Through my thirties, I traded one type of self-destruction for another: I gave up partying for perfectionism. I still wrestled with being an outsider—even in my work

I was not willing to admit it to myself for a long time. I would have fought you tooth and nail if you suggested that my childhood was less than perfect. This didn’t come just from an idealization of my past; it also came from a culturally ingrained protection of the family unit. Admitting publicly that everything was not all rosy would have been d

Unsurprisingly, their parenting was as unorthodox as their marriage. In a community obsessed with inculcating respect in its children—success measured less in terms of grades per se than a reputation for following rules, listening closely, and earning the praise of teachers—my parents were unconcerned, even irreverent.

They learn that their parents will love them more when they are “good,” they shut down the parts of themselves they fear are unacceptable.