In the ’90s, my bua (aunt) left India for university in the US with little more than the will to learn. No one in our family spoke English. No one had ever worn jeans, let alone imagined life in a Western country. There were no mobile phones or FaceTime. Sometimes, my grandparents would go months without hearing from their daughter, relying only on faith to feel connected across oceans.
Three decades later, I moved from Perth to Melbourne for university. I speak fluent English. My family is just a four-hour flight away, still on the same continent. They have constant access to my whereabouts — texts, calls, even my live location. And yet, I’m still not “reachable enough”.
The irony isn’t lost on me. How did we go from handwritten letters every few months to near-constant digital surveillance?
Any effort I’ve made to set small boundaries — switching off for a weekend, delaying a reply, or going low-contact for a few days — is often met with concern, guilt, or the assumption that something must be wrong. In a family culture where being in touch equals being okay, choosing to take space can feel like a quiet betrayal.
But what does it mean to go “low-contact”? And why does it feel especially complicated for those of us from collectivist or immigrant backgrounds?
Anushka Phal is the Founder and Principal Psychologist at Umeed Psychology in Melbourne. According to Phal, “Low contact is when someone reduces the frequency, intensity, or emotional labour of communication — often to protect their mental and emotional wellbeing. It doesn’t always mean cutting ties. It might look like calling your parent once a week instead of daily, taking longer to reply to group chats, or skipping family events that leave you emotionally drained.”
“For people from immigrant or collectivist families, this term might sound unfamiliar or even confronting, but the experience itself is common,” she says. “Many of us need space but struggle to ask for it in ways that feel respectful. Low contact becomes a way of preserving connection by not letting it erode from constant pressure or overwhelm. It’s a way of saying, ‘I care about you, but I need to care for me too’.”
In many cultures, being constantly available is often equated with love. “Check-ins and forwarded WhatsApp messages aren’t just habits. They’re how affection is shown,” Phal explains. “So, when someone sets a boundary, it can feel like they’re rejecting those deeply held values.”
For first- or second-generation migrants, guilt is often layered with gratitude and obligation. “Our parents made enormous sacrifices,” she says. “So, the pressure to stay close is about more than affection. It’s about honouring what was lost or left behind.”
So, how do we navigate these tensions respectfully?
“Start with empathy — for yourself and your family,” Phal advises. “This isn’t about choosing between independence and connection. It’s about building a bridge between your need for space and their need for closeness.”
She suggests using language that aligns with shared values:
• “I want to be someone who shows up with a full heart, not just a tired face.”
• “When I have time to rest, I can be more present when we talk.”
Tone and intent matter. “Even a hard message can land softly when framed with care and humility. Use humour, storytelling, or your native language if that helps. Try: ‘Ma, even therapists need space sometimes,’ or ‘You taught me to care for myself. This is part of that’.”
The emotional cost of constantly overriding your need for space can be high, from burnout to deep disconnection from self. But setting boundaries doesn’t mean disconnection. It means clarity.
For those of us raised to always stay close, perhaps the most radical thing we can do is love our families from just far enough to stay grounded in ourselves. Space doesn’t dilute love. It can deepen it. Boundaries don’t close the door. They keep it from slamming shut.
And, the ability to say “I need a little less” is, in itself, a form of care. We are allowed to want softer ways of staying close.
Top photo source: Canva
