Family conflict cuts deep—especially when it's about your identity, self-worth, or how you see yourself. Tips from someone who's been through it and still talks to her folks, most days.
Personal Note
This article is written in a personal voice and structured for comfort reading: short paragraphs, clear headings, and practical next steps.
I still remember the first time my mom said, "Nibha nibhi rehti hai, zyada nahi sochna chahiye." (You’re overthinking again, just be quiet.) I was 22, wearing a flannel and jeans, chopping onions, and I’d asked why my brother got trusted with the car keys but I didn’t. I wasn’t even angry, just tired. She said that like it was common sense. Like my thoughts were just noise.
That phrase—"Nibha Nibhi"—used to follow me around like a ghost. It wasn’t meant to hurt, I know that now. But it made me feel small. Like my voice wasn’t worth hearing unless it was soft, agreeable, and never, ever challenging.
For years, I thought that was just how families worked. You bend, you smile, you absorb the comments about your weight, your clothes, your tone, your partner. But after I came out as queer—quietly, to myself at first, then to a few friends, then in a shaky voicemail to my parents—everything shifted.
They didn’t disown me. But they didn’t really *see* me either. My dad said, "It’s just a phase, beta. You’ll grow out of it." My mom kept asking when I’d “settle down with a nice man.” They meant well. That’s the hardest part—they love me. But loving someone doesn’t mean you’re not hurting them.
I spent months trying to explain myself. Sent them articles, talked about gender and orientation like I was teaching a college seminar. Then I realized—none of that mattered. What they needed wasn’t a lecture. It was time. And space. And the chance to see that I wasn’t broken. I was just me.
So I stopped explaining. Not forever, but for a while. I stopped sending the links. I didn’t force holiday conversations. I visited, but on my terms. If someone said something off, I’d say, "That doesn’t feel right to me," and change the subject. Or leave the room. No drama. No guilt.
One aunt still calls me "beta" like I’m ten. I let it slide. But when my cousin started using my correct pronouns after I mentioned it once—quietly, over chai—I almost cried. Small wins count.
Self-worth in these situations isn’t about grand affirmations in the mirror. It’s quieter. It’s choosing to wear the dangly earrings to Diwali dinner even if someone comments. It’s keeping your therapist’s number saved under “Aunt Tina” in your phone. It’s texting a friend, “I’m feeling weird about dinner tonight—can you check in at 8?”
Here’s what worked for me:
- I set one boundary and stuck to it: no questions about my relationship status during meals. If it came up, I said, “Not right now,” and passed the dal. Simple. No argument.
- I found my people. My coworker Aisha, who’s trans, told me about a queer South Asian group that meets monthly in Houston. I went once, didn’t talk much, but saw myself in the room. That mattered.
- I started writing letters I never sent. Just dumping everything—the anger, the grief, the part that still aches when my mom says, “When are you going to wear a sari again?” It helped. I could feel it leave my body.
- I stopped expecting them to change overnight. My dad still fumbles with pronouns, but he tries. Once, he said, “She—wait, they—your partner. Are they coming this time?” I smiled. Said, “They are. And they’ll love the kheer.”
It’s not perfect. Last week, my uncle said, “You’re becoming too modern.” I laughed, because honestly, what do you say to that. But later, I cried. Then I called my friend Zara, who said, “My uncle says that to me every Diwali. Want to get tacos?”
That’s the thing—community saves you. Not in a dramatic way. But in the way someone remembers your pronouns. Or asks how you’re *really* doing. Or just sits with you in silence.
If you’re in this, I won’t tell you it gets easier. Some days it does. Some days it doesn’t. But you can build a life where you’re seen, even if your family isn’t the one doing the seeing—yet.
Protect your energy. Say no without apology. Carry a photo of yourself happy—on a hike, at a concert, in your favorite outfit. Look at it when someone makes you feel small.
And if all you can do today is wear the right clothes, speak the right name, and believe—just barely—that you’re worth it, that’s enough
You are
