Racial Trauma for Asian American Communities: how did we come to this?

Racial trauma, or race-based traumatic stress, is a heavy reality that many of us carry in our bodies and minds. Mental Health America defines it as the mental, emotional, and physical injury caused by racism, discrimination, and hate crimes. While this has been studied deeply in the context of Black and Brown Americans, the specific experiences of the Asian Pacific Islander Desi American community were largely ignored until the global health crisis forced the world to pay attention.

I have spent seven years in the field as a relationship therapist, and I have heard countless stories of this specific kind of pain. I have sat with clients who were fetishized by the very partners who claimed to love them. I have listened to stories of children eating lunch in bathroom stalls to avoid bullying. I have held space for those who were physically and verbally attacked during the pandemic. These are not isolated incidents. Data from the FBI showed that hate crimes against individuals of Asian descent rose by seventy-seven percent between 2019 and 2020 alone. Yet for so long, these experiences were silenced, not just by society but often by our own mothers and fathers.

We learned to silence our voices as a survival mechanism and a part of the immigrant experience. It is the perpetual foreigner syndrome where we are told we are guests in this country and should not stir up trouble. This silence gave us a precarious place in society, a conditional safety that white supremacists used to drive a wedge between us and other marginalized groups. They used the "model minority" myth to ignore the structural oppression that Black and Brown people experience. But the violence of the pandemic broke that silence. Reporting centers like Stop AAPI Hate documented nearly eleven thousand hate incidents between March 2020 and December 2021. That exponential increase in visibility opened our eyes to how pervasive these traumas really are.

This trauma shows up in our lives in insidious ways. It often starts as a deep sense of hopelessness where you feel unsafe at work or invalidated in your relationships. It morphs into a tendency to silence your own voice. I cannot count how many times I have heard clients say they do not have it that bad compared to Black and Brown folks. We often trap ourselves in a racial trauma contest, feeling like we have to choose who has suffered more. But you can acknowledge your own pain while simultaneously advocating for others. You do not have to minimize your own grief to validate someone else's.

We saw this confusion and grief crash into each other after the 2021 Atlanta spa shootings. That tragedy left many young Asian American adults trying to educate and comfort their parents while processing their own devastation. It also caused ruptures in our romantic lives. I saw so many AAPI women realize they were in relationships with white partners who fetishized them or simply did not know how to support them. It forced us to look at our relationships with a new and painful clarity.

The path to processing this trauma begins with grief. We have to acknowledge that we have lost something. It might be the loss of human dignity, the loss of a sense of safety, or the loss of relationships due to the politicization of our existence. You have to let yourself grieve without judgment. Grief does not follow a timeline. It might hit you immediately after a violent news story, or it might build up slowly over years of microaggressions.

Once we acknowledge that grief, we have to seek support from people who understand. You do not have to carry this weight in isolation. Statistics from the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration show that Asian Americans are the racial group least likely to seek mental health services, with only about eight point six percent utilizing care compared to nearly eighteen percent of the white population. We have to change that narrative by finding safe spaces. This could be a therapist who understands the intersection of race and trauma or a chosen family of friends who share your lived experience.

Healing also means prioritizing your peace. Self-care is not just about relaxation. It is about setting boundaries. You need to protect your energy, especially when it comes to educating others about your trauma. It is not your responsibility to explain your pain if it feels exhausting. Step back from social media if you need to. Engage in rituals that make you feel grounded.

Finally, we heal by honoring the full complexity of who we are. If you are a queer AAPI person, you are navigating the intersection of racism, homophobia, and transphobia. That brings layers of pain, but it also brings immense strength. Your voice is needed. We can no longer afford to be silent. The events of the last few years have proven that our safety depends on our willingness to speak up. Your pain is valid, your grief is real, and you deserve to heal. Together we can create a future where we live with dignity and freedom from violence.

Love,

Wonbin