We Don’t Talk About Familism: What Encanto Gets Right About Immigrant Family Businesses

Once upon a time, I was a Spanish teacher. I wanted my students to see language come alive, not just in vocabulary, but in story. So, I introduced Encanto to my classroom for its linguistic and cultural value, authentic dialogue, regional music, and rich symbolism. It was vibrant, engaging, and perfect for teaching grammar in context. But what I didn’t expect was how quickly the film would shift from a teaching tool to a mirror.

The more I watched, the more I saw my own story, and the stories of so many students, reflected back at me. Encanto wasn’t just about magic. It was about the emotional cost of holding a family together, of staying silent to keep the peace, of being strong so others didn’t have to be. It captured, in song and color, the very real dynamics at play in immigrant families, especially those shaped by small business life. Behind the sparkle, it told the truth: love sometimes looks like labor, and silence can feel like strength.

Soon, classroom conversations weren’t just about vocabulary or verb tenses. They became about identity, obligation, and the quiet ways we carry our families’ hopes and hurts.

What started as a simple classroom activity turned into something much more personal, a meditation on how business, duty, and identity get wrapped up in love. Encanto wasn’t just a movie to help students learn Spanish; it became a way for all of us to learn the language of our own families, our inherited roles, and the silent stories we carry. Disney may have wrapped it in magic, but underneath it all was something achingly real.

These are just my musings on how a children’s film opened a conversation we’ve been needing to have for a long time.

A Mirror, Not Just a Movie

When Encanto premiered in 2021, it wasn’t just another animated film for those of us raised in immigrant families, especially those raised inside small family businesses. It was a mirror… not just of magic, but of obligation, of love that looked like labor, of silence that looked like strength.

• Luisa’s strength wasn’t just a magical gift—it was hard labor.

• Isabela’s perfection wasn’t freedom—it was performance.

• Bruno’s silence wasn’t shame—it was protection.

• And Mirabel? She didn’t receive a gift, but she inherited the burden: holding together a family that couldn’t talk about what was breaking beneath the surface.

The Script We Inherited

If you ever swept floors after school, ran a cash register before you could drive, or served customers for the family, you know the script:

• Don’t question authority.

• Don’t talk back.

• Don’t put yourself before the business.

This is familism, the cultural value that places family above the individual, at work.

In many immigrant-owned small businesses, familism is a survival strategy. It keeps the doors open, teaches sacrifice, and builds legacy. But it can also trap the next generation in cycles of emotional debt, guilt, and silence. When the family’s needs always come first, your own voice can disappear.

When Survival Becomes a System

Psychiatrist Murray Bowen’s Family Systems Theory gives us language for what many of us have lived but never named. He saw families as emotional systems, networks where anxiety, loyalty, and identity pass through generations.

One of these patterns is triangulation: when two people avoid conflict by drawing in a third. Maybe you were the sibling who kept peace between your parents; or the teen caught between a boiling back kitchen and a smiling customer front. In these families, silence wasn’t just common, it was survival.

Bowen also talked about differentiation of self: the ability to stay connected to your family without being consumed by it. But when your worth is measured by your sacrifice, autonomy feels like betrayal. We weren’t taught to ask What do I want? We were taught to ask How can I help?

What Bourdieu Helps Us See

Sociologist Pierre Bourdieu adds another lens: habitus, the internalized “rules of the game” we absorb by growing up in a particular world. In immigrant families rooted in small business life, habitus might teach us that:

• Love means labor.

• Loyalty means silence.

• Dreams are only valid if they serve the whole.

Bourdieu also talked about capital, not just financial, but social, cultural, and symbolic. Kids in family businesses often inherit responsibility without access to the forms of capital that translate outside the family: how to network, how to rest, how to self-promote without guilt.

And when your dreams don’t fit the family’s narrative, Bourdieu called it symbolic violence, when the very structure that shaped you causes you to feel shame for your own needs.

We call it selfishness.

We think rest is weakness.

Wanting more becomes betrayal.

Rewriting the Story: Narrative Identity

French philosopher Paul Ricœur believed that we become ourselves through story. What he called narrative identity is the process by which we craft a coherent self through the stories we tell about our past, present, and future.

But in immigrant family businesses, those stories often start with someone else’s voice.

You’re written in as “the responsible one,” “the strong one,” “the one who stayed.” You’re assigned a plot, one centered on duty, sacrifice, and the family dream. But, when your inner truth doesn’t match the role you were handed, Ricœur might say you’re experiencing a narrative fracture, a break between selfhood and performance.

Reclaiming your voice isn’t just an act of rebellion.

It’s an act of becoming.

The Weight We Carry

Bowen called it the multigenerational transmission process—the way unspoken roles and unresolved anxieties are passed down like family heirlooms.

The weight you carry might be older than you are.

In these systems, conflict isn’t confronted—it’s absorbed. One child becomes the peacemaker; another, the scapegoat. Someone else becomes “the responsible one,” trusted with both the books and the emotional books.

• Loyalty becomes obligation.

• Emotional labor goes unpaid.

• Boundaries dissolve.

Many of us were told, This is your inheritance, but never asked if we wanted it.

We try to honor our families without losing ourselves. But sometimes, tradition, meant to be a foundation, becomes a wall.

Casita as the Family Business

Even the Madrigals’ house, Casita, is a metaphor. It’s not just magical; it’s the family business itself. It holds everyone up. It bends under the weight of secrets and expectations. It begins to crack when no one feels safe enough to speak the truth.

It only rebuilds once those truths are spoken.

Encanto as a Family Business Parable

Encanto is more than a story about magic. It’s a vivid parable for family businesses, especially multi-generational ones. Each Madrigal’s gift represents the unique skills and roles family members bring to a business, and the pressure to use those gifts for the family’s survival mirrors the expectations placed on children in family enterprises.

• Embracing Individuality: The film shows that recognizing and nurturing each person’s strengths leads to a more resilient family and business. When individuality is stifled for the sake of tradition or control, the whole system suffers.

• Resilience and Adaptability: The Madrigals’ crisis (when Casita cracks) reflects the real challenges family businesses face. Success depends on adapting to change and supporting each other through adversity.

• Legacy and Succession: Abuela’s determination to “keep the miracle burning” is a lesson in both the power and danger of legacy. Too much pressure on the next generation can cause fractures; true succession requires letting go and trusting new leadership styles.

• Communication and Healing: The Madrigals’ silence about their struggles nearly destroys them. Open communication is essential for resolving conflict and sustaining both family and business health.

• Community Impact: The family’s business is not just for themselves, their gifts support the entire village. Family enterprises often serve as pillars of their communities, carrying both responsibility and risk. (This should be a whole other discussion!!!).

Ultimately, Encanto teaches that the magic of a family business lies not in perfection, but in unity, vulnerability, and the willingness to grow together. The true legacy is not just what’s built, but how the family learns to honor each member’s voice and adapt for the future.

The Meta-Magic of Disney

Here’s the poetic irony: Though Disney began as a family venture, it has long since become a global media empire, one that continues to tell stories about family, identity, and legacy, even as it operates far from its familial origins.

Walt Disney started with a mouse and a dream, but the company he built now speaks to millions across borders and generations. Encanto is one of those stories—vivid, emotional, and deeply familiar to anyone shaped by unspoken expectations.

It isn’t just a story about a family.

It’s a story told by a company that understands:

• the weight of legacy,

• the performance of perfection,

• and the pressure to keep the magic alive, even when cracks are forming behind closed doors.

It’s a mirror.

And a projection.

And a question.

Honoring Without Losing Ourselves

So how do we move forward?

Maybe the answer lies in emotional intelligence—the quiet power of self-awareness, boundaries, empathy, and healing. Maybe it starts with asking new questions:

• Not just How can I help? but What do I want?

• Not just How do I make them proud? but What does it mean to be proud of myself?

• Not just What will I inherit? but What am I choosing to pass on?

Because honoring your family shouldn’t mean losing yourself.

Healing is the beginning.

Flourishing might be the next chapter.

Onward Together

What’s your story?

What did you inherit—and what are you choosing instead?

If this resonated, follow along for more essays on familism, flourishing, and the quiet revolution of choosing yourself.