Last week, my daughter came to me crying about a friend who wouldn’t share at preschool. As I held her, really listening to her feelings, I remembered being her age and hearing “stop crying, you’re fine” whenever I got upset.
My parents weren’t cruel. They loved me deeply. But they didn’t know how to sit with emotions, theirs or mine, and thirty years later, I’m still untangling what that meant.
Maybe you recognize this too. Your parents kept you fed, clothed, safe. They showed up to school events and made sure you did your homework. But when it came to the messy, uncomfortable territory of feelings, they checked out. They changed the subject, minimized your concerns, or simply weren’t there when you needed someone to really see you.
You weren’t neglected or abused. But you were emotionally alone, and that loneliness shaped you in ways you’re probably still discovering.
The dinner table that never went deep
Growing up, we ate together every single night. My father would come home from his long workday, we’d all sit down, and we’d talk about school, weather, weekend plans. Safe topics. Surface topics. The moment anything got real or uncomfortable, someone would redirect the conversation or suddenly need to clear the dishes.
I learned early that feelings were private things, maybe even shameful things. When I was upset about something at school, the response was always practical: “Did you tell the teacher?” or “Well, what are you going to do about it?” Never “How did that make you feel?” or “That sounds really hard.”
Your family might have looked different on the outside, but the emotional temperature was probably similar. Functional but disconnected. Present but not really there.
What emotional unavailability actually looked like
It wasn’t dramatic. That’s what makes it so hard to identify and heal from. Your parents didn’t storm out when you cried. They just got uncomfortable and found ways to make the crying stop quickly. They didn’t refuse to talk to you. They just never asked the questions that mattered.
Remember being excited about something and getting a distracted “that’s nice, honey” while they kept doing whatever they were doing? Or sharing a worry and immediately being told why you shouldn’t feel that way?
These moments taught you that your inner world wasn’t particularly interesting or important to the people who mattered most.
You learned to be the easy child. The one who didn’t make waves, didn’t have needs, didn’t require too much emotional labor. And everyone praised you for being so mature, so independent, so good.
The patterns you’re probably still living
Here’s where it gets uncomfortable. That emotional unavailability didn’t just disappear when you grew up. It morphed into patterns you might not even recognize as connected to your childhood.
Do you struggle to identify what you’re feeling beyond “fine” or “stressed”? When someone asks what you need, does your mind go blank? In relationships, do you either cling too tightly or keep everyone at arm’s length?
I spent years being the perfect friend, the perfect partner, the perfect employee. Always anticipating what others needed, never quite sure what I needed myself. The people-pleasing felt like kindness, but it was really just a survival strategy from a childhood where being easy meant being safe.
Maybe you’re the opposite. Maybe you learned to be fiercely independent, never asking for help because you learned early that emotional support wasn’t really available. Either way, you’re still responding to that early programming that told you emotions were too much, too messy, too inconvenient.
Why good intentions weren’t enough
Your parents probably did their best with what they had. Mine certainly did. My father worked those long hours because he wanted to provide. The surface-level conversations were his way of staying connected without venturing into territory that felt threatening or unfamiliar.
But children don’t need perfect parents. They need present parents. They need someone who can tolerate their big feelings without trying to fix, minimize, or redirect them. They need to know that all parts of them are welcome, not just the easy, happy, accomplished parts.
When parents can’t do this, kids learn to split themselves. The acceptable parts go public. The messy, needy, emotional parts go underground. And that split follows us into every relationship we have.
Breaking the cycle with your own kids
Watching my own children navigate their feelings, I’m constantly amazed by how naturally they express themselves when given space.
My daughter doesn’t just tell me she’s sad; she tells me her sad feels “grey and heavy like rocks.” My son, even at two, will bring me a book when he needs comfort, climbing into my lap with complete trust that his needs matter.
Creating this different family culture hasn’t been automatic or easy. Those old patterns run deep. Sometimes I catch myself starting to minimize or redirect, and I have to pause, breathe, and choose differently.
Now when one of my kids comes to me upset, I’ve learned to say “tell me more” instead of “you’re okay.” When they’re struggling with big feelings, I sit with them and say “I’m listening” instead of immediately offering solutions. These small phrases have become anchors, reminding me to stay present even when every cell in my body wants to make the discomfort go away.
What healing actually looks like
Healing from emotional unavailability isn’t about blaming your parents or wallowing in what you didn’t get. It’s about recognizing the impact, grieving what was missing, and slowly learning to give yourself what you needed then.
It looks like catching yourself mid-people-please and asking “what do I actually want here?” It looks like letting yourself feel anger or sadness without immediately talking yourself out of it. It looks like telling someone you trust “I’m struggling” without following it up with “but I’m fine.”
Some days, I still default to those old patterns. I still sometimes struggle to identify my own needs or ask for support. But I’m learning that healing isn’t a destination. It’s a practice.
Every time I choose presence over productivity with my kids, every time I let myself feel instead of fix, I’m rewriting those old scripts.
Moving forward
You weren’t a bad child for needing emotional connection, and your parents weren’t bad parents for not knowing how to provide it. But acknowledging the impact of that absence is the first step toward creating something different.
Whether you have kids or not, you have the opportunity to break the cycle. To be emotionally available to yourself first, and then to others. To create relationships where feelings are welcome, where vulnerability is safe, where you can be whole instead of split.
It starts small. Maybe it’s just pausing the next time someone shares something vulnerable with you, resisting the urge to fix or minimize. Maybe it’s letting yourself journal about a feeling without judging it. Maybe it’s teaching your own children that all feelings are acceptable, even when behaviors need boundaries.
The path from emotional unavailability to emotional presence isn’t linear. But every small step matters. Every moment you choose connection over comfort, presence over perfection, you’re healing not just yourself but generations of patterns that came before and could have continued after.
You deserved to be seen, heard, and felt. You still do.
