Tahan, Until You Can't: The Silent Culture of Endurance
Endurance is a virtue… until it hurts us.
In this series, “Cultural Wisdom for Chronic Healing,” we reflect on the language we grew up with—what it taught us about being sick, getting better, and living with chronic conditions in a multicultural world.
What Does It Mean to Tahan?
In Malay, the word tahan means “to endure,” “to withstand,” or “to bear with.” It’s a word so embedded in Singapore’s everyday language that we don’t even stop to question it. We hear it all the time, growing up in hawker centres, classrooms, and family kitchens. Tahan sikit lah, someone might say when you're hungry and dinner isn’t ready yet. Or just tahan the pain, when your tooth aches but there’s no time for the dentist. In conversations about work stress, family obligations, and physical discomfort, tahan shows up again and again—unquestioned, unchallenged, and often praised.
We’re told from young that tahan-ing is admirable. If you can suppress your emotions, keep going when things are tough, or show no sign of pain, you’re seen as strong. In this context, tak boleh tahan—literally “cannot endure”—carries a hint of weakness. It’s what you say when you’ve already reached the limit, when you’re about to cry, scream, or give up.
For many of us, especially those living with chronic illness, tahan becomes more than just a word. It becomes a way of life.
When Tahan Becomes a Reflex
If you live with pain, fatigue, or invisible symptoms, chances are you’ve had to tahan more than most people realise. You’ve gritted your teeth through flare-ups because you didn’t want to inconvenience others. You’ve smiled through discomfort in meetings and family gatherings because it felt easier than explaining. You’ve pushed yourself past your limits at work or in social situations, afraid of being judged for needing to rest or take things slow.
The strange thing is, you might even feel proud of how well you tahan—until one day, you realise you don’t know how to stop.
We’re so used to pushing through that we stop noticing the toll it takes. The pain that lingers long after the performance is over. The exhaustion that’s not just physical, but emotional too. The loneliness of appearing “fine” while quietly falling apart.
And when you finally say tak boleh tahan, it might already be too late. The crash comes, the burnout hits, and the guilt sets in. You wonder if you could’ve avoided all this if you had just said stop earlier.
Rethinking What Strength Means
In a society that often glorifies stoicism, tahan has become synonymous with resilience. But maybe it’s time we asked—resilience at what cost?
What if strength isn’t about how long we can endure discomfort, but about how honestly we can name our needs? What if healing requires something softer, quieter, and less performative?
Learning to say tak boleh tahan doesn’t mean you’re giving up. It means you’re choosing not to suffer unnecessarily. It means you’re starting to listen to your body and honour its signals, rather than override them out of habit or shame.
There is nothing weak about recognising your limits. In fact, it takes a different kind of courage to pause, to rest, to say no. Especially when the world around you rewards only the visible signs of pushing through.
Tahan Is a Cultural Legacy—But It’s Not the Only Way
In many Asian households, tahan is inherited. We see it in our parents and grandparents—working through illness, swallowing pain, never asking for help. It’s wrapped up in the language of self-sacrifice, duty, and pride.
But just because it’s cultural doesn’t mean we can’t question it. And just because it helped someone survive a different era doesn’t mean it’s the healthiest path for us now.
We can choose a different relationship with pain. We can unlearn the idea that rest is laziness, that vulnerability is weakness, or that asking for support is a burden. We can still respect our cultural roots while redefining what healing looks like on our own terms.
Letting Go of the “Tahan” Reflex
It’s not easy to break out of the tahan mindset. Even as we try to rest, we may feel guilty. Even when we ask for help, we might apologise for it.
But healing starts with small shifts. It starts with giving ourselves permission to stop pretending we’re okay. It starts with recognising that our value isn’t tied to how much we can take.
You don’t have to wait until you break down to say tak boleh tahan. You’re allowed to say it early. You’re allowed to say it often.
Because you are not here to prove your strength through suffering. You are here to live. To feel. To connect. To breathe more gently into your days.
And if no one else has said it lately: you don’t have to tahan all the time.