Arun sat on the worn couch in his small suburban apartment, staring blankly at the TV screen. The volume was muted, but the scenes of a cricket match flickered in front of him, a distant reminder of home. His thoughts weren’t on the match. They were on his family, his life, and the gnawing sense of failure that had crept into his heart ever since they had moved to Australia from Sri Lanka.
It had been nearly a year since they made the leap, uprooting their lives and making the journey to the land of opportunity. Arun had been an engineer back in Sri Lanka—a well-respected one, at that. He had always prided himself on being the breadwinner for his family. Providing for his wife, Lakshmi, and their two children, Kaviya, 10, and Ramesh, 15, gave him a sense of purpose. But here, in this foreign land, everything was different. The familiar warmth of their community in Sri Lanka had been replaced by the chilly isolation of Australian suburbia.
No one had warned Arun that his years of experience and qualifications as an engineer would be deemed worthless without local Australian experience. Every job application was met with polite rejections or, worse, silence. His pride took blow after blow, and the growing tension in his household felt unbearable. Lakshmi was also struggling to find a job, and the financial pressure was mounting. The once soft-spoken and mild-mannered man found himself losing his temper more often than not. His life felt like it was slipping out of control.
The Burden of Expectations
In South Asian culture, particularly for a Tamil man like Arun, the role of the provider is deeply ingrained. He had grown up in a society where a man’s worth was often tied to his ability to support his family. The pressure to be the strong, unshakeable pillar of the household had been drilled into him from childhood. Arun had embraced this role fully, working hard to build a life for his family in Sri Lanka. But Australia, with its new rules and unfamiliar expectations, had shaken that foundation.
“I feel like I’m failing them,” Arun muttered to himself, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. He glanced at Lakshmi, who was busy in the kitchen, her movements slow and tired. She had been complaining lately—about his irritability, his lack of patience with the children, and the way he snapped at her over small things. It wasn’t like him. Back in Sri Lanka, he had always been the calm one, the peacemaker. But now, he felt like a shadow of himself.
Arun’s relationship with Ramesh and Kaviya was also becoming strained. Ramesh, at 15, was entering a crucial phase in his life, trying to find his place in a new school, a new country, while grappling with the pressures of adolescence. The tension between Arun and Ramesh was palpable. Every conversation seemed to end in an argument, and Arun felt as though his son was constantly talking back to him. This was another cultural clash—back in Sri Lanka, children were expected to obey without question. But here in Australia, independence and questioning authority were encouraged, and Ramesh was adapting to that mindset faster than his father could keep up.
Kaviya, on the other hand, had grown more clingy since the move. At just 10 years old, she clung to Lakshmi like a lifeline, seeking comfort and reassurance in the face of the upheaval. Arun noticed this, but he felt powerless to fix it. The more he tried to connect with his children, the more distant they seemed to become. And so, he withdrew even further into himself.
Lakshmi’s Concern
Lakshmi had always been the glue that held their family together. She was patient, loving, and always willing to listen. But even she was starting to feel the strain. The move to Australia had been difficult for her too. She missed the vibrant, bustling streets of Sri Lanka, the extended family, and the familiar rhythm of life. Here, she felt isolated. Their new neighborhood was quiet, almost too quiet. It lacked the sense of community she had been used to back home, and with no job of her own, she felt useless.
But her biggest worry was Arun. He had changed since the move. He was no longer the kind, gentle man she had married. He had become short-tempered, irritable, and prone to overthinking. Small disagreements turned into full-blown arguments, and their once happy home had become a battleground. Lakshmi had tried to talk to him about it, but Arun brushed her off, saying he was just stressed.
Still, she couldn’t ignore the signs. Arun complained of headaches and stomach aches regularly. He had trouble sleeping, tossing and turning in bed for hours, and when he did fall asleep, he woke up in the middle of the night, his mind racing with worries. He wasn’t the same man anymore, and it scared her. The stress of not being able to provide for his family had taken a toll on him, but it wasn’t just the financial pressure. It was the loss of identity. Arun had always been proud of his role as the provider, and now, with that role slipping away, he felt like he was losing himself.
Lakshmi knew that something had to change. She couldn’t stand to see her husband like this, and the arguments were taking a toll on their children too. Ramesh had become increasingly withdrawn, spending more and more time alone in his room, lost in the world of video games. It was his way of escaping the tension in the household. Kaviya, on the other hand, had become almost inseparable from Lakshmi, following her around the house and seeking constant reassurance.
Lakshmi decided to talk to Arun, but this time, she wouldn’t let him brush her off.
The Conversation
One evening, after the children had gone to bed, Lakshmi approached Arun. He was sitting at the dining table, a cup of tea in front of him, staring out the window at the dark street outside.
“Arun,” she began softly, “we need to talk.”
He didn’t respond at first, just kept looking out the window. Lakshmi sat down across from him, her heart heavy with concern.
“I know things have been difficult for you,” she continued, “but I’m worried about you. You’ve changed since we came here, and it’s affecting all of us.”
Arun finally looked at her, his face etched with exhaustion. “What do you want me to do, Lakshmi? I’m trying. I’m trying to find a job, to keep this family together, but nothing is working. I feel like a failure.”
“You’re not a failure,” Lakshmi said firmly. “But you can’t keep going like this. The stress is eating you up inside. I see it in the way you’re with the children, the way you’re with me. You’re not yourself anymore.”
Arun clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. “I don’t need your pity, Lakshmi. I just need to fix this.”
“This isn’t about pity,” Lakshmi said, her voice calm but steady. “This is about our family. We can’t keep fighting like this. The children are noticing, and it’s affecting them too. Ramesh hardly talks to us anymore, and Kaviya is always clinging to me. This isn’t just about you, Arun. It’s about all of us.”
Arun sighed, the weight of her words settling on him. He knew she was right. The fights, the tension, it was all affecting their children. And deep down, he knew he needed help. I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t even think about seeing someone. It feels like an added burden.”
Lakshmi understood the weight of his words. She knew the financial strain and the societal stigma associated with seeking mental health help. Yet, she gently persisted, “I know it’s tough, Arun. But what if this is the key to unlocking a happier, healthier you? A version of yourself that can truly be there for us. Remember, there are resources out there, and sometimes, an investment in your mental well-being can yield immense returns.”
She paused, letting her words sink in. “We need you, strong and resilient. And sometimes, to be strong, we need to be vulnerable. Let’s explore these options together.”
Seeking Help
The next day, after much convincing, Arun made an appointment with their local GP. It wasn’t easy for him to admit that he needed help. In South Asian culture, mental health was often a taboo subject. Asking for help, especially as a man, could be seen as a sign of weakness. But Arun had reached his breaking point.
During the appointment, the doctor listened carefully as Arun explained his symptoms—the headaches, the sleepless nights, the irritability, and the constant feeling of failure. After a thorough assessment, the doctor gently explained that Arun was likely experiencing anxiety, brought on by the stress of the move and the pressure of settling into a new country. It was something many immigrants experienced, the doctor reassured him.
Arun felt a mix of relief and shame. Relief that there was a name for what he was feeling, but shame that he hadn’t been able to handle it on his own. The doctor referred him to a psychologist, someone who could help him work through his anxiety and fears.
A Journey Towards Healing
Over the next few weeks, Arun began attending therapy sessions with a Sri Lankan psychologist who understood the culture and spoke the language. The psychologist diagnosed him with anxiety (a mental health condition characterised by persistent worry, fear, or stress that interferes with daily life). The psychologist helped him unpack the layers of stress and pressure he had been carrying. They worked on coping strategies to manage his anxiety and discussed the cultural expectations that had been weighing him down. Arun began to understand that it was okay to ask for help, that his worth wasn’t tied solely to his ability to provide financially for his family.
Lakshmi noticed the changes too. Arun was more patient with the children, more willing to listen, and the arguments between them began to decrease. The household felt lighter, as if a dark cloud had started to lift.
Ramesh, though still withdrawn, slowly began to open up again. Arun made an effort to spend time with him, and while their relationship was still strained, there was a sense of progress. Kaviya, too, seemed more at ease, no longer clinging to Lakshmi as much.
The road to healing was long, but Arun knew they were on the right path. Moving to a new country had been harder than he ever imagined, but with the support of his family and the help of a professional, he was learning to rebuild his sense of self. And as he looked around at his family—Lakshmi, Ramesh, and Kaviya—he realised that they were his greatest source of strength.
In the end, it wasn’t about being the perfect provider or fitting into the role that society had assigned him. It was about being present for his family, in whatever way he could. And in that, Arun found a new sense of identity—one that wasn’t tied to his job, but to the love and support he shared with the people who mattered most.
By Thadam
Thadam believes normalising conversations around mental health helps breaks down stigma and shame and leads to better care.
