Most articles are written for one person. It’s written for two people and works best if you read it together – read it side by side on the couch, or have one of you read it out loud, or just send it to the other without a message attached, and it’ll say something on its own. Because here’s the danger: there are a few sentences that parents and their adult children carry around for years, sometimes their entire lives, that they’re too afraid to say. And the cruel joke is that the sentence each is afraid to say is almost always the exact sentence the other is quietly waiting to hear.
It helps to know that the difference between feeling and saying something is normal, not a personal failing. In his heart Corey Floyd’s theory of love exchange is a basic truth about how caring moves between people: “A person can feel unexpressed love and express unfelt love.” Feeling love and saying it are two separate acts, and many families are rich in the former and almost silent in the latter. This silence is not harmless. Lack of love is “one of the most common reasons for seeking marriage therapy,” notes Floyd, and in other studies, divorce. What is not said does not remain neutral. It stacks up.
So here’s the unusual part. The next two sections are addressed to each of you in turn. Read yours – and then, more importantly, read the other one, because that’s the part you don’t already know.
For the parent
Maybe you’re afraid to say you’re not sure you’re doing it right. You repeat certain years and dazzle. That you are tired, scared, or repeating what was done to you, and that your child is doing well, partly in spite of you. You may also be afraid to say the simplest thing: that you are proud of them fully, out loud, without immediately giving advice – because you learned somewhere that praise makes children soft, or that words feel too big for an ordinary afternoon.
Here’s what your growing child is waiting to hear, and it’s smaller than you think. Not every decision is a defense. Just some version: “I’m proud of you. I tried my best and I know it’s not perfect. I love who you are.” Your child does not need you to be perfect. They need to know that you see them as adults now and that you are happy. This sentence weighs more heavily on you than anyone else on earth, which is why your silence is so loud.
To an adult child
Maybe you’re afraid to tell them you still need them. For all your independence, you want your parents to be proud of you, and you still hate how much you want that. You may be afraid to give thanks in a real way because gratitude cancels out the hard things. Or you are afraid to say something forgiving – you are no longer angry, now that you are old enough to understand how impossible the task really is – because to say it out loud is to refuse to owe something.
That’s what your parent is waiting to hear, and it’ll win them back a little: you turned out okay, not that you didn’t hold the worst against them, that you’re grateful, that you love them, and that you just called them. Research on parents and their adult children continues to find that they are among the closest and most emotionally charged bonds we have; developmental psychologist Karen Fingerman explained how many of these bonds really exist the good onesbilateral relations rather than commitment. But the unspoken “good” can still feel vague inside. Your parent isn’t sure you’d choose them if you didn’t have to. Tell them you will.
Why are you both silent?
Silence is rarely due to lack of love. It’s about fear and habit. Each of you assumes the other already knows, so it feels unnecessary or sentimental to say it. You’re each maintaining a certain dynamic—the capable parent, the independent child—and you’re worried that one subtle sentence will derail the whole thing. And families set scripts: if yours has never said them, breaking the script can be almost as physically difficult as speaking a language you were never taught at home. None of this means words aren’t wanted. It’s just that you’re both waiting for the first one to go away.
Let this article be the first to go on behalf of both of you. You haven’t started; you just answer it. This is allowed.
Actually how can you say
You don’t need an exit. The big version often scares everyone and never happens. Instead, use short, specific sentences on the phone in an ordinary moment—in the car, while you’re doing the dishes, before you hang up. “I don’t think I’ve ever said it, but I’m proud of you.” “I know this stretch has been tough and I appreciate what you’ve done.” If your throat closes when you want to say, write. Text counts. The note remaining on the counter is counted. The medium is less important than the fact that the words eventually come out of your head and into the room where the other person can hear them.
I’m writing this from the middle of the table, by the way — I’m the adult child of someone with parents on another continent, and I’m also the parent of my own young children. I feel both sides of it from where I sit, and I can tell you that the things I most want to hear from my own parents are pretty much the things I want to say to my daughters one day, and probably won’t if I don’t practice now.
I’m not a therapist, and if there’s real hurt between you — hurt, not just shyness — these sentences are a start, not a cure, and a good family therapist can help more than any article. But if the only thing standing between you and the other person is the fear of going first, please consider that your motivation. Say something smaller, more true, while you both can still hear it. The most regrettable version of this conversation is the one you later have alone with someone who isn’t in the room.
