I’ve been around long enough to see how early emotional climates echo through a lifetime.
Some of us grew up in homes that were materially fine—there was food on the table and a roof overhead—but affection was scarce.
Hugs were rare, “I love you” felt awkward or absent, and warmth showed up only in practical acts: “I fixed your bike; that’s how you know I care.”
If that was your childhood, you may notice certain patterns in your adult life that are easy to miss because they masquerade as strengths.
I’m not here to wag a finger. I’m here as a grandfather who’s had his own blind spots and who cares deeply about how we relate—to our partners, our kids, our friends, and ourselves.
Psychology has a lot to say about how low-affection upbringings shape us, especially through attachment and nervous system learning.
Below are seven subtle traits I often see; you might recognize one or two or you might recognize all seven.
Either way, there’s hope—and plenty you can do next:
1) Becoming “allergic” to dependence
When you don’t get warmth as a kid, you learn a simple rule: don’t need, because needing hurts.
As adults, that can look like fierce self-reliance.
You carry all the groceries in one trip, refuse help you could use, and say “I’ve got it” even when you’re running on fumes.
On paper, independence is admirable. Underneath, though, it may be avoidance or an attachment strategy learned early to keep you safe from disappointment.
If no one soothed you consistently, leaning on people now can feel like stepping onto thin ice—so you build a life where no one has to catch you.
A small experiment: Let someone help you with something tiny this week, ask a coworker to proof a paragraph, or say yes when your partner offers to handle bedtime.
Notice the squirmy feeling, thank it for trying to protect you, and let the help land anyway.
Safety grows in inches.
2) Struggling to name or feel emotions in the moment
Affection-starved homes often send a message—sometimes spoken, sometimes not—that feelings are inconvenient.
Maybe the adults were overwhelmed, or affection simply wasn’t how love was shown.
Kids adapt; they stop signaling distress and they go quiet.
Decades later, you might find yourself saying, “I don’t know what I feel; I just feel… off.”
That’s a common pattern psychologists call alexithymia—difficulty labeling emotions.
When no one helped you tune in and name your inner weather, you learned to live from the neck up: think, fix, move on.
Two simple tools help: A feelings list on your phone (when you notice tension, scan the list and try one label) and the body scan (sit for a minute and ask, “Where do I feel this?” because sensations are often the doorway to language).
3) Deflecting affection—compliments, touch, and praise slide off
If affection was rare or unsafe, receiving it now can feel like standing under a warm shower when you’re dressed for a snowstorm.
Compliments bounce off, a hug makes you stiffen, and your partner says “I’m proud of you,” but you crack a joke to defuse the moment.
This isn’t cold-heartedness; it’s conditioning.
Your nervous system learned that warmth is unpredictable, maybe even followed by criticism, so it keeps the gates closed.
When someone offers a compliment, pause and reply with a simple “Thank you.”
Full stop—no disclaimers, no “It was nothing,” and no giving the credit elsewhere.
Let the good thing linger for three breaths.
With safe people, experiment with brief, mutually comfortable touch—like a quick hand squeeze or a side hug.
Affection tolerance can be built like any other tolerance: Slowly, respectfully, and by choice.
4) People-pleasing that looks kind but hides fear
Here’s a tricky one: Many adults who lacked affection become exceptionally considerate.
You remember birthdays, bake the brownies, take the late shift, say yes so others don’t have to worry.
It’s lovely, but it can also be a survival skill—that if love wasn’t freely given, you learn to earn it.
Psychologically, this pattern often ties to anxious attachment—your nervous system scans for signs of rejection and hustles to keep the peace.
The cost? Quiet resentment, burnout, and relationships that feel lopsided.
An antidote is boundary practice in low-stakes moments.
The next time someone asks a favor that squeezes your schedule, try: “I want to help, and I can’t this week. Could we look at next Tuesday?”
You’re not slamming a door; you’re adjusting the hinge.
5) Perfectionism disguised as “standards”
I’ve mentioned this before in another post, but it’s worth repeating: Perfectionism often grows where tenderness didn’t.
If love felt contingent—on grades, cleanliness, winning—adulthood becomes a never-ending audition.
The house must be spotless, the report error-free, the body “just so.”
If you slip, the inner critic pounces first so no one else can.
Perfectionism feels like armor, but it’s heavy and it chafes.
Psychology treats it as a form of anxiety control: If everything is flawless, maybe I’ll finally be safe.
The cure isn’t sloppiness; it’s humanity.
Leave a tiny imperfection on purpose (a slightly crooked picture frame, a paragraph that’s solid but not exquisite) and watch the world not end.
Reward yourself for tolerating that discomfort; over time, you won’t need the armor as much because you’ll trust that you’re worthy without it.
6) Suspicion when kindness shows up
When you grow up starved for affection, generosity can feel like a setup.
A neighbor drops off soup and you wonder, “What do they want?” or a partner plans a surprise and you brace for the “gotcha.”
Your brain learned that warmth often had strings: Praise followed by a jab, help followed by an IOU, a smile masking tension.
This isn’t cynicism; it’s pattern recognition in the wrong neighborhood.
To retrain it, practice what I call “curious acceptance.”
Let the kindness in while staying observant.
Say, “Thank you—that means a lot,” and then track what happens next.
If no strings appear, update the file.
Your nervous system is plastic; it can learn that some bridges hold.
It also helps to name and renegotiate the strings you add without noticing.
If you do a favor secretly expecting one back, be honest with yourself.
Give because you want to, not because you’re tallying—that keeps generosity clean on both sides.
7) Boundaries that are either too rigid or too porous
Low-affection childhoods often produce adults who struggle with the fence lines of relationship.
Some of us go rigid: Walls up, moat filled, drawbridge stuck.
Others go porous: We say yes automatically, share too much too soon, and absorb other people’s moods.
Both are understandable.
Without affectionate, attuned caregiving, you didn’t get repeated practice with healthy boundaries—the kind that are firm, kind, and flexible.
The work now is to find your middle.
As you practice, notice how your body feels when your boundary is respected compared to when it’s steamrolled—that felt sense becomes your compass.
Bringing it home
If you grew up low on hugs and “I love yous,” it makes sense that adulthood has come with extra armor.
That armor served you once—you can thank it and set some of it down.
Independence can stay, without the loneliness.
Kindness can stay, without the people-pleasing.
Standards can stay, without the perfectionistic whip.
Change rarely starts with a grand gesture as it starts with one small brave act repeated: Answer a compliment with graceful gratitude, ask for a tiny bit of help, and ty a boundary that protects your energy.
Offer the affection you wish you’d learned to receive—and be patient when receiving still feels clumsy.
Closing thoughts? I’ll keep it short.
Which tiny act of gentleness, toward yourself or someone you love, will you practice today?
