The meaning of family in the journey of self-authoring

Longing for connection

I am fully on board with my children’s independence. I want them to choose their schools, professions, meals, and cities to live without feeling they owe me or my wife. And yet, when I picture myself at seventy or eighty, with less work and less energy, I feel a quiet ache: Will they visit me? Think of me? Want to connect with me? Even if we see each other twice a year, will those visits feel meaningful?

Looking back, I see my parents wanted the same thing from me. They hoped we would move back to Korea and live close. I experienced his longing as a burden. Their requests always seemed to carry advice on how I should live. Boundaries felt impossible, so I retreated. And I knew we could not return to Korea, for the sake of our children’s education, our opportunities, and our growth as a family. When we visited, my parents welcomed us with joy, but beneath the smiles I could feel their disappointment that we had not complied.

Now I realize what I dismissed as a burden was, at least partly, his yearning for closeness. And perhaps I am now standing where he once stood, fearing a repeated unsatisfied outcome.

Lessons from Denmark and beyond

Spending a month in Copenhagen has sharpened this reflection. Danish families are strikingly individualistic. Parents celebrate when children move out and build their own lives. Care for both children and elders is largely managed by the state, which reduces the sense of obligation. Connection across generations happens less from duty and more from intimacy or choice.

Some Danish friends told me they worry about elder loneliness because adult children do not always visit their parents in care homes. Yet surveys by the OECD and Eurostat show that only 5 to 7 percent of older adults in Denmark report frequent loneliness, compared with about 20 percent in the United States and over 30 percent in South Korea. These surveys ask a simple question: “How often do you feel lonely?” The numbers suggest that obligation does not guarantee closeness, and independence does not necessarily condemn people to isolation.

(OECD “How’s Life? Well-being of Older People” 2021; Eurostat survey on loneliness 2020)

James Tissot, The Return of the Prodigal Son in Modern Life

Thinkers have wrestled with this dilemma for decades. Judith Viorst in Necessary Losses reminds us that separation and grieving expectations are part of growth for both children and parents. Karl Pillemer, in 30 Lessons for Living, found that elders achieved peace only after letting go of expectations. Love without strings, they said, was the only kind worth giving. Harry Moody urges us to see family ties as covenants, enduring bonds grounded in love, story, and shared meaning, rather than contracts, which are transactional and based on debt or obligation.

I sense all this as another form of self authoring — or perhaps encouraging the self authoring of others. Since I am writing a book about self authoring as a key theme for Asian Americans in effective and sustainable leadership, of course the logic resonates. But the emotional reality of separation from my children as I age lands differently. It feels personal, humbling, and paradoxical.

This question of family connection and separation is even more complex for Asian Americans. Many of us were raised with “family first” and filial piety, the idea that caring for parents is a moral duty. We also feel entitled to receive our children’s support and care when we grow old. At the same time, we grow up in American culture, which prizes independence and choice. One of my coaching clients, a second generation Korean American, is torn about where to settle with his future wife. She wants to live near her career opportunities. He feels a pull to live near his parents. What strikes me is how fully American he is in lifestyle and mindset, yet the gravitational pull of family obligation still tugs at his choices. That tension between honoring parents and building an independent life is a real crossroads for many Asian Americans.

Facing what cannot be solved

To be fair to myself, I longed for deep conversations with my parents. I wanted to hear about their childhood during the Korean War, their struggles to rise from poverty, the joys and hardships of their youth, and what it feels like to grow old and face death. But too often, I focused on defending my boundaries. Obligation loomed larger in my mind than intimacy. By the time I wanted to change, my father’s Parkinson’s had already begun to silence him. I still wonder why I could not simply state my choices plainly, accept our differences, and then move beyond expectation to connect on deeper questions of life and meaning.

The key, I now see, is not to search for a tidy solution but to face the sadness directly. To acknowledge that there will be loss, there will be grieving, and that feeling this grief is part of being human and part of being a parent.

I do not yet know how to let go of my desire to stay close, or how to show love without creating obligation or guilt. I do not yet know how to build enough meaningful connection elsewhere — through my wife, my work, or my community. And I do not know how to nurture my relationship with my children so that they choose deeper connection as they grow into their own lives.

What I do know is that I must keep walking into these questions. The answers will not arrive in advance. They will come through living, trying, failing, and trying again.

And perhaps that is what my children will notice most: not a father who had everything figured out, but one who was willing to wrestle with these questions openly. If they can sense my journey and my growth, perhaps that alone will be its own kind of connection.