A Small World of a Moon Hedgehog

For the child who understood too much, and asked for too little.

LMHH

“They’re such a good kid — their parents never have to worry.”
“Oh wow, your daughter is so thoughtful. She helps her parents. She cares.”
“She’s so disciplined. She studies without being told. Not like mine.”

Have you ever heard someone say that about you?
Maybe once. Maybe often.
But did you hear it when you were still just a child? Eight, nine years old? Maybe younger. Maybe a little older.
Old enough to understand praise, but too young to know the weight it carries.

I don’t remember much of my childhood. It feels like a blur — soft, distant, and strangely quiet.
I was the eldest daughter of the eldest son of the eldest son of the eldest son.
And what I do remember is the responsibility.
The expectation to be the role model, the quiet leader, the one who never falters.
The one who carries the hopes of a family too large to name, too proud to bend.

My roots are steeped in family values.
It’s something I’ve always held close, something I’ve always been proud of.
But somewhere along the way, that pride began to feel heavy.
Not because I stopped loving my family — but because I started losing pieces of myself in the process.

Maybe it was the pressure to be perfect.
To be the straight-A student.
The daughter every family wished they had.
The one who cleaned without being asked.
Who read every face in the room.
Who understood every emotion — except her own.

In Vietnamese, there’s a term: “hiểu chuyện.”
It means understanding. But not just understanding — over understanding.
It describes someone who knows her responsibilities too well.
Someone who silences her own desires, who never asks for more, who never dares to be unreasonable.
To the adults, it’s a compliment.
To the child, it’s a quiet surrender.

The golden child.
The one they praise.
The one they point to.
The one who traded her childhood just to feel… enough.

I’ve never felt more seen by a movie. It was about a family gifted with powers, yet trapped in the quiet chains of generational trauma. There was an eldest sister who always had to be perfect. A middle sister, strong on the outside, but drowning under the pressure she carried. And a youngest sister, born without powers, desperately trying to prove her worth to her grandmother. Somehow, I cried through all three of their songs — because in each of them, I saw myself.

I saw a little girl who stopped eating the things she loved, just because she was a bit chubby. They called her “fat little hedgehog.” They told her to lose weight, to eat less, to be perfect.
“It’s for your own good,” they said. “We just care about your health.”
But if they saw that same little girl twenty years later — starving herself every day, forcing herself to vomit after eating more than one meal — would they still call it love?
If they saw her unable to look in the mirror without disgust, would they still believe those criticisms were for her sake?

I saw a girl who learned that her worth only existed when she achieved something.
Would they have acted differently if they knew that same girl couldn’t accept gifts — not because she didn’t like them, but because she believed she didn’t deserve them?
Because she thought simply existing wasn’t enough?

I saw a rebellious teenager who secretly longed for her parents’ attention.
The attention that stopped when she turned four.
“You’re the eldest sister,” they said. “You need to be the role model. You need to give everything to your younger siblings.”
Her mother once told her,
“One day, you’ll be alone. No one stays by your side forever. You need to be independent.”
And joked,
“You’re my firstborn — my experiment, so I won’t make the same mistakes with your sister.”

And slowly, something cracked. Or maybe it was always broken.
The cracks were always there — I just hadn’t learned how to see them.

Years passed.
And I watched a girl lose the vibrant colors of herself, strip by strip, in exchange for being the perfect daughter.
The perfect granddaughter.
The one who would be enough.
The one who would make the family proud.
The one who would carry her parents’ lost dreams.
The one who would hold the household together.

“Oh my, Mother Hedgehog, how lucky you are — your firstborn is so pretty, so hardworking, so modestly charming.”
“Oh my, Father Hedgehog, you must be proud — your firstborn is so perceptive, always taking care of others, always making everyone’s wishes come true.”

The family smiles at every gathering, glowing with pride.
But in the mirror, I see a broken porcelain doll.
Piecing herself together with glue and empty spaces.
Just to be enough.
Just to feel… enough.

Little Moon Hedgehog