by 
I’ve unknowingly carried the weight of my parents’ trauma for most of my life. As a child of two Vietnamese War refugees, I absorbed their unspoken fears, anxieties, and emotional wounds without realizing it. My perfectionism, constant anxiety, and struggles with forming lasting romantic relationships all stemmed from the unconscious beliefs I developed while observing my parents’ reactions to the world around them. It wasn’t until I became an adult that I finally began to understand the depth of their emotional scars and how they shaped my upbringing.
Growing up, I didn’t know that living in a state of heightened tension wasn’t normal. I thought everyone’s home felt like ours — a place where small inconveniences were met with panic, and unexpected surprises were treated as potential threats. It was only when I started spending more time in the homes of friends that I realized how different my family operated. I remember being shocked at how calmly other parents handled minor problems — a spilled drink, a missed appointment, or a car breaking down.
In my house, those same situations felt like life-or-death emergencies. My father, with his low tolerance for stress, would overreact as though the smallest mishap was catastrophic. My mother, deeply anxious and fearful, would immediately assume the worst and spiral into panic. Their responses were automatic and intense, as if they were bracing for danger even when none was present.
The Lingering Shadow of War
My parents fled Vietnam during the war — a traumatic journey that took them from the chaos and violence of their homeland to the uncertainty of life in America. They survived, but survival came at a cost. Although they physically left the war behind, the war never truly left them.
They carried the invisible wounds of untreated PTSD, wounds that bled into our family life in ways I couldn’t understand as a child. The hypervigilance, the fear of the unknown, and the constant expectation of disaster — these became the emotional foundation of my childhood.
Even though more than forty years had passed since they emigrated, the trauma of war echoed through our home. Their worldview was colored by their experiences, and their sense of safety was shattered. This fractured lens shaped how they raised me and my siblings, passing down unspoken fears that we, too, absorbed.
Becoming the Container of My Parents’ PTSD
A 2006 study published by the American Psychiatric Association suggests that children can become the “container” for a parent’s unwanted and troubling experiences of PTSD. This resonated deeply with me when I first stumbled across it.
I became that container.
I soaked up my parents’ anxiety, their fear of the unknown, and their inability to trust the world. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was internalizing their trauma in ways that would shape my behavior for years to come.
As a child, I walked on eggshells, constantly trying to keep the peace in a home that felt like it was teetering on the edge of an explosion. I learned early on that staying quiet and making myself small could minimize the emotional eruptions that were bound to happen. I developed a perfectionist streak, believing that if I did everything right, I could prevent chaos from breaking out.
But perfectionism is a losing battle. No matter how hard I tried, my parents’ trauma wasn’t something I could fix.
Living with Emotional Volatility
Yelling was a daily occurrence in our household. One of my parents would provoke the other, and arguments would erupt out of nowhere. The shouting was unpredictable and loud, and I often felt like I was caught in the crossfire.
My father coped with stress by bottling his emotions for as long as he could — until he couldn’t anymore. When he erupted, his anger was sharp and intense, often directed at my mother or us kids. His outbursts weren’t always about what was happening in the present; they felt like echoes of something deeper, something unresolved that he didn’t know how to express.
My mother, on the other hand, lived in a state of chronic fear. She was constantly on high alert, worrying about things that most people wouldn’t think twice about. She suffered from paranoia, afraid of the dark and haunted by irrational fears of ghosts and bad omens. She viewed the world as a dangerous and unpredictable place, and that fear trickled down to me.
The Invisible Inheritance
This emotional volatility left me with a deep-seated sense of instability. I learned that love and safety were conditional, always hinging on external factors beyond my control. I struggled to trust others, fearing that any moment of happiness could be snatched away.
As I grew older, I began to notice how these patterns shaped my relationships. I approached intimacy with caution, keeping people at arm’s length to protect myself from potential hurt. I feared abandonment and rejection, even when there was no evidence to suggest that either was imminent.
In many ways, I inherited their hypervigilance. I was always on high alert, scanning for danger, even in safe situations. My body and mind had been conditioned to anticipate disaster, leaving me perpetually anxious and unable to fully relax.
The Moment of Realization
It wasn’t until I was well into adulthood that I began to piece everything together.
A conversation with a therapist opened my eyes to the connection between my anxiety and my upbringing. We talked about PTSD and how it can manifest in survivors’ children, creating what is known as intergenerational trauma.
I had never thought of my parents as being traumatized — I just thought they were strict, anxious, and overly protective. But once I saw them through the lens of survivors, it all began to make sense.
Breaking the Cycle
Understanding the root of my struggles has been both liberating and heartbreaking.
I’ve come to realize that my parents did the best they could with the emotional tools they had. They were survivors, navigating life with the scars of war and displacement. But understanding this doesn’t erase the impact their trauma had on me.
Healing is now my work.
I’m learning to let go of the hypervigilance that no longer serves me. I’m giving myself permission to break free from the patterns I absorbed and to create a life rooted in safety and trust.
I’m also learning to forgive myself — for being hard on myself, for struggling with relationships, and for carrying burdens that were never mine to carry.
Finding Peace in the Aftermath
Living in a house of quiet fear taught me how to survive, but now I’m learning how to truly live.
I’m learning that safety isn’t just the absence of danger — it’s the presence of peace, connection, and trust. And while I can’t change the past, I can break the cycle.
I can choose to step out of the shadows of my parents’ trauma and build a future where fear no longer holds me hostage.
Because healing doesn’t mean forgetting where I come from — it means finally finding my way home.
