Last Thanksgiving, my mother reached for Milo’s plate to cut his food into smaller pieces—for the third time that evening. He’s two. He was doing just fine with his fork. But before I could even process what was happening, I felt that old familiar tightness in my chest. The people-pleaser in me wanted to smile and let it go.
Instead, I gently moved the plate back and said, “Mom, I’ve got it. He’s learning.”
She looked hurt. My father cleared his throat. And I felt like I was sixteen again, breaking some unspoken rule about respecting your elders.
But here’s the thing: I wasn’t sixteen. I was a mother myself, raising my kids differently than I was raised, and it was time to stop apologizing for it.
If you’d asked me three years ago whether I’d ever be able to set firm boundaries with my parents about how I raise Ellie and Milo, I would have laughed nervously and changed the subject. Growing up as the middle child in a traditional Midwest household, I learned early that keeping the peace meant keeping quiet.
My mother made everything from scratch but carried anxiety like a heavy coat she couldn’t take off. My father worked long hours and kept his emotions even further away than his office.
We ate dinner together every night, but the conversations never went deeper than weather and school grades.
So when I became a mother and chose a completely different path—co-sleeping, extended breastfeeding, gentle discipline, and a home free of conventional cleaning products—I knew my parents wouldn’t understand.
What I didn’t expect was how much their disapproval would eat at me, or how setting boundaries with them would actually bring us closer.
When love feels like judgment
The comments started small. “You’re still nursing her?” when Ellie was eighteen months old. “He’s sleeping in your bed? How will you ever get him out?” when Milo was born. “You’re not going to use that chemical cleaner? What if there are germs?”
Each question landed like a tiny stone. Individually, they seemed harmless. Together, they built a wall between us.
My mother would visit and immediately start reorganizing my kitchen, tossing out my homemade cleaning spray and replacing it with the blue bottle from her grocery store. My father would make jokes about my “hippie phase” in front of the kids, as if my carefully considered parenting choices were something I’d grow out of.
I’d smile. Nod. Change the subject. Then I’d cry to Matt after they left, feeling like a failure for not standing up for myself and a terrible daughter for being upset with parents who were “just trying to help.”
The worst part? I started second-guessing myself. Maybe I was being too precious about organic food. Maybe my anxiety about synthetic fragrances was overblown. Maybe I should just let Ellie cry it out so my parents would stop asking why she was “still so clingy.”
The breaking point that changed everything
It was a random afternoon when everything shifted. My mother was visiting and Ellie—who was four at the time—had a complete meltdown because her tower of blocks fell. She was sobbing, throwing blocks, the whole deal.
I sat down on the floor next to her and said what I always say: “Tell me more. I’m listening.”
My mother, watching from the doorway, couldn’t contain herself anymore. “For heaven’s sake, Allison. Just tell her to stop. You’re spoiling her with all this coddling. When you had tantrums, I sent you to your room until you were ready to behave.”
Something in me snapped—not with anger, but with clarity.
I looked at Ellie, red-faced and heaving with big feelings she didn’t know how to process. Then I looked at my mother, who I suddenly recognized was probably never taught to process her own feelings either. That anxiety she carried wasn’t just personality—it was years of stuffed-down emotions and “proper” behavior.
I didn’t want that for Ellie. Or for Milo. Or for myself anymore.
Drawing the line in the sandbox
That week, I asked my parents to meet Matt and me for coffee without the kids. My hands shook the entire drive there.
I’d rehearsed what I wanted to say, but when I opened my mouth, what came out was simpler than I’d planned: “I love you both so much. And I know you love me and the kids. But the way you’re expressing that love feels like criticism, and it’s making it hard for me to be around you.”
The silence that followed felt eternal.
Then I laid out what I needed. Not what I was requesting—what I needed. I told them I wouldn’t defend my parenting choices anymore. That when they visited, they needed to follow our house rules: no comments about breastfeeding, no undermining my responses to the kids’ emotions, no replacing my cleaning products.
As Brené Brown notes, “Daring to set boundaries is about having the courage to love ourselves, even when we risk disappointing others.”
I was terrified of disappointing them. But I was more terrified of teaching my kids to shrink themselves to make others comfortable.
The uncomfortable middle
The first few months were hard. Really hard.
My mother called less frequently. When she did visit, she was stiff, almost formal. My father made passive-aggressive comments about “walking on eggshells.” I questioned everything—was I being too rigid? Too sensitive? Too much?
But I also noticed something: I wasn’t crying after their visits anymore. Ellie wasn’t asking why Grandma always looked sad when she hugged her. Milo wasn’t confused about why the rules changed when grandparents came over.
Matt and I kept checking in with each other: “How was your day really?” That simple question became our anchor.
There were setbacks. My mother “forgot” about the boundary around breastfeeding comments at a family gathering. I had to restate it, kindly but firmly, in front of my siblings. My father rolled his eyes when I asked him not to let the kids watch TV during dinner at their house.
Each time, I wanted to cave. To smooth it over. To be the good daughter who never caused problems.
Instead, I held the line. Not meanly. Not with lectures. Just consistently, calmly, and with as much love as I could muster.
What repair looks like
About six months in, something shifted. My mother called and asked if she could take Ellie to the farmers’ market—just the two of them. “I want to learn about how you pick produce,” she said. “I never knew to look for organic labels when you were little.”
It was a tiny olive branch, but I grabbed it with both hands.
That Saturday, watching my mother hold Ellie’s hand at the market, stopping to smell herbs and talk to the vendors, something in my chest loosened. She was trying. In her own way, with her own limitations, she was trying to meet me where I was.
My father took longer. But one evening, after watching me respond to one of Milo’s epic toddler meltdowns with patience instead of punishment, he pulled me aside. “You’re a better parent than I was,” he said quietly. “Your kids know they’re loved no matter what. I’m not sure I gave you that.”
I ugly-cried in the kitchen after he left.
The relationship we have now
My parents still don’t fully understand my choices. My mother still occasionally makes comments about “back in my day.” My father still thinks essential oils are a scam.
But here’s what’s different: they respect my boundaries now. And more than that, they seem relieved not to have to tiptoe around the tension anymore.
When they visit, my mother asks before picking up Milo. She waits to see how I’ll handle Ellie’s big emotions before offering advice—and sometimes, she doesn’t offer any at all. My father plays on the floor with the kids now, something I never remember him doing with us.
Our dinners together have actual conversations now. We talk about hard things sometimes. My mother shared stories about her own anxious childhood that helped me understand where her need to control came from. My father admitted he wishes he’d been more emotionally present with us kids.
The relationship isn’t perfect. But it’s real. And that’s worth so much more than the artificial peace we used to maintain by never rocking the boat.
Final thoughts
Setting boundaries with my parents was one of the hardest things I’ve done. There were moments when I thought I’d broken our relationship beyond repair. Days when I wondered if maintaining my parenting choices was worth the awkwardness and hurt feelings.
But looking at my kids now—Ellie, who knows her big feelings are safe with me, and Milo, who climbs and explores and comes back for cuddles without fear—I know it was worth it.
I’m not just raising them differently than I was raised. I’m teaching them that love doesn’t mean erasing yourself to make others comfortable. That healthy relationships have boundaries. That you can honor your parents while also honoring yourself.
My parents and I have a better relationship now than we ever did when I was swallowing my needs and smiling through discomfort. Because real connection can’t exist where resentment lives.
If you’re struggling with this—if you’re tired of defending your parenting choices to family members or feeling guilty for doing things differently—I want you to know: boundaries aren’t selfish. They’re not mean. They’re not disrespectful.
Boundaries are love wearing its work boots.
They’re how we teach our kids that relationships can be both close and healthy, that you can love someone deeply and still not let them hurt you, that you deserve respect as much as you give it.
The conversation won’t be comfortable. There might be tears and silence and times when you wonder if you’ve made a terrible mistake. But on the other side of that discomfort is something better than peace: it’s authenticity. It’s connection. It’s the kind of relationship where everyone gets to show up as themselves.
And that’s worth fighting for.
