“You should write my story someday,” my mother would often say, a wistful smile playing on her lips. For years, I nodded politely, filing away her request in the back of my mind alongside other well-intentioned but seemingly impossible tasks. After all, what did I, a second-generation Hmong American, really know about her life before me, before coming to America?

My mother is not the kind to sit me down and tell me these stories outright. Instead, her past emerged in fragments — a comment while stirring a pot of soup, a memory shared during a long drive to the grocery store, and a quiet reflection as she watched me edit her papers. These moments, scattered throughout my childhood and adolescence, were like pieces of a puzzle I had not realized I was supposed to be assembling.

It was not until I was older that I began to truly listen, to piece together the mosaic of her life. As I did, I felt a sudden overwhelming urge to understand the woman who had sacrificed so much for me. 

The Hmong American Daughter’s Dilemma

Growing up as a Hmong American daughter is to live in a world of constant negotiation — between past and present, tradition and modernity, family expectations and personal aspirations. It’s a balancing act that many of us perform daily, often without realizing the weight we carry.

The cultural expectations placed on Hmong women are multifaceted and often overwhelming. We are expected to be a dutiful daughter, supportive wife, nurturing mother, and respectful nyab (daughters-in-law). The Hmong proverb “Cuaj lub hli tsis cuag ib lub hnub, Cuaj leej ntxhais zoo tsis cuag ib leej tub” (Nine moons can’t compare to one sun, nine daughters can’t compare to one son) has always struck me as a painful reminder of the gender inequality ingrained in our culture.

As the eldest and only daughter in my family, the burden of expectations has always been heavy. I’ve felt the pressure to be the existing proof that my parents are not failures, as my mother consistently reminded me. “You have to be the best you can be,” she’d say. “No one will take care of you more than yourself. You have to be tough.” These words, while meant to encourage, often felt like an impossible standard to meet.

The concept of intergenerational trauma underscores much of my experience. This term describes how the effects of traumatic experiences can be passed down through generations. For my family and many other Hmong American families, this trauma stems from the experience and challenges of rebuilding lives in a foreign land. I’ve often found myself trying to heal wounds that were inflicted long before I was born.

In my experience, this has translated into being my mother’s therapist when something horrible happens, and her best friend when something incredible occurs. I’ve grown up with an immense amount of empathy, but at times I’ve wondered: “I didn’t have to be strong. I was a child. Why couldn’t I stay soft?”

Cultural Tug-of-War

When my mother arrived in America at the age of 23, Chankeo Vang carried with her not just the dreams of a better life, but also the weight of cultural expectations that would shape her journey in this new land. As a young Hmong woman, she found herself navigating a complex web of roles and responsibilities that often seemed at odds with the American dream she had envisioned.

In Laos, Vang had been a bright, ambitious student with aspirations of becoming an ambassador. She spoke multiple languages fluently and excelled in her studies. However, upon arriving in America, she quickly realized that her dreams would have to be put on hold. The challenges of settling in a new country were immense — from the language barrier to the cultural shock of a vastly different society.

“Coming to America, I wasn’t considered educated anymore,” she describes. “I was just a beginner. Even if they told me to speak English, I could hear them, but at the same time I wasn’t hearing them.”

One of the most significant hurdles Vang faced was the expectation to fulfill multiple roles within the Hmong community. As a wife, she was expected to support her husband unconditionally while maintaining the household. As a mother, she was tasked with not only raising children but instilling in them Hmong values and traditions. All of these roles came with the added pressure of representing her entire clan within her husband’s new clan. As a nyab, she was expected to be the perfect caretaker for her husband’s family.  

In Hmong culture, a nyab is more than just a daughter-in-law; it’s a term laden with expectations, sacrifice, and often, silent suffering. When a Hmong woman becomes a nyab, she’s not simply joining a new family; she’s expected to submerge her own identity into the needs and wants of her husband’s clan. The term carries the weight of centuries of patriarchal tradition, where a woman’s value is measured by her ability to serve, bear children (particularly sons), and uphold the family’s reputation.

As her daughter, I am haunted by the ghost of the woman my mother could have been. The weight of her sacrificed potential presses down on me, an invisible force driving me to succeed not for my fulfillment, but to somehow justify the life she lost. This guilt has carved a chasm in our relationship, filled with love but also unspoken regret, duty, and the crushing weight of expectations neither of us can fully articulate.

Finding Harmony in Heritage and Ambition

Yet, despite it all, my mother threw herself into learning English, taking classes, and practicing at every opportunity. She pursued further education, earning degrees including a master’s in social work. Each achievement was a step toward reclaiming the sense of purpose and potential she had felt in Laos.

As I listened to my mother, I realized I was hearing the story of two women: the young scholar from Laos and the immigrant mother I knew. I was finally beginning to understand the complex tapestry of dreams, sacrifices, and cultural expectations that had shaped both our lives.

This is the story I should have written years ago — the story of Vang’s journey from Laos to America, of dreams deferred and new ones born. It’s a tale of the unspoken burdens passed from mother to daughter, the weight of being caught between two cultures, and the strength found in understanding our roots.

As the eldest daughter in our Hmong American household, I thought I knew my role and the expectations that came with it. But as I delve deeper into my mother’s past, I’m discovering that her story is, in many ways, my own.

There are times when I look at my mother and see not just the woman who raised me, but the young girl she once was. I wonder about the dreams she must have had as a child. I wonder if she imagined the life she has now for the life she wanted to have. I wonder who she would have become if she never married my father. I wonder who she would have become if she never had children. Perhaps she is happy, living alone in the capital city of her home country. Perhaps she marries a man, not because she has to, but because she wants to. Perhaps she teaches her daughter how to be soft, yet also envelop the strength to be powerful all at the same time. 

But in this universe, she is my mother. In this universe, I mourn the woman she could have become. In this universe, my mother’s sacrifices are etched into every aspect of my life. Her unrealized dreams echo in the encouragement she gives me to pursue my own. In this universe, my mother’s story is inextricably linked with mine. 

Cover: Illustration by Lisa Wakiyama
Images: Courtesy of Katie Xiong