Parents who rarely hear from their adult children usually made these 8 mistakes without realizing it

Parents who rarely hear from their adult children usually made these 8 mistakes without realizing it

I don’t know your story, and I’m not here to judge. Silence from a son or daughter hurts. It’s confusing, too. You replay every conversation in your head and wonder, “Where did I go wrong?”

In my experience—as a dad, a granddad, and a fellow traveler who took up writing after retiring—the quiet usually isn’t about one dramatic blow-up. It’s the result of small patterns that piled up over time. Most of us didn’t mean any harm. We were doing our best with the tools we had.

If any of the points below sting a little, take that as a sign of hope. Pain shows you where to work. Repair is possible. I’ve seen it in my own family and in many others.

Let’s get into it.

1. Confusing involvement with control

Have you ever called to “check in” and found yourself asking five follow-up questions about their money, career, or partner? I’ve done that. It felt like loving involvement to me. To my son, it felt like surveillance.

When kids grow into adults, they need to feel trusted. Control—however gentle—sends the message, “I don’t believe you can handle your life.” Over time, that doubt pushes them to keep things private, including their time and their news.

What helps? Shift from managing to witnessing.

Ask curious, open questions: “How are you feeling about that?” “What kind of support would be helpful?” And here’s the hard part: accept “I’m good” at face value sometimes.

Trust is quiet.

2. Making love feel conditional

When our children were young, we clapped for A’s, trophies, first chairs, and scholarships. There’s nothing wrong with celebrating success. The trouble comes when praise shows up only when there’s something to show off.

Adults who grew up performing for love often go silent when life gets messy—job searches, breakups, mental health dips—because they expect disappointment.

If they think your approval depends on outcomes, they won’t bring you their ordinary days, much less their failures.

Try telling them, “I enjoy hearing from you, whether anything exciting is happening or not.” Celebrate their character and effort: kindness, persistence, the way they show up for friends.

Unhook love from achievement. Let them feel welcome, especially when they’re not “winning.”

3. Minimizing feelings and experiences

“Shake it off.” “You’re fine.” “It’s not that bad.” Those lines came easily to my generation. We thought we were teaching toughness. What our kids heard was, “Your inner world isn’t safe here.”

Invalidation builds a wall. An adult who expects to be dismissed will keep their emotional life out of reach. And if feelings are off the table, deeper relationship is off the table, too.

A simple pivot changes everything: reflect before you advise. “That sounds heavy.” “I can hear how frustrated you are.”

Then stop. Let them add more.

When they’re done, ask, “Do you want ideas or just a listening ear?” That question alone has opened more doors for me than any speech I’ve ever given.

4. Leading with advice instead of curiosity

As I covered in a previous post, advice is best when it’s invited. Uninvited, it lands like a lecture. You might be trying to spare them pain; they hear a review of their mistakes.

I learned this the awkward way. Years ago, my son mentioned a big purchase. I launched into interest rates, warranties, and resale value. He went quiet for a week.

When we reconnected, he said, plainly, “Dad, I didn’t ask.” Ouch—and fair.

These days, I start with: “Want my two cents, or should I just listen?” If he says “listen,” I listen. If he says “two cents,” I offer exactly two.

You’d be amazed how often a relationship deepens when you leave room for their competence.

5. Disrespecting boundaries (often without noticing)

Boundaries aren’t barriers; they’re bridges that keep the traffic flowing safely. But many of us were raised to think family equals full access: surprise visits, repeated calls during work hours, commenting on parenting choices in front of the grandkids.

Here’s a simple test: do you treat your adult child’s time and home with the same care you’d offer a respected colleague or friend? If not, they will pull back to protect themselves.

Respect sounds like: “Is this a good time?” “Would you like us to stay at a hotel?” “We’d love to help—what works for you?” Learn their preferred channel (text, voice, video).

Match their rhythm when you can. When they say “no,” thank them for being honest. That “no” is protecting the “yes” that will come later.

6. Using guilt and nostalgia as levers

“You never call.” “After all I’ve done for you…” “When you were little, you used to tell me everything.” I’ve caught those phrases on my tongue more than once. Guilt and nostalgia are powerful—but they don’t create closeness. They create compliance or distance.

Guilt says, “Your role is to meet my need.” Nostalgia says, “I prefer the version of you who needed me more.” Neither welcomes the adult in front of us.

Swap guilt for gratitude and clear asks. Try, “I love hearing your voice. Could we plan a call every other Sunday?” Or, “I’m missing you lately—no pressure, just letting you know.”

Appreciation opens what accusation closes.

7. Avoiding apologies and repair

In every family I know, there are old splinters. A slammed door. A holiday argument. A cutting remark about a partner, a choice, a belief.

We tell ourselves time will smooth it over. It doesn’t. Silence hardens around hurt.

Repair is not a monologue about your intentions; it’s ownership of your impact. Three lines can start mending years: “I’m sorry. I own my part. How can I make this better now?”

I once left a voicemail that began, “Where have you been?” My son heard accusation, not love. When we finally spoke, I said, “That message wasn’t fair. I was anxious and lonely, and I put that on you. I’m sorry.” He took a breath and said, “Thanks for saying that.” A small hinge; a big door.

8. Making contact only on your terms

Some parents make the initial approach only when it suits their schedule, their style, or their preferred topics. If your child works nights, Saturday morning calls won’t land. If they prefer text to talk, repeated voicemails feel like homework. If every conversation turns to politics or the grandkids’ report cards, they’ll keep it short.

Love learns the other person’s language.

Ask, “How do you like to keep in touch?” Negotiate something sustainable. Maybe it’s a monthly video chat, a shared photo album, or a running text thread about recipes, books, or the family dog.

Connection grows when it’s woven into ordinary life, not reserved for big occasions or parental checklists.

Final thoughts

If you’ve recognized yourself in a few of these, you’re in good company. Most of us were not taught how to parent adults. We were taught how to feed, teach, and protect children.

Then one day we’re supposed to pivot to partnership—and do it gracefully. That’s a steep learning curve.

Here are a few practices that have helped me (and could help you) start fresh:

• Pick one change and do it consistently. Maybe it’s asking before advising. Maybe it’s a simple, “Is now a good time?” Pick small and stick with it.
• Make the first move without keeping score. A quick note that says, “Thinking of you. No need to reply.” That seed often sprouts later.
• Get curious about their world. Ask about their friends’ names, the podcast they like, the hobby they’re learning. Show interest without turning it into a pop quiz.
• Build safety over time. If your adult child discloses something vulnerable, thank them. Don’t rush to fix it. Confidentiality is glue.
• Tend your own well-being. Loneliness is real. So is the pain of waiting. Walk, talk to a friend, find a counselor, join a group. A full life makes you easier to call.

I often take my grandkids to the park. They race ahead, then circle back to show me sticks and stories. Our adult children aren’t all that different.

When they don’t feel chased, critiqued, or cornered, they come back with more to share. It might start small—an emoji, a link, a two-line text. If you keep meeting those little moments with warmth, bigger conversations follow.

None of this guarantees immediate results. Relationships aren’t vending machines. But these shifts change the tone—from anxious chasing to calm invitation. From “prove yourself” to “you belong.” From “Why don’t you call?” to “I’m glad you’re here.”

If silence has been the norm, think in seasons, not days. Autumn doesn’t rush winter into spring. It prepares the ground. Your steady kindness now is planting spring.

I’ll leave you with a question: what is one small, specific action you can take this week that would make your relationship easier to approach?