You know that sinking feeling when you realize your kids only call on holidays? And even then, the conversations feel forced, like they’re checking a box on their to-do list?
That’s been my life for the past few years. My two sons, both in their thirties now with families of their own, keep me at arm’s length.
For the longest time, I blamed their busy schedules, their wives, modern life. But recently, during one of my regular walks in the park, something clicked.
All those things I was so proud of as a parent? The sacrifices I made, the lessons I taught, the standards I set? They weren’t really about giving my kids the best life possible.
They were about me feeling like a successful parent. And now, decades later, I’m paying the price in missed birthdays, awkward phone calls, and grandchildren who barely know me.
If you’re wondering why your adult children seem distant, maybe my revelations will help you too. Here are nine things I thought made me a great parent that were actually just feeding my own ego.
1) Making their achievements my bragging rights
Remember those bumper stickers that said “My child is an honor student”? I didn’t have the sticker, but I had the attitude.
When my older son got into a good college, I told everyone who’d listen. When the younger one made the basketball team, I acted like he’d been drafted to the NBA.
But here’s what I missed: I never asked them how they felt about these things. Were they happy? Stressed? Doing it for themselves or for me?
I was too busy basking in the reflected glory to notice that my son hated basketball and only played because he saw how it lit up my face.
The truth hurts, but I wasn’t celebrating them. I was celebrating how their success made me look.
2) Insisting they follow my “foolproof” life plan
Having spent thirty years in human resources at a manufacturing company, I thought I knew exactly what career stability looked like.
So when my older son showed interest in graphic design, I steered him toward business school instead. “Design is a hobby,” I told him. “Business is a career.”
It took me years to accept I’d been wrong. He’s doing design work now, after a decade of being miserable in corporate jobs. But those are years we can’t get back, and the resentment still lingers in our conversations.
I thought I was being wise and protective. Really, I was being controlling and dismissive of his dreams.
3) Never admitting I was wrong
This one stings the most. For decades, I believed that admitting mistakes to my kids would undermine my authority. If Dad doesn’t know everything, how can he guide you through life?
What a load of nonsense that was. My sons didn’t need an infallible father figure. They needed a human being who could model how to own up to mistakes and learn from them. Instead, I taught them that being wrong was something to hide and defend against.
Only recently have I started apologizing for specific things I got wrong. It’s opened some doors, but others might stay closed forever.
4) Turning every moment into a life lesson
“When I was your age…” became my catchphrase. Every scraped knee, failed test, or broken heart became an opportunity for me to share my wisdom. I couldn’t just let them experience things. I had to add my commentary, my interpretation, my moral of the story.
Looking back, I realize I was more interested in hearing myself talk than in listening to them. They needed empathy, not lectures. They needed someone to sit with them in their feelings, not rush them through to the lesson at the end.
5) Competing with other parents through my kids
At neighborhood barbecues and family gatherings, parenting became a competitive sport. When someone mentioned their kid’s accomplishment, I had to top it.
If their daughter was in advanced math, well, my son was two years ahead. If their son played piano, mine played piano and violin.
My kids became pawns in a game they never signed up for. The pressure I put on them wasn’t about their growth or happiness. It was about my need to feel superior to other parents.
6) Sacrificing everything and keeping score
“I gave up everything for you kids.” How many times did those words leave my mouth? I worked overtime to pay for their activities. I missed my own hobbies to drive them to practices. I skipped vacations to save for their college.
But here’s the thing: They never asked me to sacrifice everything. And by constantly reminding them of what I gave up, I turned my choices into their burden. Love isn’t supposed to come with a running tally of what you’re owed in return.
7) Living vicariously through their experiences
When my younger son dated the homecoming queen, you’d think I was the one taking her to the dance. When he got accepted to his college of choice, I wore the university sweatshirt more than he did.
I was so invested in their experiences because, somewhere along the way, I’d stopped having my own. Their lives became my life, and that’s a heavy weight for any kid to carry.
8) Dismissing their feelings as “phases”
Every concern they raised, every different path they considered, every emotion they expressed that didn’t align with my vision got labeled as “just a phase.”
Their anxiety about college? A phase. Their interest in traveling instead of getting a job right away? A phase. Their frustration with me? Definitely a phase.
By dismissing their feelings, I taught them that I wasn’t a safe person to share with. No wonder they stopped telling me things.
9) Believing that being their parent meant being their boss forever
This might be the hardest lesson for any parent: The job description changes when your kids become adults. I kept trying to manage their lives long after they’d grown up.
Offering unsolicited advice, questioning their decisions, treating them like they were still teenagers who needed guidance.
I couldn’t see that being a good father to adult children means being a supporter, not a supervisor. It means respecting their autonomy, even when you disagree with their choices.
Closing thoughts
Writing this has been painful but necessary. I spent so many years convinced I was an exemplary father, never realizing that my pride in my parenting was exactly the problem.
The gap between me and my sons didn’t happen overnight. It was built through thousands of small moments where I chose my ego over their needs, my vision over their dreams, my voice over their stories.
I’m working on rebuilding those bridges now, one genuine apology and respectful conversation at a time.
Some days are better than others. But at least now I understand why they don’t call, and that understanding is the first step toward maybe, someday, they will.
Are you brave enough to look at your own parenting through this lens? The answer might hurt, but it might also heal.
