this intergenerational cycle of silence.
"I’ve learned the value of mental health, especially for men like me who are taught to suffer in silence."
Breaking the Cycle of Silence and Stigma
Come out of the womb, grow up, study, get a good job, start a family, and die. A seemingly perfect and meticulous life plan that most Asian children are expected to uphold. It’s a form of generational trauma passed down like a family heirloom, rarely talked about yet deeply ingrained. And while you can’t necessarily blame our parents (they’re just replicating how they were raised), what can be done is to stop the cycle. We can acknowledge the damage it causes and begin to enlighten future generations. That’s why I want to share my story.
I grew up in an Asian household where mental health wasn’t taken seriously. In fact, it was never even discussed. There’s an unspoken expectation that you must stay “strong and silent,” get good grades, land a prestigious job, and make your parents proud so they can boast about you to friends and family. I tried so hard to uphold that image.
But everything came crashing down in 2024.
On April 20th, 2024, I was assaulted. I took nearly eight punches to the head and suffered a concussion that sidelined me for almost three months. Before the incident, I felt confident about my future. I had secured a scholarship and was set to attend a prestigious program at a great university. But after the assault, my life began to unravel.
Because of the severity of my condition, I was exempted from exams and relied heavily on teachers and friends for support. My family supported my occupational therapy and allowed me to miss school until I recovered. On the outside, it may have looked like I had time to rest. But in reality, I spent those months in solitude, feeling embarrassed and ashamed. I kept wondering how I had let this happen to me, and what it would mean for my future.
Each day, I put on a smile for friends and family, convincing them I had everything under control. That everything would return to normal. But I underestimated the lasting effects the concussion would have on my mental health.
While everyone else was making memories in their final months of high school, I was stuck at home recovering.
The effects of the injury left me unable to focus or retain information. I couldn’t keep up with school. When exams came around, my luck ran out. One teacher insisted I still write the final and make up missed tests, despite not having reviewed a single topic. I was overwhelmed, anxious, and terrified that I’d lose my scholarship and my university offer.
In a moment of desperation, I cheated. I walked into that test knowing I wasn’t prepared. After handing it in, my teacher called my name and asked to “talk.” She told me she saw me cheating and would have to drop the questions I copied. That moment had me stunned. Everything I’d worked for felt like it was slipping away. I couldn’t catch up. I got caught. I was about to fail. All things that would bring dishonour and shame not just to myself, but to my family.
Still, I shoved my feelings down and focused on my next exam.
I walked in with the same gut-wrenching feeling. And when the results came back, I knew I had failed. My scholarship and program offer were projected to be withdrawn.
For a week, I spiralled into depression. I couldn’t eat, sleep, or even drink water properly. I isolated myself, crying silently each night, feeling like I had failed my friends, my family, and most of all, myself. I couldn’t tell my parents the truth. I feared the lecture, the yelling, and the judgment. That fear didn’t come out of nowhere. It was the result of the generational mental health stigma that forces so many Asian kids into silence.
Eventually, I broke down in the school office and begged my principal for another chance. He listened with compassion and gave me a lifeline. He allowed me to drop the exam score that had pushed me below the cutoff. I kept the real story hidden. I told my parents I lost the scholarship because I didn’t study hard enough. Just enough to get by. But I carried the truth alone.
Since then, the comparisons and lectures haven’t stopped:
- “Why didn’t you get the scholarship like other kids?”
- “Why aren’t you making your parents proud like so-and-so?”
- “I raised a good-for-nothing dog.”
Each comment chipped away at me.
The pressure, the silence, and the pain built into a monster of impostor syndrome. I spent long nights overthinking and feeling like I was never enough. But every setback felt like a scar I wore with pride because each one made me stronger. I pushed through the criticism because I realized I didn’t owe anyone an explanation. My accomplishments should feel like rewards for me. I owed myself success. So I celebrated my wins privately and cherished them deeply.
But to this day, in my parents’ eyes, I’m still a failure who hasn’t achieved anything.
People say every story has a happy ending. But I don’t want this story to end because happiness shouldn’t end. I’ve learned the value of mental health, especially for men like me who are taught to suffer in silence. I’ve started to heal and rediscover who I am.
And I’ve found a purpose: to help others heal too.
That’s why I now aim to pursue a medical degree. To give back. To advocate for mental health support and organizations like HeadsUpGuys. Because the feeling of possibly saving someone’s life who’s been in the same dark place as you is worth more than anything else.
Today, I’m in my second year at the University of Western Ontario, continuing to push forward both academically and personally. I’ve been fortunate to contribute to research at St. Michael’s Hospital on brain stimulation, assisted in neuroscience studies in the Human Pain Discoveries Lab, and wrote and reviewed for The Dorsal Column, a neuroscience journal. Beyond academics, I’ve taken leadership roles such as serving as Internals Director for Hip-Hop Western, tutoring high school and university students, and volunteering with HeadsUpGuys to advocate for men’s mental health.
What helps me most now is structure, purpose, and community.
I focus on fitness, research, and mentorship as ways to stay grounded, to connect with others, and to remind myself that I’ve grown from my darkest moments. Healing hasn’t been linear, but it has been real.
-Henry, London, ON, Canada