ale_inmelbSenior Contributor
“Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind… or forgotten.”
Content warning: This post is very long and contains references to family trauma, violence (not in detail), gender discrimination, and complex cultural dynamics.
We were talking about this in the recovery group yesterday, and I said I’d follow up after the session. So… here it is ( @AuntGlow )
I struggled deeply with my family relationships growing up. My childhood was marked by constant yelling and episodes of physical violence. From as early as three years old, I felt like I was never good enough for my parents—or at least, that’s what I came to believe. These early experiences left lasting scars. As I grew older, the unresolved trauma began to show in other ways—anxiety, panic attacks, and maybe even wounds I still haven’t named.
It was bad—I have to admit that. Still, I held onto optimism, hoping things would eventually get better. But little did I know, that was just the beginning of something even worse.
I was in Year 7—at least, that’s what my memory tells me—when I was diagnosed with ADHD. Around the same time, I had just been moved to a new class after finishing Year 6. I was being bullied constantly. And on top of that, it was the first time I began to realize I was non-binary and bisexual. Everything felt blurry back then. Truthfully, it still does.
I barely talk to my parents about anything. The distance between us has only grown.
I’ve been hiding everything from them for the past six years—not out of mistrust, but because empathy has never really existed within the walls of my home. Every time I tried to speak up, to share even a part of who I am, I was shut down. The pressure became suffocating—the pressure of being the first child, the so-called “role model,” the older sister expected to have it all together. Then there’s the pressure of money—a weight that never lifts. The money they spent sending me abroad for education is constantly held over my head. “You better make our money worth it,” they say, again and again. As if I’m an investment. Not a person. They never ask how I’m doing. They crossed every boundary I tried to set. And in doing so, they didn’t just place expectations on me—they shattered my sense of safety. They ruined my childhood. Somewhere along the way, in trying to live up to everything they wanted me to be, I lost the space to be myself.
“Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind… or forgotten.”
— Lilo & Stitch (2002)
It’s a beautiful quote. And yet, for many of us, “family” doesn’t feel like the safe, loving space it’s supposed to be. Sometimes, the people who are meant to protect and uplift us are the ones who hurt us the most.
Yes, ohana can be chosen. But what if your family never really saw you in the first place? What if they only loved the version of you they created in their heads—the obedient child, the golden student, the one who never cried too loud or asked for too much? I tried. God, I tried. I folded myself into shapes that hurt. I silenced the screams just to keep the peace. I hid everything—my fears, my truth, my identity—just so I wouldn’t be a disappointment, but no matter how much I gave, it was never enough. Eventually, I stopped trying to be seen and I stopped hoping they’d ask how I really felt.
Now, I sit in a room thousands of miles away, and it’s quiet. Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that echoes. I scroll through photos of smiling families—people who feel safe when they say the word home—and I wonder if I’ll ever get that. If I’ll ever be held without condition. If someone will ever look at me, just as I am, and say:
“You don’t have to earn this. You’re already enough.”
Maybe ohana doesn’t live where I came from.
Maybe I’ll have to build it myself—out of broken pieces and borrowed hope.
But right now?
Right now, I just wish they had tried to understand. Even once.
