There’s this moment I remember from early in my relationship with Matt. We were maybe six months in, and he asked me, so casually, “What are you feeling right now?”
I froze. Literally could not answer.
It wasn’t that I didn’t have feelings. It’s that I’d spent my whole childhood learning not to name them, not to burden anyone with them, not to expect anyone to really want to know.
Growing up with emotionally distant parents leaves marks you don’t always see until you’re trying to build something intimate with another person. My parents provided everything material: food, shelter, a stable home. But emotional connection? That was like trying to find water in a desert.
And here’s what I’ve learned, both from my own journey and from watching other people navigate this: when you grow up without that emotional attunement, you develop certain patterns in relationships. Some are protective. Some are actually pretty functional. But all of them stem from that early experience of not quite feeling seen.
Let me walk you through what I’ve noticed.
1) They struggle with vulnerability but work hard to overcome it
The first time Matt saw me cry (really cry, not just misty-eyed at a movie) I apologized about seventeen times.
“I’m sorry, I’m being ridiculous.”
“Sorry, I don’t know why I’m like this.”
“I’m fine, really, sorry.”
He just held me and said, “You don’t have to apologize for having feelings.”
That was revolutionary to me.
When your parents are emotionally distant, you learn early that your feelings are inconvenient at best, unwelcome at worst. So you build walls. You become the person who “doesn’t need anyone,” who handles everything alone, who certainly doesn’t fall apart in front of another human being.
But here’s the thing: those walls that protected you as a kid become prisons in adult relationships.
I’ve had to actively practice vulnerability. And I mean practice, like it’s a skill I’m learning from scratch. Telling Matt when I’m overwhelmed. Admitting when I need support. Letting him see me when I’m not okay.
It still doesn’t come naturally. But I do it anyway, because I know that intimacy lives on the other side of those walls.
2) They’re hyperaware of emotional cues in others
One skill you develop when your parents are emotionally unavailable? You become a master at reading the room.
I can walk into a space and within minutes tell you who’s upset, who’s faking being fine, who’s about to lose it. It’s like a superpower I didn’t ask for but got anyway.
As clinical psychologist Dr. Lindsay Gibson notes in her research on emotionally immature parents, children in these families often become “emotional caretakers,” developing heightened sensitivity to others’ feelings as a survival mechanism.
In relationships, this translates to being incredibly attuned to your partner’s emotional state. Sometimes more attuned than they are themselves.
Matt will come home from work, say he’s fine, and I’ll know within three sentences that something’s bothering him. Sometimes this is helpful. Sometimes it means I’m reading into things that aren’t there, or taking responsibility for moods that aren’t mine to fix.
The key I’ve found is using this sensitivity to create connection, not to manage or control. Noticing is good. Trying to fix everything? That’s just me replaying old patterns.
3) They need more reassurance than they want to admit
This one’s hard to confess, but it’s true.
Even after seven years of marriage, after two kids, after countless demonstrations of Matt’s commitment, there’s still this little voice that whispers, “What if he leaves? What if you’re too much? What if you’re not enough?”
When you grow up with emotional distance, you internalize a message: that you’re not worth showing up for. Not interesting enough, not important enough, not lovable enough to warrant someone’s full attention.
That doesn’t just disappear because you found a good partner.
I need to hear “I love you” more than Matt probably thinks necessary. I need confirmation that we’re okay when we have a disagreement. I need him to tell me when he’ll be home, not because I’m controlling, but because uncertainty sends me into old panic patterns.
And you know what? That’s okay. Matt gets it. We’ve talked about it. He doesn’t make me feel needy for needing reassurance. He just gives it.
The difference between healthy and unhealthy here is being able to name what you need, instead of creating tests or games to get reassurance indirectly.
4) They’re fiercely independent, sometimes to a fault
Last year I got really sick (nothing serious, just a bad flu) and I still tried to take care of the kids, make dinner, keep up with work deadlines.
Matt finally put his foot down. “You’re allowed to need help. Please let me help.”
Independence was my survival strategy growing up. If I didn’t need anything from anyone, I couldn’t be disappointed when they didn’t show up. Self-sufficiency became my armor.
But in a partnership, that armor becomes a barrier.
There’s a difference between healthy autonomy and the kind of independence that says “I can’t rely on anyone because they’ll let me down.” One creates space for two whole people to be together. The other creates loneliness inside a relationship.
I’m learning (slowly) to let Matt in. To accept help. To admit when I’m drowning. To trust that his love doesn’t evaporate the moment I’m not perfectly capable.
It’s uncomfortable. But it’s also how real intimacy gets built.
5) They choose partners carefully and commit deeply
I didn’t date much before Matt. Not because I couldn’t, but because I wasn’t willing to invest in something unless it felt genuinely different from what I grew up with.
People who were raised with emotional distance tend to do one of two things in relationships: either they recreate the familiar dynamic (choosing emotionally unavailable partners), or they consciously choose the opposite.
I chose the opposite.
Matt is present in ways my father never was. He asks questions and actually listens to the answers. He notices when something’s off. He shows up for the hard conversations instead of retreating to his workshop or burying himself in work.
When I committed to him, it was all in. Because I knew (after years of figuring out my patterns) that this was someone I could build something real with.
Research on childhood emotional maltreatment shows that these early experiences significantly impact how we approach romantic relationships in adulthood, affecting everything from our ability to feel close to our partners to how we handle conflict.
The flip side? We can sometimes hold on too tight, confusing intensity with intimacy. But that’s another pattern to be aware of and work through.
6) They parent with intentional emotional presence
This is where all my own childhood stuff becomes most obvious and most important.
When Ellie came to me yesterday, crying because she missed her friend who moved away, I didn’t say “You’ll make new friends” or “It’s not that big a deal.” I sat down, pulled her into my lap, and said, “Tell me about it. I’m listening.”
Those words (“Tell me about it. I’m listening”) are my mantra. They’re the words I needed as a kid and never got.
I’m breaking cycles with my kids. They don’t have to guess whether their feelings are welcome. They don’t have to perform emotional independence they don’t feel. They get to be sad, angry, confused, overwhelmed. And they get to have a parent who doesn’t flinch away from any of it.
Is it hard? Yes. Does it bring up all my own unprocessed childhood stuff? Absolutely.
With Ellie heading toward the tween years soon, I’ve been thinking a lot about how to maintain this emotional connection as she grows. I recently came across a video about the neuroscience of teenage communication and why so many parents lose that thread of connection during adolescence.
It breaks down what’s actually happening in their developing brains and offers practical ways to stay emotionally present even when they start pulling away. It’s given me so much insight into how to prepare for those years ahead. And honestly, it’s helped me understand my own teenage self a little better too.
But watching Ellie freely express her emotions, watching Milo climb into my lap when he needs comfort, that’s worth every uncomfortable moment of my own healing work.
7) They’re doing the work to heal, often in therapy
I started therapy after Milo was born and my postpartum anxiety became unmanageable.
But what started as anxiety treatment became something deeper: untangling all those childhood patterns. Understanding why I respond to conflict by shutting down. Why I catastrophize when Matt’s quiet. Why I have such a hard time accepting comfort.
Here’s what I’ve learned: you can’t build healthy relationships on an unexamined foundation. Those early experiences with emotionally distant parents don’t just disappear because you want them to.
Therapy has taught me to recognize when I’m responding to Matt as if he were my father. When I’m bracing for rejection that isn’t coming, or when I’m overcompensating for emotional needs I’m afraid to express directly.
As noted by Rudá Iandê in his book Laughing in the Face of Chaos, “Your body is your wisest teacher—physical sensations and emotions contain more intelligence than your thinking mind.”
This resonates deeply with my therapy work. I’ve learned to notice the tightness in my chest when I’m afraid to be vulnerable, the way my shoulders tense when I’m reverting to old independence patterns.
The book inspired me to trust those bodily signals as information rather than problems to fix.
Most people I know who grew up with emotional distance are doing some version of this work, whether through therapy, books, support groups, or just really intentional self-reflection. Because we know what we don’t want to recreate, and we’re willing to do what it takes to build something different.
Moving forward
If you recognize yourself in these patterns, first: you’re not alone. So many of us are navigating relationships with this same history.
Second: these patterns don’t make you broken. They make you human, with a very understandable response to what you experienced.
The emotionally distant parenting you received wasn’t your fault. But healing from it? That’s your responsibility and your opportunity.
Matt and I still have moments where my old patterns flare up. Where I shut down instead of opening up, or where I pull away when I really need to lean in. But now we can name what’s happening. We can talk about it. We can work through it together.
And that (that ability to stay connected even when it’s hard, to be emotionally present even when it feels vulnerable, to choose intimacy over self-protection) is the real work of breaking cycles.
Your childhood doesn’t have to determine your relationships. These patterns can change. You can learn new ways of connecting.
It takes work. It takes awareness. It takes a willingness to feel uncomfortable while you build new skills.
But it’s possible. And it’s worth it.
