MAP x A Tiger Cub, Part II - The Parent I Saw vs. The Parent They Were By Eric Chang

For most of my life, I thought I understood my parents.

I didn’t, not really.

I held onto the image I had of them as a child and never stopped to ask whether it was complete. I just accepted it. My dad was the rock. Unmoving. Dependable. Disciplined. The kind of man who never complained, never showed weakness, never wavered. But also—never really opened up.

He was more principle than person to me. Less a dad, more a figure. A standard. A code to live by. He always had my back, but it was quiet. Stoic. And when he showed emotion, it usually came out as correction. Discipline. Lessons.

I never thought to ask him how he felt. I only asked what he thought.

Even now, I don't really know who he is beyond the role he played in my life. But I’ve grown enough to know that humans are complicated. That somewhere beneath the silence and strength, there were probably emotions he didn’t have the tools or space to express.

I remember one moment clearly. I had taken a hard hit to the mouth—blood everywhere, I was crying in pain. But my dad didn’t check the injury first. He yelled at me for crying.

At the time, it didn’t register as tough love. I just thought that was who he was. Stoic to the core. Unshaken by tears. He lived the values he preached: strength, resilience, composure. And I came to believe that I was always falling short in his eyes—too emotional, too soft, too much.

I thought he was disappointed in me because I wasn’t like him.

But now I see it differently. He wasn’t trying to be cold—he was trying to be the best parent he knew how to be. He built his own moral compass, rooted in discipline and sacrifice, and he believed that following it would lead us all to a better life. I don’t think he ever meant to make me feel small. I think he just didn’t know any other way to keep me strong.

My mom, on the other hand, was the voice I couldn’t escape. Nagging, hovering, worrying constantly. She was the “traditional Chinese mom,” always one step behind with reminders, criticisms, and warnings. She stressed about my health, my future, my food, my grades—everything.

But underneath that worry was someone I didn’t see.

She was a woman who had dreams of her own. A little girl, really, living in a mom’s body. Someone who had wanted more for herself, but chose instead to give everything to being a parent. That was where she poured her identity, her ambition, her pride. And because of that, she needed so badly for us to thrive—for me to thrive—that it sometimes came out as fear. And that fear could be overwhelming.

I didn’t see that then. I just thought she was being unreasonable.

But looking back now, I can tell how hard both of them tried to walk an impossible line—balancing thousands of years of tradition with the chaos of American individualism. They came from a culture that emphasized family over self, discipline over emotion, honor over expression. And here I was, growing up in a world that told me to be independent, to prioritize happiness, to speak my truth even when it hurt.

We were speaking two different languages.

And when I rejected their ways—the piano lessons, the Chinese school, the values—I didn’t realize that it must have felt like I was rejecting them. Rejecting their roots. Their heritage. The very fabric of who they were and where they came from.

That wasn’t my intention, but I see now how painful that must’ve been.

They weren’t perfect. No parent is. There were moments that hurt, words that stuck too long, lessons that landed too hard. But behind the things I once resented, there was a deep, complicated love. A love shaped by survival, sacrifice, and fear.

And now that I see it, I can’t unsee it.

The parent I saw growing up was just a part of the picture. Now I’m starting to fill in the rest—with empathy, with curiosity, with a willingness to understand not just what they did, but why.

That’s how healing starts—not by rewriting the past, but by looking at it with clearer eyes.

And maybe one day, if I become a parent, I’ll carry the best of what they gave me—while leaving room for softness, for conversation, for knowing each other not just as roles, but as people.