Growing up Desi in the UK, strength was stitched into everything we did. You didn’t complain. You coped. You carried your weight quietly, especially if you were the eldest, the daughter, or the one who “had it easy compared to back home.” I was raised with love, no doubt. But I was also raised with silence, especially around anything that felt too emotional, too personal, or too heavy.
Mental health, when it did come up, always felt foreign. I remember once casually mentioning to a relative that a friend had started therapy, and the reaction was instant: “Beta, therapy? What for? Just talk to God.” That moment stayed with me. It wasn’t malicious. It was generational. But it spoke volumes about how many of us quietly navigate pain that never gets named.
For a long time, I did the same. I translated my feelings into productivity. I chased success to distract from sadness. I told myself anxiety was just overthinking and that burnout was treated like something to be politely managed. Cry, but don’t fall apart. Mourn, but don’t disturb the energy of the house.
But over time, the silence stopped working.
I started to notice it in friends too, British South Asians who looked fine on the surface but quietly carried panic attacks, trauma from strained relationships, or deep loneliness. We never talked about it at family dinners. We never admitted it in WhatsApp groups. But once someone cracked the seal and shared something real, raw, and brave, the tone softened. The silence made space.
That’s why I asked a few of my British Desi friends this one question:
“If you could say one honest thing to your family about mental health, without fear or shame, what would it be – and why do you think it’s been so hard to say until now?”
I wasn’t expecting them to pour their hearts out. But they did. And they shared reminded me why this conversation matters.
One friend messaged me late at night: “Just because I’m doing well on paper doesn’t mean I’m okay. I feel like I have to earn the right to be sad – like unless something dramatic happens, I should just stay quiet.” She’s a creative, brilliant woman who everyone sees as confident, but inside, she’s been carrying pressure for years.
Another replied with: “Therapy saved me. But I told my mum I was seeing a career coach because I knew she’d panic if she heard the word therapist.” We laughed about it, a bit. But it was heartbreaking, too. The stigma is real. The vocabulary we use is coded. And sometimes, healing has to happen beyond closed doors just to avoid being misunderstood.
Then there was this one: “I wish I could tell them that I’m not broken, I am learning to heal. But in our culture, struggle looks like shame, not progress.”
That one hit me hard.
There’s this unspoken fear in South Asian circles that emotional honesty equals weakness. But I think it’s the strongest thing we can offer – to ourselves, and each other. Talking about therapy isn’t betrayal. It’s a form of love. Unlearning stigma doesn’t mean rejecting tradition. It means updating it.
Because let’s be honest – our families have been through so much. Migration. War. Displacement. Sacrifice. They built new lives while holding old memories. Mental health wasn’t something they had time to address. And so it wasn’t something they knew how to name when it showed up in us.
But we do.
We have the tools. We have language. We have a platform. And we have each other.
Healing, I’ve learned, doesn’t always come in a neat package. For some of us, it’s therapy with a Desi counsellor who understands our context. For others, it’s journaling late at night or sending long voice notes to friends who just get it. For my cousin, it’s weekly meditation. For me, it’s talking even when my voice shakes.
Because the more we talk, the less alone we feel. And slowly, talking became normal. Talking becomes safe.
I don’t want this to be a one-off article. I want it to be part of a longer conversation across dinner tables, group chats, podcast episodes, and long walks around British parks. I want someone to read this and feel like they’re not broken for feeling deeply. They’re not weak for needing help.
They’re just human.
And if you’re someone who’s struggling quietly, I see you. There’s no shame in reaching out. There’s no shame in not being okay. There’s power in your story. There’s space for your voice.
Let’s keep talking. Not just for ourselves but for the generations that come after us.
