The Hidden Room

In my 20s, every time I travelled back home to Samoa, I noticed my parents were getting older. By then, I’d been living on my own long enough to understand how hard it was to keep a roof over our heads and the electricity on. I stressed about earning enough to help them, but also about not having enough money or time to visit. In my 30s, the reflection shifted. I stopped thinking about how to help, and started questioning their parenting — or rather, their lack of it.

When I was growing up, my father taught me that in Samoan culture, children take care of their parents. He would say that in the palagi culture, kids forget their parents as soon as they turn 21, but in Samoa, you are not free of your parents until they’re dead.

But what if your parents didn’t raise you? What if they were always busy, leaving you with grandparents or older cousins? What if you had to raise yourself? Am I still expected to give the care I never received? These were questions I only began to ask after therapy.

My father passed down these beliefs not just in conversation, but through the myths and legends he chose to tell. Once, he told me of Lufasiaitu, who rampaged through the heavens, slaughtering gods after his sacred chickens were stolen. In my father’s version, just before Lu reached the 10th heaven where Tagaloa lived, Tagaloa’s daughter Lagi lay herself in his path, offering herself to calm his rage. Lu fell in love, married her, and stopped his bloodbath.

My father said it was a daughter’s place to keep the peace. To protect her family. I look back on that story now with disgust — a father saving himself by sacrificing his daughter. It’s on brand for mine, who expects everyone to serve him for nothing in return but his thoughts and prayers.

Therapy gave me tools to cope, but it also forced me to question everything: the culture, the religion, the rules I grew up with. I had to re-evaluate it all if I was going to heal. And yet, questioning my culture made me feel untethered—adrift in a vast ocean—as though I’d lost my claim to my Samoan identity. Was I still Samoan if I no longer believed in the core values I was taught?

The more I examined it, the more disillusioned I became. My father always put us last, just as his parents had done to him and his siblings. School fees, uniforms, even food would be delayed if the extended family needed something. We were taught to give away the best things we had — new items were to be given away, and we were to be content with the old and broken. That was respect, we were told. “Respect is not something you give to yourself. It’s something you give away.” We were struggling, but at least we did what was “right” for the culture.

I’ve never truly felt like I fit in among those who live and breathe fa’alavelave. Still, my culture once felt like home — warm embers glowing during rugby games or cultural gatherings. But now it feels uncomfortable. You know how snakes shed their skin when they grow? That’s how it feels. I’m not sure I’ve outgrown my culture entirely, but I no longer know where I fit.

I feel like a phony. When fellow Samoans speak to me about the culture, they’re often talking about things I don’t believe in. To me, it’s like a game no one really wins. The more you participate, the more XP you gain. Eventually, you earn a title, unlocking benefits and power. You keep playing, keep earning, keep climbing. But I’ve seen what happens when people get to the top — they treat those below them as if they’re nothing more than a bothersome fly. Compassion fades. What’s left is duty, sacrifice, and the unspoken rule that your happiness and wellbeing are expendable.

In my culture, we don’t talk about how our parents have damaged us — it’s considered disrespectful. But in my healing, I’ve had to look closely at how I was raised to be a people-pleaser. To give away what I needed, even when my body screamed for me to keep it. To say yes when I wanted to say no. To put other people’s needs before my own. To give, even when I had nothing left.

If my healing were an object, it would be a plant, twisting and bending to find the light. If my culture were an object, it would be the shade that plant grows in — sometimes necessary, but too much will kill it. I am still learning how to navigate my culture without losing myself, still finding ways to draw boundaries, still adjusting to this new skin.