MAP x A Tiger Cub, Part II - The Inheritance of Fear By Eric Chang

There are things my parents said to protect me—phrases passed down like armor, meant to shield me from a world they didn’t fully trust. At the time, I didn’t question them. I internalized them. Wore them. Let them shape how I saw myself.

“Don’t bring shame to the family.” 

That was a big one. Not said with anger, but with seriousness. As the only boy in my extended family, I was told—explicitly and implicitly—that I had a responsibility. That success wasn’t just a personal goal, it was a family obligation. Failure wasn’t just my own; it would ripple outward, staining more than just my name. I was expected to be the one who made it, the one who justified every sacrifice, the one who carried the weight with pride and without complaint.

Looking back, I can see where it came from. Fear. Love. A deep desire for stability after a life of uncertainty. My parents believed in a very specific version of success, the kind that came with a college degree, a stable job, a predictable paycheck. Computer science, to them, wasn’t just a field. It was a lifeline. A guarantee. They didn’t know what it meant to explore passions, to chase dreams that didn’t have clear salaries attached. They only knew the cost of risk. And they didn’t want me to pay for it.

So when I said I wasn’t really interested in the path laid out for me, I wasn’t met with anger so much as fear. “We just want you to have a good life,” they told me. But that “good life” came with conditions: don’t take chances, don’t stray too far, don’t fail. They thought they were helping me stay on track. But what I really learned was how to doubt myself. How to silence my instincts before they could even grow loud. How to see curiosity as danger. How to see myself as a potential disappointment.

The fear wasn’t just about career choices. It extended to relationships, too. I was warned repeatedly not to let a girl “ruin my future.” I heard stories of men who fell in love too young, lost focus, gave too much of their heart away—only to be left behind when the girl moved on to someone more successful. My parents wanted to spare me that kind of pain. So they told me not to date, not to trust, not to need anyone. “Build your life first,” they said. “Then, if you want, find someone. But don’t ever depend on her.”

At the time, it all felt like caution. Now I see it as fear—wrapped so tightly in love that I didn’t know it was affecting me until years later. I began to treat connection as a distraction. Emotion as a liability. I told myself I had to be whole on my own before anyone else could enter the picture—but really, I was just afraid of being vulnerable, of being left, of being seen as weak.

And that’s what makes this kind of parenting so complicated. It’s not abuse. It’s not neglect. It’s protection—but a kind that often goes unexamined. A kind that teaches you the world is something to survive, not to explore. It’s well-intentioned fear that ends up sounding like: Don’t dream too big. Don’t trust too much. Don’t fail. Don’t embarrass us. Don’t need anyone.

When those messages are repeated over and over, they stop sounding like advice. They start sounding like the truth.

I don’t resent my parents for it. I know they did their best with what they had. They loved me in the only way they knew how—with structure, with sacrifice, with warnings. But I’m starting to unlearn some of those lessons. Starting to understand that safety isn’t the same as fulfillment. That being careful isn’t the same as being whole. That living a small, “guaranteed” life is still a risk—just a different kind. A risk of waking up one day and realizing you never followed your own voice.

I’m still working on separating their fears from my identity. Still figuring out which parts of me are mine and which were inherited. Still learning how to choose—not just react. Because the fear I inherited doesn’t have to be the fear I pass on.

If you grew up like me, maybe this sounds familiar. Maybe you still hear those protective warnings echoing in your mind when you try something new, when you open up to someone, when you think about quitting the job that everyone else praises. Maybe you’re still carrying fears that were never yours to begin with.

All I can say is: it’s okay to let some of them go. You’re not ungrateful for doing so. You’re not selfish. You’re just trying to figure out who you are—without the weight of who you were expected to be.

And if you’re a parent reading this, know this: your fear is not invisible. We feel it. Sometimes we even absorb it. But your love is not invisible either. And as we grow, we try to hold onto that—while gently laying the rest down.