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The Canned Beliefs

The Canned Beliefs

An Chen



Like canned laughter in a sitcom, certain values come pre-packaged—easy to swallow, easier to repeat:

“Poor couples have miserable lives.”

“Beauty is justice.”

“The woman who knows how to please gets the best life.”

Girls swallowed every one of them, even the bitter ones—because that’s what the world told them was right.

Her sister, too, internalised them. She became another version of her—someone who truly believed: if you became beautiful, you could marry rich. And if you married rich, you’d be happy. No questions. No doubts.

Sometimes, she imagined what her sister’s life must be like. A parallel self, living out the fantasy, might go something like this:

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She’s scrolling through her Instagram feed, eyeing another flight attendant’s flawless post, measuring herself against it. Without thinking, she types:“Omg, Cindy, you look amazing! ❤️❤️❤️” Then immediately messages another colleague: “Hey Ella, did you see? She’s totally overdone it with the surgery. And that other one’s flaunting her new bag again—only broke people do that. I’d never.” All while ignoring the clutter of designer boxes in her own living room, the way her every sentence circles back to brand names.

She scrolls on, the anxiety climbing with nowhere to land. She remembers a few nights ago, when her husband watched a pretty influencer and remarked, “She’s gorgeous—and barely wearing any makeup.” She looked at her own face in the mirror—softer now, looser after the third child. The Thermage she did six months ago hadn’t made much difference. Time to book Ultherapy.

She’d only ever wanted one child. She loved the sky, the freedom of flying. But when she found out her first two babies were girls, she cried. With the second, she didn’t even dare tell her father-in-law—he had hoped for a boy to carry on the family name.Her postpartum depression crept in, then grew. She hadn’t spoken to her mother in ages—too many flashbacks of being mocked and scolded. Her sister, cool and distant, lived overseas. They rarely spoke.

She felt lonely. Utterly lonely.

She opened her shopping app and began browsing luxury toys for her kids. She already owned the full Sylvanian Families set. What else could she add?

Just then, a cry rang out from the baby’s room. She rushed in, scooped her up, rocked her gently.

Later, in the kitchen, she stood rinsing a bottle. There was a discomfort in her chest, faint but real. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like herself. Even her worries felt fragmented.

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But of course, this was all just her imagination.

They hadn’t had a real conversation in a long time.