Last month, I finally worked up the courage to ask my adult children the question that had been haunting me since my early retirement: “What did I get wrong when you were growing up?” I thought I was prepared for their answers. I wasn’t.
For weeks, I’d been rehearsing this conversation in my head, expecting to hear about the divorce, or maybe that time I missed the school play. But what they shared completely upended everything I believed about the kind of mother I’d been. Sitting across from my three kids – now 28, 26, and 23 – I realized that the story I’d been telling myself about my parenting was just that: a story. And not even an accurate one.
1. I was physically there but emotionally absent
My oldest was the first to speak up. “You were always home for dinner,” she said carefully, “but you weren’t really there. Your mind was at work.”
That hit harder than I expected. I’d prided myself on being home by 6:30 most nights, even when it meant logging back on after bedtime. I thought presence meant being in the same room. But apparently, checking emails while they told me about their day didn’t count. Who knew that “quality time” actually required quality attention?
My middle child jumped in: “Remember when I’d try to show you my drawings? You’d glance at them and say ‘that’s nice, honey’ while typing on your laptop.” The memory stung because it was true. I was the master of the half-hearted “mm-hmm” while my fingers flew across the keyboard.
2. I fixed problems instead of listening to feelings
“You always had solutions,” my youngest said, “but sometimes I just wanted you to say ‘that sucks’ and give me a hug.”
This floored me. I thought being a good parent meant solving every problem that walked through my door. Bad grade? Here’s a tutor. Friend drama? Let me call their mom. Tough day? Let’s make a plan to fix it tomorrow.
But what they needed wasn’t my executive problem-solving skills. They needed someone to sit with them in their mess, to acknowledge that sometimes life is hard and that’s okay. I was so busy trying to make their pain go away that I never let them feel it – or more importantly, never let them know I understood it.
My son shared a story I’d completely forgotten: he’d come home crying after not making the basketball team. Instead of letting him be disappointed, I immediately launched into finding other sports he could try. “I just wanted you to tell me you were proud of me for trying,” he said quietly.
3. I modeled that work came before everything
“The message was clear,” my oldest said. “Success meant long hours and climbing the ladder. Everything else came second.”
They watched me cancel family vacations for work emergencies. They saw me take calls during their birthday parties. They learned that answering emails at 11 PM was normal, that exhaustion was a badge of honor, and that saying no to your boss was apparently impossible.
Now they’re all struggling with work-life balance themselves. My middle child works weekends without complaint. My youngest feels guilty taking sick days. They inherited my workaholic tendencies without me ever explicitly teaching them. Turns out kids learn more from what you do than what you say about “following your dreams” and “putting family first.”
4. I projected my definition of success onto them
Here’s something that really knocked me sideways: my kids felt like they were never good enough because they didn’t want what I wanted for them.
“You had this vision of who we should be,” my son explained. “Good grades, good colleges, good careers. But what if we wanted something different?”
I thought I was being supportive by pushing them toward stability and achievement. But my youngest wanted to be an artist – something I discouraged because it wasn’t “practical.” My son was interested in teaching, which I subtly undermined by constantly mentioning higher-paying careers. Only my oldest followed the path I’d imagined, and she admits she sometimes wonders if it’s what she actually wanted or just what she thought would make me proud.
5. I never admitted my own mistakes or struggles
“You seemed perfect,” my middle child said. “Like you had everything figured out. It made us feel like failures when we struggled.”
This one surprised me most. I thought I was protecting them by keeping my struggles private. They never saw me cry after the divorce papers were signed. They didn’t know about the panic attacks in the office bathroom. I never admitted when I was wrong or apologized for my mistakes.
I thought showing strength meant never showing cracks. But what they needed was to see that their mother was human too. That it was okay to fail, to not know what you’re doing, to change your mind, to ask for help. By trying to be their superhero, I became someone they couldn’t relate to or confide in when they inevitably faced their own struggles.
6. I used material things as a substitute for emotional connection
“You bought us everything we wanted,” my youngest said, “but what we wanted was you.”
Every milestone, every achievement, every hard day was met with a purchase. Good grades meant new clothes. Bad days meant ice cream and shopping trips. I threw money at their problems and their successes alike, thinking I was showing love through provision.
But those shopping bags couldn’t fill the space where conversations should have been. The expensive gadgets couldn’t replace the bedtime stories I was too tired to read. I gave them everything except what they actually needed: my time, my attention, my emotional availability.
The conversation that changed everything
What struck me most wasn’t just what they said, but how they said it – with love, forgiveness, and their own vulnerability. They weren’t trying to hurt me; they were trying to help us all heal.
We talked for hours that night. And for the first time, I really listened. Not to fix or defend or explain, but just to hear them. To understand the children I thought I knew so well but had somehow missed along the way.
The beautiful thing about adult children is that it’s never too late to start over. We’re building something new now – honest conversations over coffee, hiking trips where phones stay in pockets, lazy Sundays where we just exist together without an agenda. I’m learning who they really are, not who I thought they should be.
Some days I grieve for all the moments I missed. But my kids remind me that looking backward won’t change anything. We have now. We have tomorrow. And this time, I’m really here for it.
