Last week at the playground, I overheard a conversation that stopped me in my tracks. “We didn’t have car seats when I was little and I turned out fine,” one mom said, rolling her eyes as another parent struggled with buckles. “Kids today are too coddled.”
I used to say things like this too. It felt like wisdom, like proof that we could survive anything. But lately, I’ve been thinking about what that phrase really means, and more importantly, what it costs us.
When we say “I turned out fine,” we’re not just dismissing modern safety measures or parenting approaches. We’re shutting down something much deeper: the chance to look honestly at our own experiences and how they shaped us.
We’re closing the door on understanding why we parent the way we do, why certain things trigger us, and what invisible wounds we might be passing down without even knowing it.
The hidden cost of being “fine”
Growing up in my small Midwest town, dinner was at six sharp every night. We all sat together, passed the potatoes, talked about homework and weather. On paper, it looked perfect. Traditional family values, stability, everything a kid needs, right?
But those dinners? The conversations never went deeper than what happened at school that day. My father came home exhausted from long work days, ate quietly, then disappeared into his newspaper. He provided everything we needed materially, but emotionally? That was different territory entirely.
For years, I told myself this was normal. That I was lucky. That I turned out fine.
It wasn’t until I had my own kids that I started noticing things. How I’d panic when they expressed big emotions because no one had shown me what to do with feelings. How I’d catch myself saying “because I said so” just like my parents did. How desperately I wanted to connect with my children but didn’t always know how because I’d never seen it modeled.
Was I fine? Sure, if fine means functioning. But what about thriving? What about the therapy sessions where I’m still unpacking why I apologize for everything? What about the perfectionism that leaves me exhausted? What about the people-pleasing that has me saying yes when every cell in my body screams no?
Why we defend what hurt us
There’s something almost protective about saying “I turned out fine.” It’s like we’re defending our parents, our childhoods, ourselves. Admitting that something wasn’t okay feels like betrayal. It feels like weakness.
But what if it’s actually the opposite?
I watch my five-year-old daughter carefully. She tells me everything, from the friend who didn’t share at preschool to how the clouds looked like dinosaurs today. She knows her feelings matter. When my two-year-old son gets frustrated with his blocks, we name it together: “You’re feeling mad because the tower fell down.”
This isn’t how I grew up. Feelings were something you handled privately, quickly, without fuss. Good girls didn’t get angry. Good girls didn’t complain.
The thing is, my parents probably said “I turned out fine” about their own childhoods too. My grandparents definitely did. Each generation, defending the pain of the previous one, ensuring it continues forward like some twisted heirloom nobody actually wants but everyone insists on keeping.
Breaking the cycle means breaking the silence
Here’s what I’ve learned: you can love your parents and still acknowledge that some things weren’t okay. You can be grateful for your childhood and still work to do better. These aren’t mutually exclusive.
When we refuse to look at what wasn’t fine, we can’t heal it. And what we can’t heal, we repeat.
I see it in small moments. The way I tense up when my kids are “too loud” in public, hearing my mother’s voice warning about what people will think. The way I sometimes struggle to just play without turning it into a lesson, because achievement was the only language of love I knew growing up.
But here’s where it gets beautiful: every time I catch myself, every time I choose differently, I’m not just changing things for my kids. I’m healing something in myself too.
What “fine” looks like to our children
Our kids are watching us. They see when we stuff down our feelings, when we pretend everything’s okay when it’s not, when we repeat patterns we swore we never would.
When we say “I turned out fine” while clearly struggling with anxiety, while unable to set boundaries, while repeating the exact patterns that hurt us, what are we teaching them? That fine means accepting less than you deserve? That fine means never examining what hurts? That fine means perpetual survival mode?
My daughter recently asked me why Grandpa doesn’t play with them much. The old me would have made excuses, protected everyone’s feelings but hers. Instead, I took a breath and said, “Grandpa shows love differently.
He didn’t grow up playing much with his dad either, so he might not know how. But we can show him, and we can play lots together, you and me.”
It was honest without being cruel. It acknowledged a pattern without demanding anyone be perfect. It left room for growth and connection.
Redefining what we want to be
What if instead of “I turned out fine,” we said things like:
“I survived, and I’m learning to thrive.”
“I’m working through some stuff from my childhood, and that’s okay.”
“My parents did their best with what they knew, and I’m trying to know better.”
“Some things were hard for me growing up, and I want different for you.”
These statements don’t close doors. They open them. They invite conversation, growth, healing. They show our kids that adults are still learning, still growing, still becoming.
Conclusion: Beyond fine
That mom at the playground? Maybe she did turn out fine. Maybe fine is enough for her. But I want more than fine for my children, and that starts with wanting more than fine for myself.
It means having the conversations my family never had. It means feeling the feelings we weren’t allowed to feel. It means breaking patterns even when it’s uncomfortable, especially when it’s uncomfortable.
Some days I nail it. Other days I hear my mother’s words coming out of my mouth and have to stop, breathe, start over. That’s okay. The point isn’t perfection. The point is awareness, intention, and the courage to do the work our parents couldn’t or wouldn’t do.
Because when we stop defending what hurt us, we can finally start healing it. And when we heal it, we don’t pass it on.
Our children deserve more than fine. They deserve parents who can look honestly at their own experiences, feel their own feelings, and create something better. Not perfect, but conscious. Not flawless, but growing.
That’s the gift we give when we retire “I turned out fine” from our vocabulary. We give our children permission to be whole, to feel everything, to expect more than survival. We show them that every generation has the power to heal what came before and plant something better for what comes after.
And that? That’s so much more than fine.
