May 29, 2025
I was 21 the first time I saw a flavored condom. My college resident assistant casually handed them out in a bowl, like candy. I stared at it, completely confused. Why would anyone need a condom that tasted like a strawberry?
It was a long way from my all-girls Catholic school in Indonesia, where sex wasn’t something we talked about—at school or home. My parents weren’t comfortable with those conversations, and honestly, neither was I.
Now, years later, I’ve been reflecting on how complicated sexual and reproductive health can feel for people like me—Asian, immigrant, and often caught between cultures.
The silence around love and affection
In many Asian families, love is shown, not said. We cook for each other. We cut fruits for each other. We ask if you’ve eaten.
But saying “I love you” out loud? Asian parents would avoid it like the plague.
Affection is often wrapped in duty, sacrifice, and quiet acts of care–not words or affirmations.
We grew up guessing we were loved, but not always feeling it clearly. Over time, many of us learned to swallow feelings, tough it out, and never ask for what we need.
This silence shapes how we navigate intimacy later. It can feel hard to express desires, set boundaries, ask questions, or advocate for our needs—in relationships, in bed, and in health care.
Menstruation and puberty shame
Oh, all the places I used to hide my pads at school when walking to the bathroom (even in an all-girls school!).
Many of us got the same message with our first period: Keep it quiet. Don’t ask questions.
Many of us got the same message with our first period: Keep it quiet. Don’t ask questions. Tuck away any signs that your body is changing.
In parts of South Asia and Southeast Asia, menstruation is still wrapped in taboos about impurity and dirtiness: no entering sacred spaces, no cooking, no touching certain foods.
During family trips to Bali, Indonesia, I was told not to enter the temples while on my period. I thought this was a cultural or spiritual belief passed down through families, or perhaps even a myth. But as recently as April 2025, Bali made it official to prohibit “menstruating tourists” from entering temples over concerns that “dirty” period blood will contaminate their holy sites.
The pressure to shrink ourselves
For many Asian women, there’s an unspoken rule: take up less space–physically, emotionally, and sexually.
Puberty changed our bodies in ways that made us feel exposed and closely watched. We’re praised for staying petite, quiet, and delicate. We’re told to eat less and talk less. So we learned to shrink ourselves and cover up.
Historically, Asian women’s bodies have been both fetishized and scrutinized. In China, foot binding lasted for centuries as a painful way to make women’s feet appear smaller and more desirable. In South Korea, beauty ideals often center around being pale, thin, and small-faced, with cosmetic surgery and dieting encouraged to fit that standard. In older movies and TV shows, Asian women were often portrayed as shy, soft-spoken, or there to please others.
We’ve been taught that smaller is safer. Smaller gets us approval.
We’ve been taught that smaller is safer. Smaller gets us approval.
That shows up in our sexual and reproductive health, too. We may avoid talking about pleasure or desire because it feels too bold, too big. We may ignore pain during sex or menstruation, brushing it off as normal, because complaining feels like too much.
And when we do assert boundaries or preferences, we’re told we’re being “too Western” or disrespectful.
The pressure to achieve and excel
Many of us grew up under the heavy weight of academic pressure –to get the best grades, the top test scores, and the perfect college acceptance.
For immigrant families, education was the safest path to stability. For many of our parents and grandparents—who survived war, colonization, displacement, or poverty—success in school was seen as the safest investment.
Exploring sexual and gender identities, pleasure, and relationships all felt selfish or indulgent when success was always supposed to come first. There wasn’t room for softness, or questioning, or uncertainty.
Pleasure became something we postponed. Or avoided. Or didn’t know how to name.
Fertility expectations and family duty
In some Asian cultures, fertility isn’t just personal—it’s tied to family honor.
As daughters, we’re often raised to serve, to be caretakers, to anticipate everyone else’s needs before our own. There’s pressure to marry “on time,” have children, and prove our worth through motherhood. You’re not truly considered “successful” until you are married and have children (preferably two, and preferably after you have a high-paying job in a field like medicine or accounting).
For those of us who can’t or don’t want children, or who struggle with infertility, the stigma runs deep. Some of us hide miscarriages, abortions, or fertility treatments because we don’t want to be seen as broken. Others endure endless questions from relatives about when we’ll “settle down” and “start a family.”
In places like Vietnam and China, where policies like the One-Child Policy have shaped reproductive choices for entire generations, these expectations are even more complex.
Looking back, I realize that not talking about these things wasn’t just awkward—it was part of a larger cultural expectation. If 21-year-old me had known what I know now, I would’ve looked my RA in the eye and asked every question I was too scared to ask.
PHOTO BY: MAHAK AGRAWAL
