When my school placed me on medical leave, I wasn't worried about how much longer it would take to graduate or the fact that I would have to explain to my friends that I wasn't going to be on campus anymore. I was worried about how to break the news to my parents.

I have suffered from depression since high school. It wasn't a big deal, for the most part; I got by, did the things I needed to do, (hopefully) made my parents proud. I was lucky in the sense that my depression was mostly kept at bay. But then junior year of college hit, and one day I found myself in my room after an organic chemistry midterm gone awry, surrounded by blood, feeling nothing and wanting to sleep forever. I told my boyfriend at the time. He urged me to get help.

So I found myself staring at my phone, wondering how I would tell my parents that I needed to not go to school for a while. They never had reason to doubt my well-being. Why should they have? I was the poster Asian child - piano competitions, good grades, a solid group of friends to study with. I wanted to go to medical school - every Asian parent's dream, right? "So I was put on medical leave." I considered this phrasing for a moment before finally hitting send and waiting with bated breath.

The first person that replied was my father. "For what? Are you pregnant?" I almost laughed out loud, thinking that there were probably worse things in his mind than me having a mental illness. "No," I texted back. "Just depressed." Just depressed. "I need to see a psychiatrist." A few minutes. Then: "Okay. Let me and mom know what we can do to help."

My mother called me afterwards, asking about how much sleep I've been getting, attributing it to my overnight shifts worked at the ER throughout sophomore year. "Make sure you eat properly," she said. "And exercise. I told you not to take that job." I couldn't bring myself to tell her that it wasn't a recent phenomenon.

I still have scars on my arms that I try to hide whenever I go back home to visit. It's easier in the winter, when long sleeves and jackets are normal. Once in a while, though, I'd absent-mindedly roll my sleeves up and my mom would see. "Can't you get rid of those?" she'd ask. "They look so ugly." I'd shrug, thinking about how if I were raised in any other sort of household, I would feel offended. She'd then pause and shake her head. "Don't do stupid things like that." Sometimes she would see my medication on the bed-stand and tell me that I shouldn't rely on chemicals to make myself feel better. At this, I would nod and say that I would be off of them soon to give her some reassurance.

Psychology started off as a taboo field and remains a delicate subject to this day. Among Asian households, that perspective is amplified tenfold: the pressure to be "perfect," whatever that means, involves distancing yourself from weakness, whether that be failure or sickness or familial disputes, among other things. To be honest, I'm not sure if I would have wanted any other reaction from my parents - the dynamic I have with them is not one in which I would talk about my emotions very openly, if at all. I suppose that's more of a cultural attribute than anything. But I notice they've become more cognizant and sympathetic in their own way after my year off. My dad reminds me to take it easy, to do what makes me happy and not take on more than I handle. And my mom, though she remains somewhat touchy on the subject, will mail me care packages with herbal tea and sesame cereals. "Stay healthy," she messages me, adding a heart emoji at the end. There's nothing more I can ask for.