Between Belonging and Distance

A moment of warmth set apart — the cup is mine, the gathering is theirs.

An intimate glimpse into the subtle push and pull of family duty.

This piece is a micro reflection — a vignette, a moment of truth with my mother that highlights the emotional tension and duality embedded within a cautious flow of family interaction. It is not meant to dissect cultural history in broad strokes, but rather to capture the subtle discomfort of language, belonging, and boundary.

Whereas my earlier essay on Medium (“A Legacy of Control Mistaken for Love”) offered a macro reflection — unpacking the cultural trauma and power plays rooted in Eastern traditions — this piece turns inward. It is more intimate, exploring how those same dynamics reveal themselves in a single exchange, in the phrasing of words, in the way “happiness” is expressed or withheld.

Here, the lens narrows: from theory to embodiment, from inherited legacy to lived experience.

The Hollow Performance

In many Eastern family dynamics, deeper patterns are often masked: respect and harmony appear on the surface, but beneath them lie emotional outsourcing, unspoken trauma, and blurred boundaries. What others might normalize as “love” or “duty,” I have come to recognize as a loop of “I feel for you, therefore you must feel for me.” It is within this cycle that authenticity is swallowed.

I am not rejecting the love in these structures; rather, I am reflecting on them with caution and discernment. Through this reflection, I realized how much of that “love” is conditional and transactional — and in noticing this distinction, clarity began to emerge.

Across many Eastern cultures, relationships are shaped by entrenched power dynamics that often go unnoticed or unquestioned. These dynamics are not always overtly abusive or malicious. In fact, they are frequently seen as normal, even necessary, for maintaining family structure and social harmony. Yet beneath the surface of respect, hierarchy, and tradition, there exists a silent undercurrent of emotional suppression, unresolved trauma, and unhealed inner children.

Of course, there are positive reinforcements in family life and genuine love within the Eastern world. Still, when I saw a recent message from my family, my heart sank. The photos they sent were taken in moments of disingenuity: my aunt, uncle, and my mother’s sister posing with strained smiles, big-headed selfies, and awkward expressions from those not ready for the camera. To me, the round-table dim sum gathering felt like a hollow presence. The room seemed filled with loud, filler conversations; aunts and uncles passing the time with trivial small talk and pleasantries. Faces stared blankly into the camera — some indifferent, some detached.

At the center of the circle sat my maternal grandmother, surrounded by her daughters and sons-in-law. She is simple to please and genuinely wants her children around, yet for many of them, her desire becomes duty. My mother’s text that accompanied the photo — “accompanying grandma for tea” — carried that same duality: a gesture of love intertwined with a subtle weight of expectation.

I felt immediate ambivalence. On one hand, I was glad my mother could enjoy the company of her family and her mother. On another hand, that joy was not my own. It did not make me feel connected to the gathering or part of its warmth. It was her happiness, not mine — or at the very least, her performance of happiness, or her happiness in fulfilling her duty as a daughter.

These patterns do not exist in abstraction; they reveal themselves in lived experience. In my own reflection, they surface in three ways: through the hijacking of the empath’s inner world, the inherited cycle of martyrdom, and the language of enmeshment that shapes daily interaction

Emotional Piracy

For the empath within such systems, the burden is especially corrosive. It hijacks the empath’s true inner self, preventing them from feeling their own emotions. Instead, they are compelled to perform duties and martyr themselves out of obligation rather than genuine love. The integrity of the soul is violated as they carry emotional burdens that do not belong to them.

The Cycle of Martyrdom

Martyrdom has become the norm — so ingrained that it is assumed to be part of one’s responsibility. In reality, the romanticizing of martyrdom has trickled down through generations, passed from lineage to lineage until it has become so entrenched that few can escape its grip. Descendants are often forced into one of three roles: the victim of martyrdom in servitude, the energy vampire feeding off the sacrifice, or the master pulling the strings and benefiting from it.

Over time, the empath shrinks into dependency, stripped of self-love and confidence, tiptoeing around others’ moods, forever on guard — like walking on eggshells — to avoid disrupting the fragile harmony. This is emotional piracy: an intrusion, a blockage that prevents the empath from individuation and personal growth.

In truth, what the empath needs most is not more service, but stronger boundaries. Emotional hygiene becomes essential — a way to sanitize one’s own mind and spirit from the weight of borrowed emotions, or, more simply, from emotions injected into their psyche by the surrounding social context. It is almost like an emotional Botox — an artificial feeling imposed from outside, smoothing over discomfort but never belonging to the person in the first place.

Weight of Words: Language of Enmeshment

Language itself can act as another kind of injection. In Chinese families, expressions often leave little room for subtle distinctions. Phrases like 「真係替你哋開心」 (“I’m truly happy for you”) flatten my feelings into a script of shared joy that feels inauthentic. Within this cultural norm, emotions are collectivized as a sign of respect, especially toward elders.

Yet, for the empath, this practice feels disingenuous. Emotional expression becomes a service for others: I feel for you; you feel for me. Words turn into carriers of artificial emotions — an energetic violation of the soul. The empath is compelled to phrase feelings that were never truly their own, mistaking pity for respect, or confusing the ache of aging and the suffering of elders as if it were their own burden to bear.

What feels like safety is in fact enmeshment: the merging of emotions in the name of harmony. In performing generosity and restraint, the empath unknowingly compromises their integrity, eroding self-worth and dissolving boundaries. Mechanical. Sterile. Standard response.

Families then become caught in a loop of co-dependency and validation: I’m so happy for you, and I am happy to be at your service. The cost of this cycle is high. You no longer own your emotions — privacy and authenticity dissolve. Joy and sorrow alike are outsourced, dictated by the shifting states of others.

One possible way forward is to shift from “I’m happy with you” to “I’m glad for you.” This phrasing allows me to respect my mother’s happiness without pretending it is my own. Yet even here, the language still implies collective emotional responsibility — as though to care for them, I must also feel for them. In practice, this remains little different from enmeshment: a surrender of private emotions to the family sphere, where “feeling for them” masquerades as love but in truth erodes inner boundaries.

Examples in Practice

• 「見到你同家人一齊，覺得你好幸福，真係替你開心。」
  (Seeing you with family makes me feel you are blessed — I’m glad for you.)
• 「媽媽，你同婆婆一齊飲茶，真係好難得，希望你哋享受。」
  (Mom, it’s so nice you could have dim sum with grandma — I hope you all enjoyed.)
• 「見到你哋齊齊整整咁聚，真係為你高興。」
  (Seeing you all gathered so fully, I’m truly glad for you.)

This subtle shift — especially in the longer versions — reframes the response. Instead of fully absorbing their joy as if it were my own, I acknowledge it as theirs. It is warmer than silence, but more honest than faking belonging.

The key is to remain the observer: to recognize whose emotions are whose, and to guard your own as neutral and intact. From this stance, composure becomes possible. You can step back from the ego-inflating sphere of the family system — a hierarchy too intoxicating to fight with emotions, but one that can be navigated through grounding, centering, and focus.

The Energy of Belonging

From this, I realize how words themselves carry weight and energy. To speak with them is not neutral; it is to exchange currents of meaning and feeling. Energetically, I do not fully belong to my family, and so I must choose my words with caution. By speaking with tact and integrity, I can honour both sides: maintaining respect for them while safeguarding my own truth.

Shortly after, my mother added: “I have booked a flight to Canada on January 12. If you have time, come over and help.” Though it was framed as a gesture of care — visiting because of my uncle’s illness — it carried the weight of duty and hierarchy once again. This was further complicated by past experiences, including a staged car crash orchestrated by my parents with my grandmother involved, as a tactic of guilt. Such wounds are not easily forgotten. For this reason, any visit I make must arise from my own volition and schedule — not from imposed duty or emotional manipulation.

To respond diplomatically, I do not need to reflect all of these inner complexities — not unless I feel safe to share them. Sometimes, keeping things simple, positive, and warm achieves the right balance: respectful and thankful, but not over-invested in social dynamics that feel hollow. This is the art of boundary-setting I’ve learned: interacting tactfully, yet with warmth.

At present, I am relieved to walk my own path in Europe. I can observe my family with kindness, but I do not have to belong to their karmic patterns. Walking this journey alone allows me to cultivate space for truth, reflection, and freedom. That relief is precious — it means I can experience family from a distance without being consumed by it.

In this spirit, I simply replied to my mother: “Seeing everyone together, I’m glad for you — wishing good health and happiness to all.” It was enough. It reassured her, honoured her joy, and maintained respect, without dragging me into family politics.

Choosing Sovereignty

By not dragging myself into politics, I put my emotional hygiene first and set the precedence of firm boundaries. In that, I am able to assert myself and maintain emotional and spiritual sovereignty as I journey on. This is crucial in avoiding unnecessary hindrance and disruptions. Maintaining a private life in honor of myself and my twin flame allows me to gracefully relate to my family without being consumed by them.

It is through “diplomatic warmth” — giving enough to maintain connection without surrendering my sovereignty. Living in Europe, walking alone, I’ve claimed a sacred distance to preserve emotional hygiene and spiritual sovereignty. I am not neglecting family — I am choosing to engage on my terms. I am protecting the sanctity of my connection with my twin flame, which does not belong in the family’s karmic entanglements.

Exercising Inner Volition

Unlike in the past, when I was still entangled in a karmic relationship with my ex, I tried to break away from my family forcefully. Now, I am learning to balance the delicate relationship. I do not cut off family love; instead, I consciously choose the form in which it flows. I no longer allow others to dictate my movements. A visit, if it happens, will arise from my own volition — never from guilt.

This is where sovereignty takes root: choosing my form of engagement, rather than allowing it to be imposed. By embracing my sovereignty and honouring my boundaries, I create the freedom to listen to my own heart without the noise of others. And in that space, the twin flame energy can be present in a way that family dynamics might never allow. The energy flows are compartmentalized — with clear distinctions between my own, my twin flame’s, and my family’s — making them less disruptive, less interfering, less consuming.

The Ego Too Big to Fail

In truth, the whole family tree inherits this cycle: elders suffer, and the young are called to care, to bring “joy,” to patch over wounds not of their making. But the logic itself is broken. No one can manufacture happiness by commanding others to perform it. And when elders insist that their happiness depends on the younger generation, it becomes nothing more than a projection — a demand to supply the joy they could not cultivate within themselves.

To crack the system is to loosen the grip of ego — the edifice too big to fail. What emerges in its collapse is not ruin, but a strange vacancy: a silence, a power vacuum, an anarchism of the heart. In that emptiness lies possibility. Perhaps, one day, the newer generation will dare to individuate, to craft joy that belongs to them alone. Or perhaps they will never relinquish the script.

Either way, the task falls to us — to resist the piracy of our emotions, to reclaim the sovereignty of the self, and to learn the delicate art of standing between belonging and distance.