Last week, while sorting through old photos with Ellie, I found one from a family dinner when I was about her age. There we all were, sitting around the table just like we did every single night. My father at the head, having just gotten home from another long day at work.
The meal was good, the conversation polite. But looking at that photo now, I can see what five-year-old me couldn’t—how carefully I was watching everyone’s faces, already learning which topics were safe and which would make the air feel heavy.
That’s the thing about emotional distance in families. It rarely announces itself with dramatic fights or obvious cruelty. Instead, it whispers through a thousand tiny moments where you learn, without anyone saying it directly, that your feelings are just a bit too much, a bit inconvenient, something to manage quietly on your own.
The weight of a thousand paper cuts
When I first heard about adult children going low contact with their parents, I used to think it must be about some huge betrayal. But the more I’ve learned—both from my own journey and from talking with other parents trying to break cycles—the more I realize it’s rarely that simple.
Karl Pillemer, Ph.D., Professor of Human Development and Gerontology in Medicine at Weill Cornell Medicine, explains it perfectly: “The main myth about estrangement is that it’s almost always done in a fit of pique or anger, on the spur of the moment. The reality is that the preponderance of adult daughters and sons who end up going no contact have spent years and often decades trying to avoid it; estrangement is often preceded by efforts to set boundaries, initiate discussion, and limit contact in significant ways.”
Think about that for a moment. Years. Decades. That’s not a sudden decision—that’s the result of countless small moments adding up.
I see it now in my own childhood patterns. The perfectionism that still creeps in when I’m stressed. The people-pleasing that makes me apologize for things that aren’t my fault. These didn’t come from one bad day or one harsh word. They grew from years of learning that being “good” meant being quiet about what hurt.
When love comes with conditions
Growing up, my father provided everything we needed materially. We never worried about having food on the table or clothes on our backs. By many standards, we had a good childhood. But emotional availability? That was different.
He’d come home tired from those long work days, and we all knew not to bring up anything too heavy. Report cards with A’s got nods of approval. Struggles or fears? Those conversations just didn’t happen.
It wasn’t meanness—it was absence. A kind of emotional vacancy that taught me my inner world wasn’t particularly welcome at the dinner table.
Research indicates that parental emotional neglect during childhood is associated with increased symptom severity in adults seeking treatment for depression and alcohol misuse, highlighting the long-term impact of such neglect on mental health.
This hits home for me. The anxiety I’ve worked through in therapy, the tendency to minimize my own needs—these aren’t character flaws. They’re adaptations to an environment where emotions were treated like unnecessary complications.
The invisible wounds that shape us
What makes emotional neglect so insidious is how normal it can look from the outside. There’s no bruise to point to, no single incident to explain why you feel so disconnected. Just this persistent sense that something essential was missing.
A study found that adults who go low or no contact with their parents often experienced emotional abuse and chronic invalidating dynamics during childhood, leading to feelings of emotional harm and a desire to protect their own emotional safety.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if just once during those family dinners, someone had asked, “How are you really feeling?” and then actually waited for the answer. Not the polite “fine” we all learned to give, but the messy, complicated truth that kids carry around.
When parents can’t see who you’ve become
One of the most painful dynamics I’ve witnessed is when parents stay stuck in outdated versions of their children. You know what I mean? They’re still relating to you as if you’re the teenager who liked that one band, not the adult with your own values and experiences.
Abigail Fagan, a psychologist, notes: “Some parents struggle to maintain an updated template of who their children are. They remember their child’s interests, preferences, and values in childhood or as a teenager and map those onto their adult child.”
This resonates deeply. How many adult children feel like they’re performing a version of themselves at family gatherings? Shrinking back into old roles because it’s easier than constantly correcting misconceptions or defending choices that don’t fit the family narrative?
Breaking the cycle with our own kids
Now, as I watch my own children navigate their emotions, I’m acutely aware of the patterns I’m trying not to repeat.
When Milo has a meltdown because his fort collapsed, my instinct—shaped by my upbringing—might be to quickly fix it or distract him. But instead, I sit down at his level and say, “Tell me more about how that feels.”
A study found that parents who experienced emotional neglect as children are more likely to exhibit hostile and controlling parenting styles, which can negatively affect their relationships with their own children.
Knowing this research keeps me vigilant. When Ellie comes to me with a worry that seems small to my adult mind, I remind myself that to her five-year-old heart, it’s enormous. “I’m listening,” I tell her, and then I actually do. No fixing, no minimizing, just presence.
Understanding the need for distance
Edie Stark, LCSW, MSc, psychotherapist and founder of Stark Therapy Group, puts it powerfully: “The decision to go no or low contact is rarely made lightly. It’s not about revenge, spite, or being ‘overly sensitive’; it’s about protecting your emotional safety and choosing self-respect over obligation.”
For those of us working through these patterns, this validation matters. The guilt that comes with setting boundaries with parents can be overwhelming. But sometimes distance is the only way to heal, to see clearly, to stop the cycle from continuing.
Finding peace with what is
Creating a different family culture doesn’t mean I’ve figured it all out. Some days I catch myself rushing through bedtime stories because I’m tired, or responding to “I’m sad” with “You’ll be okay” instead of “Tell me about it.” The difference is awareness—and the commitment to repair when I miss the mark.
Matt and I often talk after the kids are asleep about the emotional availability we want to model. It’s not about being perfect parents. It’s about being present ones. Parents who see our children’s emotions not as problems to solve but as important information about their inner worlds.
Looking back at that old family photo, I feel compassion for everyone in it—including my parents, who were probably doing the best they could with the tools they had. But I also feel proud of the work I’ve done to ensure my children won’t have to heal from the same emotional absence I did.
The thousand small moments that lead to estrangement aren’t usually malicious. They’re often just patterns passed down through generations of families who never learned how to hold space for feelings.
But we can choose differently. One “tell me more” at a time, one validated feeling at a time, we can create homes where emotions aren’t inconveniences but invitations to connect.
