Every year, around this time, I notice something.

Young parents — particularly Gen Z (born between 1997 and 2012) and their predecessors, Millennials (born roughly between 1981 and 1996) — gear up for the holidays with a particular kind of focus and enthusiasm. A plan that has been percolating for months (maybe years) is finally put into action. There might be a vision board in the back of the craft room illustrating exactly how Christmas morning should look like, and the sequence of events leading up to the turkey being set on the elaborately decorated table has been deliberately planned out.

Meanwhile, their parents — who may have been hosting the same meals and gatherings for decades — are wondering why their adult child, perhaps with a partner and grandchildren, hasn’t confirmed an arrival time. Or why they haven’t been invited at all.

My goal is not to identify a villain. As a family psychologist, I start from a place of positive intentionality. I wholeheartedly believe that most people, in most moments, are trying to do the right thing. Adult children and their parents are both acting from a place of excitement, yearning, and holiday anticipation.

In many ways, their responses are opposite sides of the same coin: the anxiety of uncertainty and change.

What I am curious about is the urgency that seems to be driving new parents’ desire to create their own traditions. To do the holidays their way. What does this say about the meaning of traditions, and how traditions shape the people within — and outside — these rituals? What happens to a family system when the events and rituals that define who they are seem to change so radically across a single generation?

What we know about rituals

Birthdays, holidays, family reunions, and funerals are recurring events that mean something to those participating. They organize family life and provide stability during times of stress and transition. Rituals involve a sequence of events, carry specific meaning, and communicate this is who we are. Their symbolism is passed from generation to generation, and their felt meaning is known by those inside the system who repeat them.

The power and pull of rituals build gradually — over generations and over a lifetime. They tend to matter most once a child can participate actively, once the repetition has accumulated enough history to feel like something worth protecting.

Which means the traditions new parents establish in these early years are already telling their children a story about who their family is. And yet so many feel the pressure to create, curate, and perfect a bespoke holiday experience — to document every aspect of it — regardless of what their own parents have been doing for years.

Why the rush

So why does this generation feel such urgency to build traditions quickly, and on their own terms? There are several parts to the answer.

Part of it is a normal developmental process. Younger generations form an identity distinct from their family of origin, and new rituals and routines tend to reflect a combination of old and new practices that fit their current resources, relationships, and social context. This is differentiation. Marking that distinction through how you spend the holidays is one of the clearest ways of saying: this family is its own thing.

Another part of it is timing. Childhood is genuinely short — the “only eighteen summers” reality lands hard once you are inside it. New parents become acutely aware that traditions are being formed now — the first Christmas morning, the first Halloween costume, the first night the whole family stays home and does something that will become the thing they always do. The desire to be intentional rather than simply inherit or improvise makes sense when you understand how much has already been decided.

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The way new parents remember their own childhoods may also provide part of the answer. Memories of Christmas morning, like other emotionally salient memories, are encoded more vividly than mundane information and are more readily retrieved. These are the memories that have been replayed and reconstructed over time. They feel important and true. When millennial parents draw on their childhood to plan their own holidays, they inadvertently select the highlights as markers to repeat and the lowlights as examples of what to avoid. They are working from an edited version of the past, trying to recreate what felt magical and working hard to ensure that nothing goes the way it did that year everything went wrong. The urgency to create something of their own in part, a response to a highlight reel of memories. It is also a motivation to avoid the intense emotions of a time when their family was most complicated.

And finally, the most powerful driver may be the one we are all standing inside right now: social media. Millennial and Gen Z parents are constantly immersed in curated versions of the holidays. Elaborate decorations throughout an immaculate house. Matching pajamas. Seasonal mementos and heirlooms. Themed activities that photograph beautifully and communicate, to anyone watching, that this parent thought ahead, has everything together, and is doing it right. Even when we know they are performing — probably exhausted, with considerable help in the background — the pull is real.

What is underneath it

Most new parents are not trying to erase the traditions they grew up with or actively push the older generation out of the picture. The desire for meaning and familiarity remains.

What has changed is what people want those rituals to actually feel like. Previous generations often went through the motions of holidays out of obligation, out of the absence of an alternative, out of a cultural script that did not require anything to be convenient or particularly enjoyable. If the family went to church on Sunday, you went to church on Sunday. Whether it felt meaningful was not relevant.

Today's parents want the meaning, and they want it to fit into their babie’s wake windows. They want connection, not performance (although some would argue the opposite). They want the holiday to feel emotionally safe and to participate in rituals that are genuinely theirs — not solely inherited, not maintained by guilt, not complicated by dynamics they have been quietly managing since childhood.

This generation is also adapting to real constraints. Smaller homes. Families spread across continents. Complex configurations with in-laws, step-grandparents, exes, and blended everything. Higher costs. The rules that applied before simply no longer fit. When there are four sets of grandparents, which family gets the dinner? The clarity that previous generations had about where you went for Christmas has largely dissolved. Someone has to decide. And increasingly, it is the younger generation making that choice — and whether they intend to or not, their choices will leave some people, and some rituals, out.

What it feels like on the other side

For the parents of the adult child who is building their own traditions, these changes can feel sudden, confusing, or even insulting. Even with the best of intentions, it can land as rejection.

After decades of perfecting Christmas morning — the particular meal, the particular sequence of events that makes the day feel magical — being left out of celebrations, or being asked to attend something entirely different, can be genuinely painful. The urgency to build something new is seldom a complete or overt rejection of what came before. But intentions get lost in translation. More on this, and what parents of adult children can do with it, in the next piece in this series.

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For the adult child who keeps showing up anyway

There is another version of this, and it is equally common.

There are adult children who, year after year, continue to show up to the same gathering. They participate in the traditions they grew up with, going through the motions — clenching a jaw or a cocktail — for traditions that do not fit who they have become or the family they have now. They show up because it is expected of them, because no alternative feels available, or because they accepted the status quo. They come home drained and resentful, and then feel guilty for feeling that way, because it is family, and this is what family does.

Their experience matters because it sits at the intersection of obligation and values — and obligation is not inherently the problem. Most relationships involve some degree of it. In many families and cultures, showing up out of duty is a valued form of love. The act of being there, even when it costs something, is the point. That commitment, when chosen intentionally, is worth honouring.

The issue is guilt and coercion. The sense that there is no real choice. That an absence would be held against you, weaponized, or used as evidence of who you are as a person and as a child.

A healthy enough relationship with family traditions tends to look like this: you can say no without being overwhelmed by it, and you can say yes intentionally — because you want to, or because you value the relationship enough that the cost is worth it, not because the alternative is unbearable.

Healthy enough accepts that traditions change over time. The tensions that arise from generational differences are uncomfortable and survivable. Contact and closeness are chosen rather than coerced.

A more useful question

Before the all the decorations are up and family group chat gets overly crowded, I invite the following reflection for adult children:

When you push for new traditions — when you insist on doing it your way, on your timeline, in your home — what need are you actually meeting?

Your own — real and legitimate — need for differentiation? Your desire to protect your child from dynamics that felt harmful in your own childhood? The excitement of a first Christmas in a new home, a new chapter, a family that is unmistakably yours? A nostalgic replication of holidays past?

Or something else.

Teaching someone a lesson. Distancing yourself from something you haven’t fully named. Letting a social media aesthetic drive what should be a family decision.

Most of the time, it is some combination. Most of the time, the intention is good. And most of the time, the impact is more complicated than anyone planned for.

Building your own traditions is a process that involves both honouring the past and updating it. Rituals develop gradually — perfected, tweaked, adjusted to the people involved. A full overhaul is a protest. Keeping a few meaningful inherited rituals while adding and updating others is more likely to accomplish what rituals are actually meant to do: bring people together, foster identity and connection.

And, wherever possible, a conversation — before the season begins, not in the middle of it — about what the holidays actually mean to each person. What they are hoping for. What they are dreading. What they would be genuinely sad to lose.

That conversation is harder than buying matching pajamas.

Tell me: Is there a tradition you kept going to out of obligation that you now realize you actually value? Or one you thought you valued that turned out to be obligation all along?

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This is the first in a series on holiday traditions and the intergenerational tensions they surface. The second piece is written for the parent on the other side — the one looking at a calendar that doesn’t include them the way it used to.

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Hi, I’m Dr. Rana. I’m a clinical psychologist and founder of Sorted Mind. I write about the lifelong journey of parenthood and family relationships, from the peripartum period to adulthood. I provide workshops, training, and consultation for therapists. I hope these articles will help you sort through the messy parts of life.

There’s a trend happening among millennial parents. It started with the push to give our children a ‘90s summer, with more unstructured, unsupervised time. Fewer scheduled activities. Less hovering. And more “go outside and run through the sprinkler.” Many millennial parents, myself included, have been drawn to this approach. This comes alongside a change in the road trip soundtrack. Less Old MacDonald’s Farm, and more Santeria.

On the surface, this looks like self-indulgent nostalgia. That bittersweet sentimentality for the past. Maybe some boasting about how good “things were back then.”

Underneath the reminiscing about Walkmans and Blockbuster runs, there lies a motivation to reclaim something parents have lost along the way.

The structure of the family, and a childhood unencumbered by expectations of perfection.

Nostalgia is powerful. Reminiscing about the past can improve our mood and give us a warm sense of comfort in things that are familiar and seemingly wholesome. It connects us to our roots by strengthening the continuity of ourselves and our relationships. When we share past experiences with others — either peers or the next generation — we are reminded of the bonds that we share, and social relationships, feelings of belonging, and connection are fostered. Nostalgia can also help us move forward — motivating us to take action, either to recreate something from the past or to do it differently.

And this is what is happening with millennial parents. Nostalgia is a way to move us forward, past the overcorrection of “gentle parenting.”

Gentle parenting is not all bad, until some of it was

First, I give credit where it’s due. In the past 15 years or so, many millennial parents turned to gentle parenting as an antidote to the loneliness they felt in their own childhoods. And despite its many faces and misrepresentations, at its core, gentle parenting emphasized attunement, the emotional vocabulary, and the understanding that children have inner lives worth taking seriously.

That is a good thing.

As we often do when we want to rectify a painful pattern, we overcorrected. We applied an oversimplified rule too rigidly, and for too many problems.

A child’s autonomy became choosing their nap time.

Acknowledging their discomfort became removing the expectation of respectful greetings.

Validating feelings became a long discussion about the disappointment of not having a third snack before dinner.

Feelings. Feelings. Feeeeeeeeeelings.

The child’s emotional state became the organizing principle of the family. Parents found themselves negotiating, explaining, justifying, and accommodating in ways that left everyone — children included — feeling vaguely unmoored.

No wonder parents are exhausted, jaded, and craving a different structure for their family.

A terrifying course correction

What I’m seeing now, in practice and in the broader cultural conversation, is parents taking pause. And careful action.

They want a return to a family structure where adults are in charge, with warmth and firmness. And when children are asked to carry more than their weight.

But that is a terrifying task for many parents.

For those who remember parental authority as harshness, not consideration; when expectations were reinforced by threats, instead of support; and connection was a reward for achievement, not for its own sake.

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These millenial parents worry they will overcorrect again. A swing back to the authoritarian model. And back to that place where they were hurt, lonely, scared. Only this time it will be them doing the hurting.

That fear is paralyzing. The current climate does not help. At a time when parents have more information than ever, more pressure to get it “right,” and more eyeballs judging their parenting choices, going against something that seems as wholesome as “hearing your child” and “following their needs” is uncomfortable to say the least.

What children actually need

The truth is that children do not actually want to be in charge. Too many options and decisions do not feel like freedom to them. It is scary, because they are not supposed to be in charge, and they know it. Children feel safe when steady grown-ups are making decisions. Kind, steady grown-ups.

A return to the family structure where parents know different — not always best, but at least different — is a return to the structure where the child feels safe. In family systems terms, a balanced hierarchy, where the parent subsystem makes decisions appropriate to their role, is how children have space to be children.

This hierarchy can look like mom sneaking mittens into my backpack on a cold day and dad checking in on me at curfew without shaming. Structure and warmth can coexist, and sometimes they are one and the same.

It’s not nostalgia we are after

The nostalgia framing is a little misleading, then. Millennial parents aren’t trying to recreate their childhoods. Their childhoods had their own problems — emotional unavailability, rigidity, the loneliness of being barely seen and not heard.

No one wants that back.

What we want is the part that worked: the sense that someone was in charge.

But getting back to that steadiness is a daunting and humbling path where parents of my generation have to face two painful realities. What hurt them in childhood. And how something else was also true. Something — however small — was working.

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So, to the previous generation thinking “I told you so!!!” You may have a point. Something might have worked. Give us some space and compassion as we recalibrate. We are learning to be firm without being frightening, and warm without being passive. We won’t always get it right.

To the parents in the thick of it: what did the steady grown-ups in your life get right, and what would it take to keep that part and leave the rest behind?

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The Accountability Problem, Part 3 of 3

Next: what if accountability wasn’t the thing? And a note for clinicians on the puppet-master question. Part 1 and Part 2 looked at the standoff between parents and adult children. This one looks at the profession accused of starting it.

Bold Claims

The adult child’s therapist has been framed as a villain in the supposedly growing number of adult children choosing to cut contact with their parents. For the record, I am a member of the accused profession.

You’ve likely seen the statistics. The YouGov 2025 survey reports that 38% of American adults are estranged from at least one immediate family member. Peter Andersen’s survey – which is not a peer-reviewed study – sought opinions of estranged parents, and found that nearly one-third of them pointed the finger at their adult child’s therapist as having influenced the decision to cut contact.

This was a survey that directly sought the opinions of parents who were estranged. Its limitations are evident, and the problem with amplifying its “findings” as truth should be just as glaring. But for good measure, here are the problems: it is a one-sided sample of self-selected individuals, asked simple questions about a highly complex and emotional topic. That makes it a biased sample with a dubious methodology. The finding – which reflects about a third of the sample – names one possible culprit, which is different from a cause. It offers no evidence of causality. It was a guess made by hurt, confused parents. And having 7,000 participants does not change the very little – if any – weight that can be put on the finding.

But also, I don’t think we can ignore it.

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The Power Therapists Have

We must recognize the power therapists have. They sit alone in a room (or across a screen) with someone who is in a period of emotional vulnerability and needs support. They are seen as the expert. The client is in a vulnerable position, which is why therapists (are supposed to!) receive extensive training on therapeutic boundaries and are required to adhere to ethical standards that recognize the asymmetrical relationship.

Some therapists have large online followings. Others, from unregulated professions, are giving therapy-like advice on life and relationships. And if anyone thinks that influencers have no pull on people’s behaviour, then I’m sorry, I can’t help you here.

Harm Can Be Done

If we believe therapists can have no influence on their clients, we are challenging the very core of psychotherapy. Clients come to us because they want change. Many of us offer the opportunity for change by providing a safe place where clients can make sense of their experience, bring to the surface feelings and memories that have otherwise been avoided, and experience a corrective relationship in which someone offers compassionate, non-judgemental listening and helps them develop skills to make those changes. Others do it differently.

Numerous clients have told me something like, ‘I thought about what we talked about in session, and it helped me figure out how I wanted to respond.’”

Another truth to accept is that therapists are human, and humans carry biases.

Every. Single. One. (myself included).

It is therefore possible that some therapists – or non-therapists acting as if they can give mental health and relationship advice without harmful consequences – will let those biases steer the therapy.

There is no shortage of anecdotes, research and data documenting the harm therapists can do to their clients in therapy. Research has shown that suggestive techniques can create false or distorted memories with great confidence, so therapists should hold their clients’ accounts with curiosity rather than certainty1. Therapist bias, prejudicial attitudes, and unresolved emotions can surface in therapy and influence how therapists show up for clients2. These biases can lead to misinterpretation of the client’s needs, early termination, rigid practice, and inadequate therapeutic techniques3.

It is absolutely bonkers – I’m sorry, naive – to think that therapists do not influence their clients, whether it is to “convince” them to practice a mindfulness exercise or to cut off a parent.

And before you bring it up – anyone using AI for relationship advice is also sitting across from a biased entity. AI is as unbiased as its the data it is trained on, which carries biases of language and cultural norms. It can be overly agreeable and inconsistent in its advice45.

Hopefully, we can agree that:

• Therapists influence their clients

• Therapists show up with biases

What Is Left of the Accusation

Is it possible that some therapists have influenced their clients – explicitly or not – to cut off contact with their parents? My best guess is… probably.

Is it possible that some clients have interpreted their therapist’s comments as instruction to cut off their parents, even though that might not be what the therapist meant? My best guess is… probably.

Is it possible that hurt parents are looking for an external reason to blame when they are accused of something that shakes them to the core and challenges a part of their life so closely tied to their identity and pride? Something that brings shame if they take responsibility for it? Also… probably.

And yet, there is no reasonable study – that I know of – that shows that therapists are responsible for a significant share of the increase in estrangement.

What Is Probably True as Well

The therapist is one player in a complex system. Expectations about family have changed67: individualism is encouraged, parental authority has eroded as a result of changed family structures and value systems, and views of what parents “owe” their children and what adult children “owe” their parents have changed . Greater awareness of emotional abuse and childhood trauma, and less stigma around going no-contact, have made it easier to name hurt and act on it. And distance matters too: the more physical space between family members, the easier it is to step away.

It is also worth noting that parents of adult children live under similar pressures and influences. They are exposed to narratives in which their children are being brainwashed into cutting them off, or in which their offspring are too entitled to see their efforts and intentions as parents or to recognize the sacrifices of their generation. A parent’s friends, online groups, and sometimes their own therapist can nudge them as well toward a clear villain and away from the kernel of truth.

Maybe adult children who are considering severing ties with family members are more likely to reach out and continue working with therapists who have biases that match their hunches. The “right” therapist might swing the ambivalence to one side – or the other.

Maybe parents whose shame is overwhelming, or who do not have the capacity or skill to find something real in their child’s story, will gravitate toward peers, resources, and professionals who will validate their views. They will be pulled to the side of the narrative that continuously looks outward for the problem, leaving the space between them and their adult child to widen.

What It Leaves Us With – Therapists or Not

Therapists are one factor influencing these decisions, for a subset of people who may eventually choose to cut off a parent. They make a nice, clean target, maybe even too easy to be credible, but the possibility still needs to be examined.

Bold claims have been made from both camps about the causes of estrangement, and therapists have been caught in the middle, without good evidence to support either one. Even without that evidence, psychotherapy – and all the unregulated spin-offs – has real influence over people who show up vulnerable.

Even a weak accusation raises important questions: what happens between two people in the room? And what do we do with the person who is not there?

In The Accountability Problem series, I explored how parents and adult children are both looking for accountability as a path to healing. My profession should not be exempt from scrutiny.

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The Accountability Problem, Part 2 of 3

A three-part series about parents, adult children, and the standoff. In Part 1, everyone wanted accountability from someone else. This part looks at what happens when it doesn’t come. Part 3 is an answer to those who think therapists are to blame.

The Accountability Problem

There is never – okay fine, very rarely – a single thing that will change or mend a relationship. Accountability is no different. Accountability itself has many layers: taking responsibility, acknowledging the harm, and attempting to repair and preventing the hurt from occurring again.

And yes, for some, this is too much to ask.

This is where the adult child and their parents get trapped. Whether it is for their hurt to be recognized or their intentions to be enough, the dynamic is at a standstill, and each side has blamed someone else for it: the infantilization of parents and the therapists who tell adult children to cut their parents off.

They want this thing, they want it in a particular way, they want it sooner rather than later, and they want it consistently. They stay focused on what they want and cannot have.

What You Don’t Need to Heal

A harmed person can heal without any involvement of the offender. This is a bold claim, but one that has been supported repeatedly in the forgiveness research. Stanford researcher Fred Luskin1 found that survivors of political and sectarian violence, parents whose children have been murdered, and betrayed partners can set aside the blame and resentment they carry from the betrayals and hurts. And they did this without receiving one.

I am intentionally resisting the side quest into forgiveness here, but the point is that we can live a meaningful life, free from resentment without the other person ever taking responsibility. This doesn’t mean that the offender being accountable would not be meaningful or helpful for repair, and it certainly does not mean that the offender and victim should have any relationship moving forward.

There are many reasons why parents will continue their old patterns. Many are repeating the patterns that have been passed on through generations and do not have words for them, let alone a template to do differently. While this is not an excuse to repeat a harmful pattern, it is a stubborn context that is important to consider without minimizing. Many of us have a hard time sticking to an exercise program or skincare routine for more than a week. Let’s put some perspective on our expectations of our parents.

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The adult child finds themselves on a Stairmaster when they insist on and criticize the lack of accountability or change from their parent, instead of bringing their attention to what can be done about it.

And yes, that involves you changing.

For the parent, blaming therapists and influencers is a comforting shield against embarrassment. But focusing their attention on the supposed perpetrator instead of what can be done about the relationship is keeping them stuck.

And yes, that involves you changing.

In order to feel less pain, one does not need the other person to take accountability. One does not even need their version of events to be corroborated.

The way you talk about your childhood experiences, especially those associated with your parents, traumatic events or losses, is linked to mental health in adulthood.

Read that again.

It is not what happened to you.

It is how you talk about it.

Your state of mind about these past events predicts depression, anxiety, your biological response to stress, and even your child’s attachment to you2. This is based on decades of findings from the Adult Attachment Interview, which assesses whether a person’s narrative about their childhood is coherent: believable, succinct, and orderly. A coherent narrative is one where the person can name a parent’s limits without derogating them, and credit real care without idealizing it; where they can imagine their own and their parents’ minds at the time, where they provide enough detail to follow the events without being overwhelmed by superfluous details or leaving so many gaps that it seems disjointed. It is a narrative that can be followed and understood by a listener.

oherence is about how a story is told, not whether every fact is accurate. It does not involve asking if their parents would agree.

None of this involves the corroboration of another party.

When an adult child has a coherent account of their past, they might be more likely to stay regulated when their parents repeat an unpleasant pattern. They can stay grounded knowing that a parent’s actions – are not a reflection of themselves. They can give that little version of themselves a metaphorical hug (”I know dad’s silence is painful”) and move on with the moment (”but keeping a relationship with him is important to me. I will change the subject and keep this visit short”). This stance reduces the pull toward either arguing for validation or going numb.

This is earned security. Validation and safety come from you, not a parent who is unable to offer it. They also come from other healthy relationships, perhaps with a sibling, therapist, partner.

While accountability might be central to rebuilding trust in a relationship. It is not necessary for healing, or for the relationships to survive in a different form.

What If We Shifted the Focus

If therapists are the problem, the solution is in their hands. If the parents can’t change, the solution is in their hands too. Whether accountability should come from the therapist, the influencer, or the infantilized parent, putting it at the centre of family dynamics has led to a standoff, because nothing needs to change on your side until they do. And while accountability is important, valuable, and would be so nice in so many situations… what if it wasn’t the thing?

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For the adult child, setting the need for accountability aside means grieving the parent you needed, and the one you can have moving forward. Once that wish is named and grieved, the pressure of turning every interaction with your parent into an appeal for change dissipates. It becomes coping with ambiguous loss, as opposed to hitting your head against a brick wall hoping that mom will understand. This is not easy. It is painful. It is uncomfortable.

I stand by the fact that discomfort alone is not synonymous with harm.

But to be clear, this does not mean one should accept abuse and harmful behaviour. In a relationship where harm is ongoing, when your personal rights are breached and your safety compromised, distance is a protective and necessary choice. The decision to eliminate contact is not being disputed here, although the wish to receive accountability may still be keeping you stuck.

What keeps the dynamic stuck is the waiting: for the apology, for the change, for the right words in the right tone.

This means the adult child must redefine what the relationship can be now. Any visit, contact, or shared experience must live within new limits – if it does at all. A limited-purpose relationship that is healthy enough. It means defining the contact – type, length, and frequency of the time together. This is done by changing your actions, not theirs. And choosing closeness, the extent, type, and depth of information and emotions that are shared by you and asked for. You don’t get to ask about dad’s hip if you’re going to get annoyed by his answer and don’t want to be asked about attending his medical appointments.

Accept ambivalence. Embrace it even. Having mixed feelings towards parents is normal and acting according to that is a sign of emotional maturity.

For the parents, recognize that your child may not be able to see you as a whole, flawed person. But that doesn’t mean your flaws do not exist. A close honest look at the way you respond to an adult child’s request (“please stop commenting on my weight”) or invitation to see things differently (“can you see how dropping by unexpectedly can throw us off as a new parent?”) may reveal a pattern. Perhaps you scoffed it away, ignored it, or tried to prove them wrong. Maybe you agreed, and then forgot.

Defensiveness is a convenient costume for shame. Parents who feel criticized or exposed tend to deflect blame. Those who feel guilty rather than shame are more likely to be open to repair3. Some parents have limited capacity. Whether it is their own unprocessed trauma history, cognitive decline, or personality traits, some will not be able to meet their adult child’s emotional needs. For some, “won’t change” is actually “doesn’t have the skills,” and that needs a different response.

As the parent in the dynamic, it’s worth asking yourself which one is closer to the truth. Is the shame so heavy that change feels out of reach? Or has no one ever shown you how to do this? The first needs support for the shame. The second needs practice.

The practice part is real. When you feel the heat rising after your adult child’s comment, have a sip of water and try saying, “this sounds important, and I want to hear you out.” Then listen for that kernel of truth - that one bit that is at least a little bit true, and repeat it back to them. Something like “You told me the comments about your weight hurt. I did make them. They were hurtful to you.” Then stop. No “but”. Just a stop. If you can, apologize. Something like, “I’m sorry I made those comments” is a good start. Clumsy apologies usually take a few attempts.

If you can’t find the kernel, recognize their feeling, “I don’t remember it that way, and I can see it hurt.’” You don’t have to agree with their version of events to notice the feeling they are conveying to you.

Whether your reactions come from shame, lack of tools, or both, it’s now time to practice doing it differently. Over and over again. Expect missteps. One good conversation followed by the old comment takes you a few steps back. Repair will take time.

And that feeling in your chest or heat in your face is likely shame. It is a yucky, heavy emotion. Take it somewhere else. A therapist, a friend, a peer group. Your adult child should not have to manage your feelings, but that doesn’t mean you have to manage them alone.

I know, this is asking both of you to do something different. And it’s a lot.

And none of this makes parental accountability unimportant. It describes what the adult child can build when accountability isn’t coming.

Because they are now adults.

We talk about treating parents like babies who can’t change and shouldn’t be expected to act appropriately. But again, this points the finger outside of ourselves.

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The Holy Grail

Accountability has been made to be the holy grail of repair in family conflict. Like the original, everyone hoped it would solve everything, but no one really knew what it looked like, or where to find it. Some may have had a glimpse of it: a clumsy apology on a therapist’s couch, a parent who says “I did that” and then, miracle of miracles, does something different on Friday.

Adult children want accountability and change; parents want understanding and grace. Many will keep searching for their version of the solution in someone who never had it in them to give.

So here is the question I’ll leave you with: whose life is on hold while you wait for it?

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Hello! I’m Dr. Rana, family psychologist (and lego enthusiast). Send me a message to talk about professional consultation, speaking engagements and trainings for professionals. You can find out more about my clinical and consultation, find helpful resources, workbook, and courses by visiting Sorted‑Mind.com.

The Accountability Problem, Part 1 of 3

Next: what if accountability wasn’t the thing? And a note for clinicians on the puppet-master question.

The Survey Everyone Is Angry About

Earlier this summer, the Wall Street Journal asked whether therapists are to blame when adult children cut off their parents. The internet had opinions. Elizabeth Bernstein’s WSJ article places therapists, alongside concept creep and avoidance of discomfort, as the culprits behind the allegedly growing number of adult children – usually in their early 20s to 30s – cutting contact with their parents. This conclusion is based on a survey of estranged parents, where one-third believed their child’s therapist had a hand in the decision. These parents, who volunteered to participate in a survey about estrangement – shockingly – had strong feelings about it and found someone to point the finger for their fate. Many – but not most – chose a therapist they never met.

This article is the first in a series on the issue. Let’s tackle the accountability problem first. The puppet masters – I mean therapists – get their own post.

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What Critics Get Right

The response was swift and strong – and rightfully so. There are gaps and leaps in the data and conclusions. One of those voices is Jeff Guenther, LPC, aka “TherapyJeff,” a therapist with a large Instagram following. In a reel, he laments that we treat parents like babies and asks “Why does the parent just get to stay how they are? She’s 70. She’s not going to change. We say that like it’s a medical fact. And that is so weird.”

And on that point, he is right. There is research telling us that personality traits change over the lifespan1, and that older people’s attitudes about social issues can change as much, if not more, than younger people, especially in response to personal, impactful experiences2.

Here is where I'd add a caution.

Much like the survey behind the WSJ piece, which asked estranged parents who volunteered, Jeffal so rightfully points out that many adult children try to mend the relationship with their parents for years before choosing to cut contact. And he cites his own clinical experience that even “clumsy” apologies from parents matter, because adult children are gracious and want a relationship with their parents. He seems to imply that if parents would just be accountable, apologize, and make an effort to change, their kids would come back. They would be out for brunch with their kids instead of posting angrily in the comment section. But, much like the WSJ article that asked estranged parents who volunteered, Jeff draws from the families who showed up in his office willingly and stayed there long enough to make it to the clumsy apology. Both samples are biased – people who showed up.

What Accountability Sounds Like

Accountability means accepting responsibility for one’s actions and their impact or consequences. In family relationships accountability sounds like this:

“I did that, and it wasn’t okay.”
“That’s what happened and it hurt you.”
“I’ll do things differently from now on.”

Accountability involves trust. A parent who acknowledges the adult child’s account treats the child as a credible informant. This is what Joshua Coleman calls the “kernel of truth”3. It means the parent is able to accept one part – however small – of the child’s experience at true, even if it is surrounded by information that is otherwise exaggerated, debatable, or false information. One essential part that is true.

Accountability for what happened in the past – and maybe for what continues to happen – means the parent trusts the child – at least a slice of it. One piece that is not debated.

Accountability matters for healing the relationship.

But also, does it?

Why Adult Children Want It, and Why Parents Never Saw It Coming

Adult children want their parents to recognize their hurt and show up differently today. They cite ongoing conflict, abuse, poor parenting, value clashes, boundary breaches, and emotional distance, alongside parental characteristics as reasons for estrangement45. They feel cutting contact is the only option after years of hurt and tension.

Meanwhile, parents report feeling confused about the reasons that led to the decision. They see it as a knee-jerk reaction to a seemingly small issue. One comment over dinner, an extra gift for the grandkids – and bam! They were no longer welcome in their child’s life.

An adult child may have tried for years, through subtle comments, quiet protest, or loud complaints to signal their discomfort, express their needs, and maintain boundaries. The parent does not notice the distress, does not register it as important enough, or does not successfully change their behaviour. The rupture happening today has layers and layers of hurt and missed connection underneath it.

On the one hand, an adult child yearns for connection and understanding.

On the other hand, a confused parent is left wondering why their love and good intentions are not enough.

The accountability problem lies in the space in between.

For the adult child, parental accountability shapes whether trust can be rebuilt within the relationship itself. Lacking that, every encounter risks re-injuring the adult child, crystallizing painful patterns and grievances, because the child is still viewed as being unreliable.

The frustration here is that there is an inherent, ongoing power dynamic between a parent and child – one that never truly goes away. A parent will always be a parent, and a child, regardless of their age, will have a yearning for that connection. But when the person across from us is an adult now, and their words land like a ton of bricks because we worked so hard, because we did the best we could, and because “it was such a long time ago” – reality is difficult to accept as a parent.

The parent wants their adult child to see them as human, as flawed – but without having to say it out loud. This would be too vulnerable to many for whom feelings are shelved instead of shared. The adult child wants them to say it out loud, and more importantly, to act differently now. The adult child wants the very thing that the parent cannot offer, and that is too painful for them to reach into.

Get the workbook: What Happened to Us

A structured workbook for those who want to better understand the past, the present, and plan for their relationship in the future.

There is never – okay fine, very rarely – a single thing that will change or mend a relationship. Accountability is no different. Accountability itself has many layers: take responsibility, acknowledge the harm, and attempt to repair and prevent the hurt from occurring again.

And yes, for some, this is too much to ask.

This is where adult children get trapped. They want this thing, they want it in a particular way, they want it sooner rather than later, and consistently.

Parents get trapped too. They also want something: for their love and good intentions to be enough. They want to be seen as human and flawed, to be met with understanding. They want a fresh start without a post-mortem. When it does not come, there is always a ready explanation: the therapist, the influencer, the generation.

For both, it continues to sting when they stay focused on what they want and cannot have.

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Hi, I’m Dr. Rana.

I’m a clinical psychologist and founder of Sorted Mind. I write about the lifelong journey of parenthood and family relationships, from the peripartum period to adulthood. I hope these articles will help you sort through the messy parts of life.

Un air de famille

When I meet a parent and their adult child separately to prepare for family therapy, I am constantly struck by their air de famille — that French phrase for a family likeness that runs deeper than a shared physical features. Sometimes the family resemblance is a subtle physical feature, but it also shines through their sense of humour, the way they hold themselves, or the cadence of their speech. And while invisible ties between family members can be endearing or nostalgic, they can also turn a mirror to parts of ourselves we would rather not see.

A sigh before a correction.
The way someone changes the subject when they are wrong.
How they press and rub their hands together before an argument.

The thing about them.

And when we repeat that particular thing ourselves, a spiral sets into motion.

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The Part of Us We Fear

We all have a version of ourselves that we keep dormant, tucked away, hoping it will dissipate and remain unseen. Sometimes we work very hard to suppress it. When we see ourselves in a family member, especially one that we have tension with or dislike, our mind registers a threat. All of a sudden, who you actually are and who you are afraid of becoming seem dangerously close. And while many of us are working toward getting closer to our ideal self, our immediate satisfaction is predicted more powerfully by our capacity to distance ourselves from who we don’t want to be than how close we are to our ideal self [1].

In other words, not being like my mother becomes more important than being the best mother I can be.

This motivation - to be different from those we don’t like, and the parts of us we fear - drives us to distance ourselves physically and emotionally from those who share the trait.

I Just Did the Thing.

A rush of emotions comes to the surface when we realize that the people we share the longest history with, those who have known us for decades, and who are often bound to us by name or blood, are also those that we would not choose to spend time with. It stirs up anger, and sometimes shame.

I love them, but I don’t like them.

Noticing that we share features and habits with someone we dislike – even if we love them - can add salt to an already painful wound.

And that thing, that tone, mannerism, reaction, attitude, may be the very thing that created distance in the first place.

The thinking I hear often goes like this:

I don’t like this about them → I share this with them → I am unlikeable.

They are part of me → I don’t like them → Therefore I don’t like myself.

At first glance this makes sense. If two premises share a feature with each other and the conclusion, then the conclusion must be true. The fallacy is not so evident, especially if we are under stress, upset, and hurt.

Horses are animals. – True
Horses have four legs. – True
Animals have four legs. – False

My mother is close-minded. – True
I am my mother’s child. – True
Children of close-minded parents are close-minded. – False

But a seemingly logical argument does not always lead us to a valid conclusion, because the ideas - while sharing a feature - are unrelated and the reasoning is flawed. Call it a syllogistic fallacy or cognitive distortion; it seems true on the surface, but a closer - or more often wider – look leads to a different conclusion.

Why It Feels So True

Our lives and relationships are so complex that our brain resorts to shorthand to be effective. It picks up on patterns, makes assumptions, and jumps to conclusions to help us navigate the world without (or at least less) overwhelm. Some of these assumptions can literally save our lives - our brain treats a loud sudden noise in the middle of the night as danger, because it is likely to be. Others can create more harm than good if left unchecked. In therapy, we call these cognitive distortions - habits of thinking that appear true, but are actually biased, and often perpetuate preexisting anxieties and insecurities.

Two common ones are emotional reasoning and overgeneralization. Emotional reasoning occurs when we accept a feeling as fact. I am uncomfortable; therefore the situation is dangerous. Overgeneralization occurs when a rule or information is applied beyond the rightful context.

The sequence “I don’t like this about them → I share this with them → I am unlikeable“, deems shared origin as the same as shared identity (overgeneralization), and because the emotions this elicits are so strong, we are vulnerable to accepting them as fact (emotional reasoning).

This is why the false logic feels convincing.

Even though it is wrong.

That Part of Me

If you’ve read so far, you might be satisfied with the logic. Know that if A is true, and B is true does not mean that AB is true. You might even recognize some false thinking in your own reflections about your family.

Even though you know, it does not mean you feel it. Or believe it.

You are still bound to this person. Part of you is part of them. It takes effort to differentiate from that, to separate yourself enough from the source while staying connected. Living as related without being the same.

The anxiety that arises when we notice the trait in ourselves that we loathe in another is a symptom of incomplete differentiation. That dislike is not you, but rather, the manifestation of enmeshment between you and them, that leads you to believe it.

Well-differentiated people can hold “I came from them” and “I am not them” as two true things simultaneously, without one swallowing the other.

Get the workbook: What Happened to Us

A structured workbook for those who want to better understand the past, the present, and plan for their relationship in the future.

What true self-awareness and differentiation brings is the knowledge that the thing is not who you are. It is a part of you, just like all the other parts. The ones that are kind, witty, resourceful. This thing lives in you, and it may manifest in different ways, at different times, and with a completely different impact, because you are not them.

But really,

What if there is a part of you that you don’t like?

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[1] Ogilvie, D. M. (1987). The undesired self: A neglected variable in personality research. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 52(2), 379–385. https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-3514.52.2.379

Hi, I’m Dr. Rana.

I’m a clinical psychologist and founder of Sorted Mind. I write about the lifelong journey of parenthood and family relationships, from the peripartum period to adulthood. I provide workshops, training, and consultation for therapists.

I hope these articles will help you sort through the messy parts of life.

A parent walks into a (therapy) room

There is a stigma attached to seeking therapy as a parent of an adult child that doesn’t get talked about enough.

Parents today have access to an entire ecosystem built around supporting them in the first few phases of parenthood. Podcasts, social media, and the many, many people who have appointed themselves parenting experts are ready. In fact, the amount of (mis)information available to parents of toddlers, school-aged, and teenagers can be overwhelming. But the scene changes when your child is no longer young.

If you are seeking professional help as a parent of an adult child, you are arriving with a different set of questions — and a different kind of baggage. Perhaps you are here because you’ve been told you should be. Your adult child has given you instructions and even a treatment plan. Or perhaps you are uncertain whether you are even allowed to be here. Whether your pain counts. Whether the fact that your child is technically an adult means that whatever is happening between you is no longer something a therapist can help with, or should.

It does. And it is.

But it is also among the most layered personal work you will do. Because even when it is only you sitting across from the therapist, the two of you are not alone.

There are a few lessons that you, as a parent of an adult child seeking support, can expect to encounter — and that are worth knowing before you begin.

Lesson One: The relationship is now optional

Dr. Joshua Coleman has written extensively on what makes your situation structurally different from other family difficulties. The relationship between you and your adult child is, at this stage, optional. Your adult child does not have to be in your life. There is no custody arrangement, no shared roof, no obligation enforced by anything other than your adult child’s own will and choosing.

On some level, you probably know this. You may have even encouraged it — independence, autonomy, a life of their own. What you did not anticipate is being pushed to the margins of that life. Or out of it entirely.

This power dynamic — where your adult child can choose their involvement — is the first thing that has to be made explicit. You must now accept that the relationship is something you have to demonstrate the value of, rather than something you are owed. That is a profound change in a relationship that has felt, for decades, like a given.

It requires humility of a particular kind. If you did your best — if you overcame things your adult child has no knowledge of, and sacrificed in ways that were never acknowledged — you are now sitting with feelings of being criticized, unwanted, and not enough. To do any useful work from that position, you first have to accept the reality of differentiation: your child is a separate person, with a separate life, separate experiences, and the full right to want something different from what you have been offering.

That is an uncomfortable, yet honest place to begin.

Lesson Two: You are working across three time zones

The second lesson tends to catch parents — and clinicians new to this work — off guard.

The work you are doing is family therapy — even when there is only you and one therapist in the room.

Here is why. You are coming to therapy to understand or repair the relationship with your adult child, and you are bringing with you some version of confusion, grief, or guilt. You walk in as the parent you are now. You also walk in as the parent you were when your child was young. And — the one people rarely see coming — you walk in as the child you yourself once were.

At least three versions of yourself are sitting across from a stranger, talking about the most tender relationships and decisions of your life.

Your own childhood shows up in the therapy room whether or not it is invited. How you were raised. What was modeled for you as normal. The promises you made to yourself about doing it differently — and the places where the old pattern repeated anyway, despite those promises. All of it colours the story you are telling about your adult child, and the relationship you are trying to make sense of now.

Ignoring this is not possible. The work has to move across all three time zones at once.

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Lesson Three: Making it explicit

To make sense of your story, you first have to take inventory of it.

Through reflection, structured journaling, and close observation, you will begin to uncover what you learned — early, and often without knowing it — about your own worth, about whether help was available, about whether the world was safe and other people could be trusted. You will examine how those lessons translated into beliefs about closeness and conflict. What you tried to do differently when you became a parent. What you wanted to preserve. And where the old pattern showed up anyway — quietly, sideways, in moments you didn’t see coming.

The goal is to externalize these events and patterns enough that you can see your behaviour as something learned and shaped over time — not a static or defining attribute of who you are.

This is demanding work. It asks you to change how you show up in the present while simultaneously making sense of where that behaviour originally came from. Both things have to happen at once, and neither is comfortable. But naming the pattern — giving it a history, a logic, a before — also brings to the surface the aspects that can be challenged. It makes room for understanding, compassion, change, and even forgiveness.

That is empowering.

Lesson Four: Relational curiosity and reflective functioning

For the relationship to change, you have to develop genuine curiosity — about your own inner world, and about your adult child’s.

That curiosity is what allows you to loosen the grip of the version of your child you have been holding, sometimes for decades.

This curiosity has to stretch across the same three time zones, now applied to your child as well.

Who was your child then — what was actually happening in their inner world at seven, at twelve, at sixteen — separate from what you assumed at the time, or what was visible on the surface? Who is your adult child now — what do they value, fear, and need today, which may look almost nothing like who they were at fifteen?

And underneath both of those questions, your own childhood keeps resurfacing. Your capacity to wonder about someone else’s mind is shaped, more than most people realize, by how much wondering was ever extended toward yours.

This is effortful. It is worth naming as such — not minimizing or rushing through. Keeping an open, reflective stance — resisting the pull back toward the defensive, familiar, protective narrative — requires practice, involves setbacks, and moves slowly. You may find yourself feeling sore after sessions that go deep into this territory. Stretched in a way that is uncomfortable. That discomfort is not a sign that something is going wrong. It is usually what prevents you from retreating back into the patterns you came here to change.

Lesson Five: Practice

The most concrete way to develop curiosity and reflective functioning is by making sense of your memories — especially those that are still fragmented, overwhelming, or avoided. Often, those are the same memories that are contested. Where your adult child’s account of what happened differs significantly from yours.

You and your adult child frequently recall the same events differently. Sometimes starkly so. Your task is to hold your own recollection while also beginning to wonder about your child’s version of the same moment.

This is harder than it sounds. Because often, the events themselves are not actually contested. You and your adult child describe the same actions, remember the same words. What differs is how those events were meant to be received, and how they actually landed.

It is the space between intention and impact.

Taking a genuinely curious stance means you can hold two things at once: my child’s experience is valid and my memory is also valid. Or: I did my best and my child was hurt by what I did. These are not contradictions. They are the full picture.

A useful place to start: bring a specific contested memory to mind — something from your child’s adolescence that still comes up, that still produces defensiveness or grief. Walk through your own recollection in detail, and then your child’s version as you understand it. Sit with what the gap between those two accounts brings up in you: what emotions surface? What old beliefs get activated?

Then try to think of three plausible interpretations of what your child might have experienced in that same moment. Three alternatives from your experience — what it might have felt like from inside your child’s perspective at that age. This builds your capacity for reflective functioning directly, while also helping you learn to tolerate the uncomfortable emotions that it can bring up.

This is slow work. It moves in small increments and involves setbacks. But it is also some of the most significant work you can do — not just for the relationship with your adult child, but for your understanding of yourself, and of the family you have been part of all along.

Every parent who has sat across from me in this work has, at some point, said some version of the same thing: I just want my child back. But they often want more than their child’s presence. They truly want to know their child, and they want to be known by their child. They want the relationship to be real, rather than polite or strained or simply absent. That is not an unreasonable want.

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Send me a message to talk about professional consultation, speaking engagements and trainings for professionals. You can find out more about my clinical and consultation, find helpful resources, workbook, and courses by visiting Sorted‑Mind.com.

Hi, I’m Dr. Rana. I’m a clinical psychologist and founder of Sorted Mind. I write about the lifelong journey of parenthood and family relationships, from the peripartum period to adulthood.

Why won’t he just take my advice?

A mother told me, for the third time in one session - and probably the fifth time in the last month - that she’d suggested her 32-year-old son negotiate his salary. He was underpaid, overworked, and well overdue to have his position and salary reviewed. Yet, when she asks him about it, he scoffs and changes the subject. She keeps bringing it up anyway.

I didn’t ask her son why he wasn’t following her advice.

Instead, I asked her why she was giving it in the first place.

That’s usually where I start with parents who come in stuck on a version of this problem: my adult child won’t take my advice. The question isn’t really about the child’s receptivity. It’s about the function of the question — what the parent is hoping to accomplish with their advice.

What’s the function?

There are - broadly - three functions to our actions: access (getting something we want), avoidance (preventing something we fear), or soothing (managing our own internal state). Sometimes the function of our behaviour is obvious and explicit; at other times, it is subtle and difficult to articulate. Most of the time, there is a combination of both.

When I ask a parent: what are you actually going for when you offer that advice? The question is turned back on them, and their answers circle around a few themes. Many parents will say that they give advice because they want to help - avoid a bad outcome: their child’s distress, financial strain, heartbreak. For others, giving advice mitigates their own anxiety: “at least I’ll know I did what I could.”

As we dig a little deeper, more personal reasons come to the surface. The desire to protect their child from repeating a mistake they made in the past. A wish to still be relevant, needed in their child’s life. And the relief of saying something out loud, without thinking through its impact.

Those motives are deeply human - especially from parents who are watching their child branch out into a world they might not understand anymore. But naming the real function and wish behind one’s actions is necessary to change what you do next.

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Underneath all these motivations, anxieties, and wishes, is one question worth returning to, at any age, in any interaction: whose need am I meeting? Is this advice actually in service of my child, or is it in service of my relevance, my anxiety, my need to feel needed?

The honest answer is supposed to be your child’s.

When the answer points elsewhere, the advice is a manifestation of something the parent hasn’t been able to say out loud - to themselves or their child.

A parent’s differentiation

We often speak about the need for the child to differentiate from their parents. The ongoing process of developing their own independent identity from their family of origin. But the parent must differentiate as well - to view themselves as a whole person beyond that of mother or father. To experience their child’s decisions as separate from their worth as a parent, and not as a report card of it. Healthy differentiation from a parent means watching their child make a different choice, or disagree with it, without feeling overwhelmed by anxiety, anger, or shame. Better yet - they are able to show curiosity about their child’s decision.

It is that nonjudgmental steadiness and curiosity, more than any advice, that the adult child often needs.

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Not ready to turn the question to yourself? Try WAIT.

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A Sort of Thought by Dr. Rana
Short reflections on family, relationships, and modern life. As an add-on to Sorted Mind, A Sort of Thought is a short reflection on the little moments, experiences that reveal something larger about how we connect, parent, and live with each other. Sometimes it will be a well-thought-out thesis on societal observation, at other times, it might be a half-baked rant about group chats. It is a way to sort out little messes.

The calendar is already full

Less than a month into back-to-school season, my family’s calendar is bursting with school events, reminders, meetings, and activities layered atop birthday parties and even “scheduled” downtime. I know I’m not the only parent feeling buried by September’s avalanche of transitions. Along with the shorter days and colourful leaves, September brings with it new routines, endless emails, and well-intentioned special events that offer more obligations than connection.

It is time to go back to basics. Let’s prioritize learning and kindness over elaborate affairs. Sanity—both for families and teachers—deserves a little more room to breathe.

In the fall, parents’ inboxes are inundated with emails from teachers introducing themselves, invitations to mandatory and “voluntary” meetings, as well as a schedule of elaborate events masquerading as essential community builders. Sometimes, parents are lucky to get a few weeks’ notice before a bake sale, spirit day, or themed lunch. Other times, parents have a day’s notice to send their child to school in a purple polka-dot shirt to mark…something. In this frenzy, I wonder if anyone has bothered to ask if this overstuffed calendar actually helps anyone. Do parents, students, and teachers feel more connected and supported? Or would a simpler, scaled back welcome to the school year be more welcoming?

Why is there so much “more”?

I partly attribute the surge of “more” in schools to parents’ well-intentioned wishes and requests. Parents want their children to enjoy school, to feel a genuine sense of connection with classmates and teachers. Parents also want to stay informed. Many of us seek daily updates, snapshots of class activities, and insights into our child’s experience. Naturally, this leads schools to ask parents to participate, whether by showing up or contributing materials and energy to a growing list of events and initiatives.

Digital convenience is also to blame. Teachers and administrators have unprecedented access to parents via email, making it easier to send instructions and reminders for costumes, invitations, and other necessary supplies. Through it all, it becomes difficult for parents and teachers alike to distinguish what is memorable from what is exhausting. At the same time, social media and TV have shaped our expectations of the school experience. School plays with elaborate sets, school picnics with live music, and catered parent-teacher nights are - and should be - more common on Netflix than in real life. The stream of curated moments has desensitized us to simplicity, and we expect over-the-top experiences.

Hidden costs and questionable gains

School administrators, teachers, and volunteer parents work hard to make these events happen. There is undoubtedly pressure to plan and organize them. However, these busy schedules can provoke anxiety and dread and make transition more difficult for students who thrive on routine and predictability. While parents have to explain to their child why they forgot the Dress-Up-As-Your-Favourite-Letter day, teachers spend more time managing logistics. Meanwhile, no one feels more connected, and everyone is more exhausted.

Let’s return to basics

My plea: let’s return to basics. Educate children well, show them kindness, and encourage responsible citizenship. Make a craft at school when there is a special event to highlight. A prop is not required to nurture kindness, curiosity, or literacy. Fewer events mean fewer emails, and I would bet there’s research somewhere linking that to fewer headaches and tantrums in families. Less noise and quieter schedules could leave students, teachers, and parents with more time and energy to connect, and ask each other “how was your weekend?” instead of “what special prop do I need to pack for tomorrow?”

School can be special without being overwhelming. Let’s make back-to-school about education and connection, not endless expectation.

I’m curious to know: When was the last time a school event left you feeling more connected rather than more depleted — and what made it different?

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Hi, I’m Dr. Rana.

I’m a clinical psychologist and founder of Sorted Mind. I write about the lifelong journey of parenthood and family relationships, from the peripartum period to adulthood. I am also fascinated by the patterns of overcorrection in our lives, and how individualistic wellness trends and AI impact our relationships and wellbeing. I provide workshops, training, and consultation for therapists.

I hope these articles will help you sort through the messy parts of life.

Hi, I’m Dr. Rana. I’m a clinical psychologist and founder of Sorted Mind. I write about the lifelong journey of parenthood and family relationships. I provide workshops, training, and consultation for therapists. I hope these articles will help you sort through the messy parts of life.

I’ve noticed a pattern of disclosure from those around me

Sometimes it comes from a friend and sometimes, clients in session. The disclosure shows up in one of two very different forms: unapologetic confidence or a reluctant confession. Two very different deliveries, but the same impact. When it is said out loud - with certainty or not - the words land loudly and I feel a weight of relief lifted between us. When I hear it, I think we don’t talk about this enough.

This list is centered around family dynamics that have been labelled as pathological or toxic. While in some cases they certainly can be harmful or abusive - most often, they are characteristics of complex human relationships. Byproducts of two or more people who have spent time together and apart, dependent, independent, interdependent, and who are navigating life together under unfamiliar circumstances.

This is that list. It is not exhaustive. It is not a framework. It is just a collection of things I keep seeing that shouldn’t automatically be considered as dysfunction in a family.

Awkward silences don’t mean something’s wrong

You don’t need a meaningful conversation every time you’re together to feel close. Some of the most connected families I know can sit in a car for an hour and say almost nothing. Silence in a relationship is not a symptom. Sometimes it is just two people, comfortable enough to share space without performing closeness and filling the space with questions.

These are sometimes families where actions speak louder than words. Where “I love you” is said by driving you across the country to school, and then back again. Where staying up until you came home was showing you cared - not control. It may or may not have been the right fit for you, but it was love nonetheless.

Loud isn’t the same as dysfunctional

Love can sound like arguing about politics at dinner — loudly, passionately, without anyone backing down — and still be safe. The family that debates is not necessarily the family who is struggling. It can turn around and dance and still show up for you when you need it. I wrote about this, and my own experience growing up in a family that showed love in its own way.

The short version is this: volume is not the measure of a relationship’s health. What matters is whether people can be honest, recover, and come back to the table.

Contact and closeness can change over time

Some years it’s daily texts. Some years it’s a call every few months. Relationships between parents and adult children are not static — they move through seasons, through life events, through distance and proximity and the ordinary accumulation of everyone getting older. A quieter stretch is not necessarily a sign of rupture. It may simply reflect the ebb and flow of relationships, and life stages.

Changes in contact or closeness are an opportunity for curiosity. If you’ve missed talking to your adult child, it might be a cue for you to call them, ask about their life. If you feel your parent is sharing too much about their dating life, you can cut the phone calls short. What could be going on for them? Can I support by getting closer, asking, or should I just let them know I’m available?

You can love someone and still need distance from them

I believe that contact and closeness can be chosen. And the amount of contact we can tolerate with someone or what we want to share with them at any given time in your life, is for you to reflect on and decide.

If you need time to think about how you want to move forward in a relationship - that does not mean that you are a bad parent or a bad child.

Ambivalence is not betrayal. The adult child who loves their parent and also finds visits exhausting is not doing something wrong. The parent who adores their grown child and also wishes every visit wasn’t a litigation of the past or an opportunity for them to do laundry is not doing something wrong either.

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Loving someone and needing space are not contradictory. This cycle reflects the complexity of the interdependence of family and complexity of differentiation.

Family members can have completely different relationships with each other

The relationship your mother has with your sister is not the same relationship you have with your sister. Your relationship with your son might be completely different than the one with your daughter. Every dyad in a family has its own dance - all within the greater choreography.

These are shared by personality, timing, history, and the particular dynamic two people that developed over time. This is why family gatherings can feel like everyone is describing a different family. They are, in a sense. You each got a different one.

These differences can nevertheless be painful. A reminder of a relationship you wish you had, and old wounds that fester if left unexplored.

Different versions of the same story

Parents, children and even siblings can have completely different versions of the same event.Same house. Same set of parents. Different childhoods.

Our memories are shaped by many factors. Birth order, temperament, timing, what was happening in the family during each child’s formative years, will shape interpretations and memories.

Two siblings - and their parents, who grew up under the same roof can have experiences of the same family trip. Instead of viewing this as a quest for the truth - it can be an exercise in curiosity and meaning making. Revealing what each person lived during that same moment, and how the stories overlap and diverge brings texture to your family history. Whether you remember it that way or not.

It takes time for relationships to update

There comes a point in every child’s life, where they realize that their parents are not all-knowing, perfect, and completely safe. This is usually a gradual understanding that crystallizes as children grow up and notice their parents’ flaws, inconsistencies, mistakes.

Psychologists call it de-idealization and it is a normative, healthy process that usually peaks in adolescence (“you’re the worst mom!”). It can be painful, but it is a necessary process. Parents are more than “Mom” or “Dad.” they are their own but a person with their own history, their own wounds, their own younger self who was also trying to figure things out.

Get the workbook: What Happened to Us

A structured workbook for those who want to better understand the past, the present, and plan for their relationship in the future.

The same is true for parents - their perfect baby will be irritating, exhausting, and even hurtful. As their child grows up, parents may notice in them the shortcomings they loathe in themselves or their partner. Most commonly, parents struggle to update the way they show up for their child when they’ve become an adult. The teenager who is off to college and comes back for the holidays - is in so many ways a different person. The parent who did not have a chance to grow with their child because of distance - ie less contact -, has to quickly adapt to this new version.

This process takes time. It is often clunky, and involves trial and error. It can be painful, but it is not dysfunction when done with openness and compassion. And it is never over.

Mixed feelings

Ambivalence is the undercurrent of family relationships.

You might miss your children, and feel relieved that the visit is over. The relief at getting back to your own space does not negate the warmth you felt at the dinner table.

You appreciate your parents’ sacrifices and wish they would stop pressuring you to live a life by their standards. Gratitude does not mean you have to deny your own values.

Both things can be true.

Holding both feelings at once — without needing to resolve them and tolerate the discomfort it brings is part of differentiation. It is a sign of emotional maturity.

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And there is more

Not every complicated family feeling is pathology. Some of it is just the ordinary difficulty of being in a long relationship with people who knew you before you knew yourself.

Tell me: Did you notice a dynamic that you felt was dysfunction? Anthing missing from the list? Leave it in the comments.

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Are you a mental health professional?

Send me a message to talk about professional consultation, speaking engagements and trainings for professionals. You can find out more about my clinical and consultation, find helpful resources, workbook, and courses by visiting Sorted‑Mind.com.

Hi, I’m Dr. Rana. I’m a clinical psychologist and founder of Sorted Mind. I write about the lifelong journey of parenthood and family relationships, from the peripartum period to adulthood. I am also fascinated by the patterns of overcorrection in our lives, and how individualistic wellness trends and AI impact our relationships and wellbeing. I provide workshops, training, and consultation for therapists. I hope these articles will help you sort through the messy parts of life.

Be a good villager

There has been a surge of messages on social media reminding us that community involves discomfort. Wanting a village means being a villager. That we should expect to inconvenience ourselves for the village. It means expecting to inconvenience yourself for the village. This can involve going to a potluck you’d prefer to miss, because your mother-in-law worked hard to organize it. It means buying two dozen cupcakes and putting them in a tupperware for the bake sale, because your daughter told her teacher her mother makes the best cupcakes (little does she know…).

Much like family, community means saying yes sometimes, even if a part of you wants to say no. Families and communities are a system of interconnected parts that influence each other and have something in common, even if it’s just the last name or the postal code.

Community and families require members to recognize each member’s value, show empathy and work together toward common goals. And the goal itself - the fundraiser, supporting the new mom - will not always have anything to do with you directly. In fact, you might not care about it, and you might not like it.

But you do it anyway.

Why? Because there’s always a reason underneath the yes.

The relationship, or the behaviour, may be driven by a value: family, generosity, honesty, self-care, health, curiosity, reciprocity.

Or perhaps, it’s a reaction to an implicit or explicit obligation. A duty — something you do to avoid guilt, or social disapproval.

Or maybe, a bit of both.

In Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT), values are treated like a compass, so you make choices that are made free from short-term pressures. Values can be individual, or shared in a group - family or community. They are shared standards, which become personal rules for how you will live your life. They are guidelines for your actions, what you accept from others, and perhaps what you expect from them.

You might rake the leaves on your neighbor’s side of the lawn, because they did the same last week, and you value reciprocity.

You might decide to spend an additional hour at your parents’ house, because your father asked for help with the garden, and you can tell his back is hurting today. You value family and caring for elders.

When the choice to maintain a relationship is based on our values, it feels more authentic and lighter. Perhaps less draining than choices stemming from obligations. But that doesn’t mean it is always easier.

It always requires a choice — and when we choose one thing, we are not choosing another. More time raking the lawn, means less time reading your book. More time with dad means skipping a workout because your own back will hurt.

When a relationship - or particularly an interaction within a relationship - is based on obligation, it is often driven by guilt, social pressure, or a fear of punishment. It is heavy and restrictive. There is an external pressure to show up in a particular way, and the alternative feels more unpleasant - or simply dangerous. Obligation-based relationships leave us feeling trapped.

You might show up at your mother’s book club, because otherwise she will tell everyone how unavailable and ungrateful you are at the next Sunday dinner. You might agree to attend said Sunday dinner; otherwise, you’ll receive angry text messages from your aunt all evening, reminding you of your family obligations and guilt-tripping you.

So what is one to do?

The trend of individualistic wellness — I’m looking at you, Let Them — tells us that our peace is paramount. We are told that our values should be our own happiness, our self-development, our growth. And if others cannot make room for that, then we should not make room for them in our lives. For those who grew up with different values - principles based on harmony, collectivism, sacrifice as a sign of love - putting yourself first can feel foreign, even wrong.

We now have more options in terms of the values we choose to live by. You get to decide where to allocate your limited resources, such as time, money and attention. At first, having a choice feels good. Liberating. You choose self-development and decide to spend my money on a writing retreat rather than to join the family trip this year. You have a choice. You feel empowered.

But the obligations do not disappear when you choose to live by different values. You choose to “protect your peace” over “generosity.” It doesn’t mean your mother won’t ask you to show up at the book club - and bring cookies to boot. Those around you will not change their values and expectations along with you. Mom will expect you to show up. Because that’s what good daughters do …right?

What keeps us stuck

What I’ve found in my work with adult children and their parents is that most of us don’t know exactly what values we live by. It can take time and reflection to identify which values matter to us, and why. (you can do the little activity here to discover your values).

There is also a misinterpretation of what obligation is, and the actual consequence of not doing the thing. An adult child who decides to take his closest friend to a playoff game instead of his father - knowing that his father would love to be at the game - might expect disappointment, maybe a bit of scolding, or the dreaded silent treatment from dad.

My question then is… so what?

When you were a child, a parent’s disappointment was likely incredibly painful. While it was your behaviour that was disappointing, your childhood brain interpreted a parent’s sigh, shaking of the head, or blank stare as “I am a disappointment.“ Maybe disappointment came with bigger consequences than a sigh - maybe there was actual withdrawal - dad didn’t speak to you for two days, maybe there was physical discipline, or ridicule. Those are real harms that probably grew shame in you rather than closeness. That pain, and the marks it has left are real.

That was then, this is now. You are now an adult.

While the people around you might still be disappointed in your choices, you have more agency on how you receive it, the space you give in your life, and most importantly the meaning you assign to it. You can notice - nurture, comfort - that little version of you that is hurt, while also living by your values today.

Now what?

First, acceptance. Accept that most relationships in your life will require some obligation. And they can still be mostly, based on your values.

Not every act of love feels good.

Second, name it. Make the distinction between what is a value-based decision versus an obligation (see the little quiz below to help).

Third, think through your actual options - not the ones that you’ve been made to believe or been too guilt-ridden to explore. A helpful way to do that is by asking: what is most likely to happen if I do things as I always did, versus what my values point to?

What would actually happen?

• A guilt trip from mom? I can handle that. I can call my sister and get some validation.

• A complaining text from my aunt? I can come up with a plan on how to respond to her text messages, and besides, how much does her opinion of me matter anyway?

• My daughter finding out that I can’t bake? Well, that had to happen one day.

Explore, and if needed, challenge what you expect will happen, how bad it would be, and what you could do about that. It’s a thought exercise.

And if you find yourself landing on guilt, duty, or fear of abandonment or shunning over and over again, a deep look into the lessons you’ve learned about love, belonging, and duty might be worthwhile.

When you choose actions and relationships based on your values, you might still be tired from it, and not entirely pleased about it. However, since the motivation is intrinsic instead of fear-based, it gives you more flexibility. When we consistently make choices based on obligations, the external pressure and fear of consequences foster resentment and can lead to burnout. Accepting that both might be present, but choosing which to emphasize, is difficult work.

But is it worse than mom’s book club?

There’s the family you’d choose, and the family you show up for anyway. Most of us are doing a little bit of both.

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BONUS QUIZ - If you're not sure whether it's values or obligation that are driving your choices, this QUIZ might help you find out.

You can download it here.

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Are you a mental health professional?

Send me a message to talk about professional consultation, speaking engagements and trainings for professionals. You can find out more about my clinical and consultation, find helpful resources, workbook, and courses by visiting Sorted‑Mind.com.

Hi, I’m Dr. Rana. I’m a clinical psychologist and founder of Sorted Mind. I write about the lifelong journey of parenthood and family relationships. I hope these articles will help you sort through the messy parts of life.

You’re doing relationships wrong

My previous article about loving someone you don’t like resonated with many people. It gave language to an experience few of us admit, and the loneliness of being in a family relationship that is technically intact but disappointing. That article made the experience explicit. This one is about what comes next. The what now?

We have come to believe that if we try hard enough, speak with enough clarity, and remain calm enough, the person whose attention, validation, and understanding we have longed for will “get it.” There is no shortage of communication and self-regulation tips for this. The implicit promise is transformation — that if you’re willing to go deep enough, the relationship you always wanted is waiting for you on the other side of the hard conversation.

Well, I’m here to tell you thats a lie.

Sometimes the relationship that we imagined, longed for, or needed is simply not possible. This reality may have nothing to do with the other person’s maliciousness or intentions — it has to do with capacity. Sometimes it is because two people have different needs that pull in different directions. Sometimes the other person is buried too deep in their own worries, wounds, and insecurities to see you for who you are.

The gap between who someone is and who we need them to be is simply too wide to close.

But not having the relationship you yearned for with a parent, a child, or a sibling does not mean that there can’t be a relationship at all.

Which is where healthy enough comes in.

Healthy enough

A healthy enough relationship, much like good enough parenting, is not defined by constant attunement, flawless communication, or the absence of conflict. It is defined by emotional presence, acceptance, flexibility, and a willingness to remain in connection even when things are imperfect.

Most importantly, it is a relationship that is chosen.

Choosing a healthy enough relationship begins by accepting the uncomfortable truth that a better relationship — and sometimes any relationship at all — will require concessions.

From you.

Because you can’t ask that from another person.

Choosing healthy enough means looking clearly at the other person’s behaviours, and recognizing explicitly what they are capable of, and what they cannot provide.

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And it tends to have some recognizable qualities.

• Conflict is uncomfortable, not catastrophic.

• Boundaries protect rather than punish.

• Curiosity replaces defensiveness.

• Closeness is chosen, not compelled.

Conflict is uncomfortable, not catastrophic.

Disagreements, tensions, and misunderstandings are inherent in any relationship. (And if anyone tells me that they and so-and-so” never argue, I have a set of questions about avoidance for you). In enmeshed or high-conflict relationships, disagreements become the barometer by which we evaluate our worth and the health of the relationship,when in fact they are only a point of differentiation: this is you, and this is me.

Accepting that conflict is inevitable — and tolerable — allows you to navigate those tensions with a strong spine.

You can recognize that your mother’s “guilt trip” comments are likely a reflection of her insecurity and need to remain relevant. Instead of overexplaining or caving in, you stand firm, kindly.

When your son “ignores” your financial advice, you can see it as a reflection of him wanting to build his independence, not as a rejection of you.

Boundaries protect rather than punish

I think of boundaries as rumble strips on the highway. When you drive too close to the other lane, you are alerted that something needs your attention — and you have a choice: stay the course or swerve away; react as you did in the past, or respond in a grounded manner.

A boundary designates what you will do, not what the other person must. And boundaries come with two possible intentions: punishment, or protection. Punitive boundaries — the kind that exist to send a message, to make someone feel the consequences, to create distance as a form of control — don’t build relationships. They create resentment. Protective boundaries, on the other hand, make it possible to remain in a relationship in a way that is honest and sustainable.

Punitive boundaries communicate that something is being done to the other person. Protective boundaries exist so the relationship can continue, despite the other person’s behaviour.

Curiosity replaces defensiveness

When we feel misunderstood or criticized by someone whose opinion matters deeply to us, the instinct to protect ourselves is immediate and powerful. Unfortunately, it can turn a genuine question or a worry into a power struggle.

Curiosity does the opposite. It creates a moment of pause between the trigger and the response. It asks: What is actually happening here? What is this person trying to tell me, even if they’re saying it badly? What am I feeling, and what is that about?

The capacity to move from defending to wondering is one of the most powerful shifts you can make when working toward a healthy enough relationship.

Contact and closeness are chosen

Contact is the type, frequency, and length of time spent with another person. Closeness is the emotional intimacy in a relationship. A lot of contact does not make for a closer relationship. And genuine closeness does not necessarily require frequent contact.

In healthy enough relationships, both are a choice. You choose, repeatedly and imperfectly, to stay in the relationship. You choose to repair — in your own way — after conflict. You choose to call again, or not, because you need a little more time. You choose curiosity over defensiveness. You choose the generous interpretation. You choose to send a birthday card instead of going to the party. You choose to act differently next time. You choose to reach toward each other rather than away.

You choose the relationship not because you have to, but because you want to — because even in its imperfect state, even alongside grief, it matters to you.

When someone stays because they want to be there — not because guilt or obligation has left them no exit — their presence becomes something more genuine, and more valuable.

Choosing contact and closeness does not require action or cooperation from the other person. When you deliberately decide what you can, should, and should not bring into the relationship, you take charge of what is actually within your control — and you stop waiting for a relationship that cannot exist. You choose one that is healthy enough.

Healthy enough is not settling. It is not a performance of a relationship, or a fake one. I would argue it is often a more genuine relationship — precisely because it is not trying to be something it can’t.

If you and your mother can’t spend a whole day at the spa together, a healthy enough relationship means accepting that loss and having a Mother’s Day coffee date instead. If you and your adult child have widely different views on financial investment, dinner conversation can stick to sports and the weather.

Healthy enough is intentional.

What healthy enough is not

Healthy enough can be misunderstood as an invitation to endure things you shouldn’t have to endure. It is not.

Healthy enough is not tolerating abuse. If there is ongoing verbal, emotional, physical, or financial abuse in your relationship, the concept of healthy enough does not apply in the way I’m describing here. Safety comes first. Full stop. A relationship cannot be healthy enough if one person is consistently harming the other.

Healthy enough is not ignoring your values. You do not have to stay connected to a parent or adult child in ways that fundamentally violate who you are, what you believe, or how you need to live. Accepting imperfection is different from silencing yourself to keep the peace.

Once you’re ready.

There is grief in choosing a healthy enough relationship. Accepting a relationship for what it actually is means letting go of the one you hoped it would become. You can be in contact with someone every week and still be mourning the version of them — or of yourself, or of the two of you together — that never quite arrived.

Many people will feel relief once they have named that loss. The relief of no longer contorting yourself to be seen and understood by someone who is not able to offer that. Of meeting someone where they actually are, rather than where you hoped they would be.

Healthy enough is, in its own way, a more honest kind of closeness.

And sometimes that is enough. More than enough, even.

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A structured workbook for those who want to better understand the past, the present, and plan for their relationship in the future.

Are you a mental health professional?

Send me a message to talk about professional consultation, speaking engagements and trainings for professionals. You can find out more about my clinical and consultation, find helpful resources, workbook, and courses by visiting Sorted‑Mind.com.

A Sort of Thought by Dr. Rana
Short reflections on family, relationships, and modern life.

As an add-on to Sorted Mind, A Sort of Thought is a short reflection on the little moments, experiences that reveal something larger about how we connect, parent, and live with each other. Sometimes it will be a well-thought-out thesis on societal observation, at other times, it might be a half-baked rant about group chats. It is a way to sort out little messes.

It is very common for clients in my private practice to express a longing to be their “true self.” Or at the very least, to engage with the world in a way that feels more authentic. I see this across every kind of relationship — a client who wants to be more genuine in her friendships, an adult child who wants to be assertive with their parents, someone who wants to show up differently when dating, a parent who wants their child to feel free to be themselves all the time.

It often comes as a surprise when I suggest that perhaps being your true self all the time is not a good idea. Or that — just maybe — there is no such thing as a static true self to begin with.

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What Being Authentic Actually Means

What people typically mean by “being authentic” is making choices that align with their values and inner truth. Values — honesty, connection, curiosity, some version of integrity — can be made explicit with reflection and work. Defining one’s inner truth, however, is trickier. Carl Jung argued that our deeper nature is made up of archetypes, instincts, and traits that are both positive and darker. Many of these are repressed and concealed by a social mask — a version of the self shaped by the expectations of the world we move through

Wellness culture encourages, even pressures, us to be our true selves at all costs. To not compromise our thoughts, feelings, or desires for others. It sounds liberating — to say what’s on our mind, ask for what we want, make unrestrained choices. In practice, it tends to produce parallel conversations, misunderstandings, and conflict.

It is probably not a good idea to use a business meeting as a platform for your dad jokes. In some cultures, refusing food from a host is considered rude, and the relationship may matter more than an extra serving. There are unspoken social contracts — learned over time — that form the basis for smooth interactions, efficiency, and even genuine closeness. Some of those unspoken rules are worth questioning, particularly when they uphold harmful or exclusionary norms. Most of the time, though, they are what make shared life possible.

We’ve Overcorrected

Being authentic does not mean saying and doing exactly what you want, whenever you want. It is not a licence to be unapologetic regardless of your impact. And yet, no one benefits from shutting themselves out entirely or from unnecessary self-censorship.

The skill — the one worth learning and worth modelling — is to pause and read the room with curiosity. To recognize that our actions affect other people. To understand that the choices we make shape our relationships, and that this is not a compromise of the self but an expression of it.

There is more value in teaching critical thinking and self-awareness than in pushing the message of be yourself at all costs or if they don’t like it, so be it. Life is more nuanced than that. And of course, sometimes we follow the rules and still disappoint someone. Sometimes we break them for good reason and still get it wrong. We can be let down in either direction.

Here’s the Trope

You’ve heard this before: life is journey, not a destination.

So is your true self. It is not a static state waiting to be uncovered and then maintained.

What we actually are is closer to a dynamic composition — an ongoing integration of the hidden parts of ourselves and the demands of the moment. Jung called this individuation: a process of self-discovery that is rarely clean and never finished. Researchers now sometimes refer to it as situational authenticity — the way we emphasize certain facets of ourselves and downplay others depending on context, not as a betrayal of who we are, but as a sophisticated expression of it.

Part of sorting out who we are is accepting that we will be different in different situations, with different people. That adaptability — the way we integrate all of ourselves across moments and relationships, the way we choose to respond to both our failures and our successes — is what truly makes us who we are.

Being authentic, then, is not about always showing all of yourself. It is about knowing which parts of yourself to bring forward, and why.

That takes far more self-awareness than simply letting it all out.

Tell me: Has there ever been a moment where being fully, unfilteredly yourself made things worse — not better?

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Sorted Mind with Dr. Rana is a reader-supported publication. To access the archives, receive reflection prompts and support my work, consider becoming a subscriber.

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Hi, I’m Dr. Rana.

I’m a clinical psychologist and founder of Sorted Mind. I write about the lifelong journey of parenthood and family relationships, from the peripartum period to adulthood. I am also fascinated by the patterns of overcorrection in our lives, and how individualistic wellness trends and AI impact our relationships and wellbeing. I provide workshops, training, and consultation for therapists.

I hope these articles will help you sort through the messy parts of life.

Hi, I’m Dr. Rana. I’m a clinical psychologist and founder of Sorted Mind. I write about the lifelong journey of parenthood and family relationships, from the peripartum period to adulthood. I am also fascinated by the patterns of overcorrection in our lives, and how individualistic wellness trends and AI impact our relationships and wellbeing. I provide workshops, training, and consultation for therapists.

I hope these articles will help you sort through the messy parts of life.

Last week I wrote about the experience of the “difficult child

The article may have landed uncomfortably if you recognized your child in those descriptions — the troublemaker, the one who ran away, the teenager whose behaviour bewildered and exhausted you as the parent. Perhaps you spent years managing, containing, worrying — wondering what you had done wrong, and what would come of a child living outside the lines, with no clear direction. And perhaps you are still waiting, quietly, for an acknowledgment that those years were hard.

It was. And maybe it still is.

Raising a child whose behaviour is consistently confusing, “difficult,” or even dangerous can be incredibly isolating for parents. These pain surfaces everywhere: school troubles make for uncomfortable parent-teacher meetings, peer difficulties isolate both child and parent, and breed shame in those who feel judged. The social impact is often negligible next to the perpetual worry: will they be okay? What are we doing wrong? Am I a horrible parent?

It can take a lifetime to work through the self-blame, confusion, and shame of parents whose children struggled with mental illness, social difficulties, or behaviour that seemed dangerous and bewildering. This piece offers a different perspective — on what was happening, and what’s still possible now.

What the “difficult” behaviour may have been about

The family is a system. An interconnected web of people, wishes, personalities, and roles. It lives within a wider context of neighbourhood, culture, and politics. And so a child’s behaviour — anyone’s behaviour, for that matter — does not originate in a vacuum.

The pressures of family conflict, challenges, and adversity must go somewhere. And sometimes, one of the children absorbs this pressure, and releases it through behaviours that are disruptive, frightening, or impossible to understand. What’s hard for parents to see is that the child whose behaviour seems not to care is often the one most attuned to the family’s tensions. That child is also likely to be the one with the fewest skills and resources to cope adequately. Hence, the “difficult” behaviours.

The child with the “difficult” behaviours, then, is the one whose behaviours reflect the dysfunction of the whole system. The stealing, the lying, the substances — these are ways of communicating distress and pain that the child is often carrying most heavily. This is not a comfortable idea for parents to sit with.

What was happening in your marriage during those years? What other pressures was the household under — financial, cultural, political? What was the emotional atmosphere of the home, beneath the daily routines?

Were the parents’ academic expectations of the child so strict there was no room for anything else? Was the pressure to keep up the family appearance preventing the child from expressing a part of themselves genuinely?

These questions widen the perspective to include the world in which those behaviours emerged. When we ask “What was happening to and around you?“, the child whose behaviour seemed incomprehensible becomes, if not easier, at least more understandable. The behaviour that felt like an attack begins to look more like an attempt at communication.

There was a child in your home who was trying to tell you something.

They did not have the words for it. They did not have the tools. They had the behaviour — loud, disruptive, frightening, exhausting — and underneath all of it, they hoped someone would look past it long enough to ask what it meant.

It was happening to you, too

To be fair, parent overwhelmed by their child’s behaviour — and by everything else parenthood demands — may not have had access to that curiosity in those moments. Or the moment after that. Most were doing the best they could with what they had, in genuinely hard circumstances.

You did your best.

And your child was still hurt.

The pain sticks

An adult child who grew up labeled as “difficult” tends to wear that label throughout their life. Even once they’ve cleared up their act, they show up at family events still wearing it — now relabeled “late bloomer,” the one who “finally” got it together. They’ll tolerate subtle jabs and embarrassing stories that read as endearing but land as reminders of the harm they caused. Often, the “difficult child” will continue to tell these stories about themselves, because the hurt and shame they have carried is imprinted in their self-worth and role in the family.

And for that to change, the system — or at least part of it — has to change.

The practice that changes is deceptively simple:

When a parent is able to stay curious about the behaviour — rather than simply trying to manage or eliminate it — the dynamic changes entirely. A curious “what’s going on for you right now?“ communicates: I am trying to understand you. You are worth understanding.

What your child needs from you now

A parent’s attention and genuine curiosity, even now, even years later, can be transformative.

A parent who has the courage to wonder, first to themselves, and then out loud to the child about their experience, opens up space for connection. This doesn’t require a deep conversation, or rehashing painful memories — just open-ended observations that sound like questions. This relational curiosity sounds like this:

“I’ve been thinking about those years. I wonder what was happening for you that I didn’t fully understand at the time.”

Once you hear the answer, count to 10 — no, 20 — before you respond. Because there will be an urge to explain, correct, and defend yourself. You might feel an impulse to apologize, express your guilt and sorrow for having “failed” them.

After 20 seconds. Ask them for more information. Or acknowledge that there was more to the story than their behaviour let on. You didn’t see it then. You’re ready to hear it now.

If they come to you first

If your adult child comes to you with their own reflections on those years, your task is the same.

Take it in, keep the focus on their experience, and hold back the urge to redirect toward your suffering, or anything else that was going on at the time.

I will say it again: your experience mattered too. You hurt. You did your best. It happened.

And in the moment when your child wants to be understood — again — your job is to show up differently. To make space for their experience. And acknowledge it.

Sitting with someone else’s version of painful events, without correcting or interjecting our own pain, is difficult. By the third sentence, you are likely tapping your foot thinking “but do you know what it was like for me?”, which is understandable. That conversation might come. It’s just not the first move.

The first move is actually a stance. A practice.

It is a curiosity.

What becomes possible

A parent’s curiosity is powerful. It can lift the weight of self-doubt in the child — regardless of their age. It softens the sting of old mistakes and failures, and can crack through years of shame.

When the “difficult” adult child receives curiosity, there is suddenly more room. And in this space, they can wonder about their own behaviour — and about their parents’ experience.

This is when there might be space to share your own experience — not as a counter-narrative, but as another piece of the same complicated picture.

I say might because it is not a transaction. Your curiosity does not create a debt to be understood. Curiosity softens. But it cannot guarantee a dialogue or mutual acknowledgment.

Parents sometimes have a hope they don’t dare to say outloud. They hope that once they show up with curiosity, the adult child will meet them with recognition of how hard it was for them. And maybe even an apology. But that is not the deal. A child who was struggling, who did not have the skills and did not feel the support they needed, does not owe you an apology. Even if those years were hard on you as well. They did not choose their family system, the person they were, and the means available to them to ask for help. They did what they could.

And if your adult child does apologize - out of sadness, moral value, wish for repair - then let it be a gift you did not ask for.

And that is a risk inherent in parenting. You give, as best you can. And hope for the best. For all the authority parents believe they have, they actually have very little power over how that story gets told.

Tell me: have you hoped for an apology from a child?

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This is Part Two of a two-part series. Part One is written for the adult child — on what the difficult behaviour was actually communicating, and why curiosity serves both generations better than apology.

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A structured workbook for those who want to better understand the past, the present, and plan for their relationship in the future.

Reflecting on one’s childhood can be a daunting endeavour. Many avoid it because shedding the spotlight on early experiences with caregivers will uncover hurts, missed connections, and shame. Others avoid it because they fear the guilt they will face once they confront their own actions.

The loud child. The troublemaker. The prankster who took it too far. The boy-crazy teenager who brought home the local band’s drummer, convinced that “his band will make it one day.” The teen who ran away, stole enough vodka from the liquor cabinet to host a party, and took the car for a joy ride. The child, the teenager, even the young adult whose behaviours bewildered their worried parents.

“I put my parents through a lot.”'

Underneath that statement is a complicated cocktail of emotions: embarrassment, guilt, maybe remorse. Sometimes there is anger — resentment for support that was never available. Often there is sadness and loneliness for having had to carry so much alone. There is also, undoubtedly, shame. And counterintuitively, innocence. Because they were, after all, just a child.

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So what is one to do when they come upon a series of behaviours that would make any parent lose their mind?

If the “difficult child” was you

You might have been that “troubled child.” And now that you are all grown up, things have settled — or not — and you reflect on the past. What might come to the surface is the grief your parents felt when you didn’t come home at night. Or the financial burden of the wrecked car. Should you ask for forgiveness?

Does the difficult child carry a debt forward that should be settled once they become an adult?

The short answer: no.

A child does not have the neurological development, the emotional resources, or the relational power to be held fully accountable for behaviour that was, at its root, a response to an environment they did not choose.

But there is more to it.

This developmental reality does not excuse or minimize the harm experienced by siblings, parents, or the broader family when a child’s behaviours are aggressive, antisocial, or otherwise difficult to live with. While that pain is real and deserves to be acknowledged, acknowledgment is not the same as a transgression that requires an apology.

When a person’s behaviour — regardless of their age — is examined only at face value, without a wider contextual lens, the story is incomplete. The parent who suffered from the child’s difficult behaviour is only the beginning of the story.

The more complete story — the coherent one — is one where the patterns of the family system are made visible. Something was happening — or not happening — in the home. The difficult child was the one who embodied it and expressed it. Their behaviour was a response, and this response had a ripple effect on others.

The question changes: not “should I apologize?” but “what was I trying to say — and did anyone hear it?”

What this guilt actually is

This remorse speaks to your capacity for empathy, reflection, and for genuine care for parents who struggled. It is true that some childhoods were genuinely hard on parents. It can be painful, as an adult, to think back on a parent’s exhaustion, their worry, and the real impact of behaviour that happened decades ago.

But this type of guilt is different from moral guilt — the kind that surfaces when we break a social agreement or act against our values. The guilt that adult children express when reflecting on their own childhood is less tangible and harder to pinpoint. In fact, it is not technically guilt. It is grief. Grief about the relationship that didn’t quite work. About the connection that never developed. About the experience of being seen and understood that never happened.

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When an adult child wonders whether they should apologize — or when their parents expect one — it is often because one feels they owe something to the other. It is sometimes an attempt to mend a painful relationship, to get back into a parent’s good graces, to be accepted back into the family. It comes from desperation, not from understanding, acceptance, or compassion. The relief that follows such an apology does not mend the relationship when there was nothing to apologize for.

What needs to be named instead is the shared pain. The grief. On both sides.

What did the “difficult child” actually need?

What actually helps is nothing revolutionary. It is a process. A skill. A willingness to wonder.

To get curious about the internal and external world of the little child whose behaviour became the problem. And the problem became so big that the child and the problem were treated as one. What was the child trying to accomplish? How did they learn that this was the way to go about it?

For the adult child, this curiosity almost always leads somewhere beyond the difficult behaviour itself. It leads back to the environment, the attachment, the unmet needs, and the family system that was already under strain.

Because every child exists inside a system. Of people, places, and power structures.

The tensions, anxieties, and conflicts of every family must rest somewhere. Or in someone. Often it is in one of the children — the most sensitive one — who carries them deep inside but reveals them through behaviour. The defiant teenager. The anxious child. The one who acted out or withdrew completely. The one who was too much, or not quite enough.

Ask the questions that rarely get asked: what was happening in the parents’ marriage during those years? What unresolved history were the parents carrying? What pressures — financial, relational, cultural, generational — was the family under? What was the attachment history between this child and their caregivers?

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The goal of these questions is not to assign blame, or find a perpetrator, and point a finger. The goal is to describe, sort through, and understand. These questions come from the same place of positive intent — that most parents were doing the best they could with what they had. These questions widen the lens.

Most often, when that lens widens, it becomes clear that the difficult child was often the most sensitive one. The one who struggled to be whole by themselves while also being a member of the family. The one who absorbed the conflict, internalized the blame, and became the family’s emotional barometer. The child who read the room — and concluded that the only way out was what others would later call destructive.

What was missing

When you move past the difficult behaviours and into the “difficult child’s” internal world, what is often absent is scaffolding. Presence. Understanding. The gap left by a parent who was not able to be curious about what the behaviour was communicating, and instead focused on managing or eliminating it. The parent who turned the other way, or asked “what’s wrong with you?” instead of “what is happening for you?”

To be fair — a parent who is overwhelmed, not just by their child’s behaviour but by all the other responsibilities of parenthood, the stressors of their circumstances, and the limits of their own history, may genuinely not have been able to respond any other way. This is not a criticism of the overwhelmed parent. It is a different perspective that reflects their different experience.

What you can do instead of apologizing

To the adult child reading this: your task is to hold two truths at once.

You were a child.

It was not your job to have it figured out. You responded to your environment in the best way you knew how. You were hurt, lonely, misunderstood — maybe even terrified. You needed a grown-up to see you and show up. It was not okay that no one was able to look beyond those behaviours. That pain was real. And it still is.

What were you trying to communicate? What part of your system were you responding to?

And — also true — your parents’ experience was real. The world they lived in, their personal history, their capacity, and yes, their shortcomings. The pain they felt watching you struggle — whether they expressed it through anger, tears, or punishment — was real. It can be acknowledged without having to fix it.

If you choose to talk to your parents, that acknowledgment might sound something like: “I know those years were hard. I’ve been trying to understand what was happening to me then.” Not an apology. It is an invitation.

To the troublemaker, the prankster, the one who stole the vodka and took the car: the impulse to apologize comes from your emotional maturity — from the lessons you learned, fair or not, about accountability and responsibility. Your capacity for empathy. Your behaviour affected others. But that is rarely the most helpful place to start.

You were, in your own way, communicating something the family needed to hear.

The most generous thing either generation can do now is finally get curious about what it was.

If you still want to apologize

After reflecting and understanding your role, your needs, and the environment you grew up in, you might still feel that an apology is warranted. Perhaps your actions caused lasting emotional or physical harm to someone you care about, the people involved are still hurting, and you want to express your new understanding and remorse. When this comes from a place of values and not obligation, an apology can bring closure and relief to those impacted by your actions — even if you were a child.

Expressing genuine regret and acknowledging that you understand the impact of your actions — while recognizing where accountability actually lies — can help heal past wounds and repair a relationship. But self-condemnation is not a prerequisite for healing, nor does it reflect emotional maturity and insight. Working toward a healthy enough relationship - with yourself and others - starts with the willingness to be curious, and understand what happened well enough to know what the next best step is.

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This is Part One of a two-part series. Part Two, released next week, is written for the parent and reflects on the difficult years, and what curiosity makes possible now.

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A Sort of Thought by Dr. Rana
Short reflections on family, relationships, and modern life.

As an add-on to Sorted Mind, A Sort of Thought is a short reflection on the little moments, experiences that reveal something larger about how we connect, parent, and live with each other. Sometimes it will be a well-thought-out thesis on societal observation, at other times, it might be a half-baked rant about group chats. It is a way to sort out little messes.

Someone asked me recently: are you rooting for the child or the parent?

My approach - writing articles for the adult child and parent left them confused.

Maybe a little suspicious.

They’d noticed that many of my pieces were two-parters.

I write for the adult children unpacking their childhood experiences and rethinking their relationships with their parents. I also write for the parents who are learning their new roles as their children are all grown up. Parents who are trying to understand what went wrong.

My answer: neither. And both.

I’m rooting for the relationship.

Here’s what I keep seeing: the conversation about parent-adult child conflict has become deeply polarized. On one side, adult children are positioned as victims of parents who are automatically to blame. On the other, parents are heartbroken and defensive, certain their love should count for something.

Both framings are as real as they are incomplete.

And neither one alone moves anything forward.

Because the parent and the adult child are a system.

Individual, interdependent, interconnected parts that overlap and diverge.

The system is also impacted by the cultural noise around it — a therapy culture that speaks almost exclusively to adult children, a generational rigidity in parents who struggle to update their understanding, and wellness trends that have normalized disconnection as a reasonable solution to relational pain.

None of that gets examined when we only tell half the story.

I write for both sides. Not because I’m neutral — I’m not (and no one should claim to be).

I write for both sides because I believe the relationship is worth fighting for, and fighting for something requires understanding the whole of it, not just your half.

It requires respecting the inherent power imbalance between a parent and a child - regardless of their stage of life.

It also requires a lens rooted in positive intentionality, and a commitment to relational curiosity.

It requires compassion, acceptance, and sometimes humour.

And so I try to hold that line. Sometimes leaning on one side, and sometimes on the other. Because as a family psychologist, I’ve seen what can happen when we can stop defending our side long enough to zoom out and see the whole picture.

Which side of this conversation do you usually find yourself on?

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A structured workbook for those who want to better understand the past, the present, and plan for their relationship in the future.

Sorted Mind with Dr. Rana is a reader-supported publication. To access the archives, receive reflection prompts and support my work, consider becoming a subscriber.

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Hi, I’m Dr. Rana.

I’m a clinical psychologist and founder of Sorted Mind. I write about the lifelong journey of parenthood and family relationships, from the peripartum period to adulthood. I am also fascinated by the patterns of overcorrection in our lives, and how individualistic wellness trends and AI impact our relationships and wellbeing. I provide workshops, training, and consultation for therapists.

I hope these articles will help you sort through the messy parts of life.

Most days after school, my sister and I came home together. My mother worked from home, so we weren’t alone exactly, but she wasn’t available. Usually, a meal was ready for us. We served ourselves and watched Full House. My memories are fuzzy, but I remember that even back then, when I was seven or eight years old, I was confused by how often the members of the Tanner family hugged. A lot of that show was strange to me — a house with stairs on the inside, all the talking about problems and feelings, and how calm it all was.

Watching that fictional family planted in me an idea of what an American — or Canadian— family must look like. As a first-generation immigrant, my family was very different. What I didn’t know back then is that different didn’t mean lesser.

The hilariously bright Dan Levy has described families as either “yelly” or “not yelly.” Some families are quiet. Others are chaotic, loud, all up in each other’s business. Some are reserved, measured, private. Others love hard and forgive quickly. His framing is genuinely refreshing — no hierarchy between the two, no diagnosis attached to either. Just difference.

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Somewhere along the way, wellness culture decided that the healthy family looks and sounds a certain way. Regulated. Sitting around a dinner table discussing the highs and lows of the week. Weekly family meetings where feelings are talked through in full sentences, with appropriate eye contact. A family where feelings are always validated, limits are clear and respected, and every rupture gets repaired. A kind of therapeutic ideal that looks suspiciously like a training video — or an episode of Full House.

As a result, when people reflect on their childhoods, they hold their memories up against a fictional template. And they find themselves lacking. This is what happened to me. I assumed all families lived in two-storey homes, talked openly about their feelings, and resolved every quarrel before the credits rolled.

Which meant there must be something wrong with my family — and, by association, with me — if it didn’t fit that image.

Every Family has an Emotional Dialect

Levy’s framing shows us something important: families have their own dialect. A dialect isn’t right or wrong. It is shaped by culture, history, personality, and circumstance — the way a family got loud because that is how three generations before them showed love, or went quiet because silence was safer, or became chaotic because six people and one bathroom will do that to a household. That dialect is worth understanding. Not measuring against a standard borrowed from a fictional world.

Understanding it requires relational curiosity — the capacity and willingness to wonder about another person’s, or another system’s, experience in order to understand them. When we apply relational curiosity to our childhoods and to our relationships with caregivers, we develop what clinicians call reflective functioning: the cognitive capacity to understand ourselves and others through the lens of internal states. “My mother went quiet when things got hard. I wonder now what silence meant in the house she grew up in.” or “Affection in our house was practical — food on the table, a drive to practice, a fixed bike. Maybe that was the dialect.”

Reflective functioning is one of the most robust predictors of emotional wellbeing and secure parent-child attachment, because it requires holding another person’s mind in mind — your child’s, your parent’s, your sibling’s — while continuing to exist as yourself.

When applied to families, relational curiosity and reflective functioning are part of what Bowen theory calls differentiation — the capacity to stay connected to the people you love while still holding your own perspective, separate from theirs. Differentiation isn’t about how loud or quiet a family was. A loud family can be highly differentiated. A quiet family can be enmeshed. Volume is not the variable. What matters is the function and pattern of those relationships.

Describe, Describe, Describe.

If you are doing the work of looking back at your family of origin — and many of you are, whether in therapy, in your own parenting, or simply when a memory surfaces unexpectedly — approach it the way a curious, empathetic observer would.

Get the workbook: What Happened to Us

A structured workbook for those who want to better understand the past, the present, and plan for their relationship in the future.

Describe what happened. What happened before, and what happened after. Describe what it was like for you. What might have been happening for them. What was happening in the world, or in their lives, at the time.

Wonder about the dialect. Who set the tone? What got said out loud, and what got communicated some other way?

Describing with curiosity allows you to understand what your family actually was, rather than measuring it against what it should have been.

That second part — the should — will come. You will encounter the hurts, the confusion, the patterns that were genuinely unhealthy. Those exist, in different intensities, in every single family. They are worth understanding, making sense of, and accepting as part of the full picture.

Cautionary note: Exploring your family’s dialect is not about excusing harm. There is a real and important difference between a family’s emotional style and genuinely harmful behaviour, and that line matters more than almost anything else in this conversation.

But if your family was loud — or chaotic, or reserved, or nothing like the Tanners — that alone was never a pathology.

There was love in there. And probably a fair amount of nonsense too.

I’ve been sorting through family narratives for a long time - both professionally and on my own. And I’m still finding new words for family dialects. Which is, I think, the point. Understanding is an ongoing process. It accumulates over time, and changes as I do.

Tell me: What was the dialect in your family growing up? I’d genuinely like to know — hit reply, or leave a comment below. I read all of them.

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• The Template You Were Exposed To

• Describing Your Family

• Wondering About Others

• What You Carried Forward

• Bring It All Together

A Sort of Thought by Dr. Rana
Short reflections on family, relationships, and modern life.

I was recently asked what the happiest day of my life was.

In that moment, many would describe in detail the moment they first held their baby, when they met their future spouse, or when they learned they were cancer-free long enough to use the R word.

But I drew a blank.

I couldn’t think of a day, that was, in its entirety, happy.

My wedding day was beautiful. I will say, without any humility, that I looked stunning, the weather was perfect, the guests were having fun, and thinking about the moment when my husband and I shared our vows still flutters my chest. I also remember the stress of being pulled in so many directions for pictures, my wedding cake collapsing, and guests who were not able to manage their alcohol intake. Was it the happiest day then?

I also remember, fondly, pulling my own daughter into the world with my own two hands — yes, you read that right — and placing her sticky body on my chest. That was exhilarating. But it also came after hours of worry and pain. It was followed by uncertainty and loneliness. Was that the happiest day of my life?

I can think of happy moments. Short ones and long ones. But no happiest days.

It is disappointing when we can’t provide a neat answer to a seemingly simple question. Yet most of our days, experiences, and relationships are like that. They are pixelated memories of fondness, fear, love, and loss.

If there is no “happiest day”, then how are we to organize our memories? But if no single day earns the title, then no day can be the worst either. Avoiding the question forces us to notice and name the nuance, to savour the moment of peace in the mess, and to practice accepting the complexity of our experiences.

Tell me: What's the part of your happiest day nobody asks about?

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Sorted Mind with Dr. Rana is a reader-supported publication. To access the archives, receive reflection prompts and support my work, consider becoming a subscriber.

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Hi, I’m Dr. Rana.

I’m a clinical psychologist and founder of Sorted Mind. I write about the lifelong journey of parenthood and family relationships, from the peripartum period to adulthood. I am also fascinated by the patterns of overcorrection in our lives, and how individualistic wellness trends and AI impact our relationships and wellbeing. I provide workshops, training, and consultation for therapists.

I hope these articles will help you sort through the messy parts of life.

Hi, I’m Dr. Rana.

I’m a clinical psychologist and founder of Sorted Mind. I write about the lifelong journey of parenthood and family relationships, from the peripartum period to adulthood. I hope these articles will help you sort through the messy parts of life.

As a family psychologist, I have sat across from hundreds of people — young and old — who are reflecting on their past and on the family relationships that shaped them. Sometimes the childhood being examined is decades behind them, but the emotions are still raw. Sometimes the person in front of me is younger, a teenager still living that childhood, or just making their way out of it — at least chronologically.

And at the centre of nearly every story, tangled up in a complicated mix of feelings, are one — sometimes two — people.

The early relationship with caregivers is the anchor around which children develop a sense of self, learn what to expect from others, and figure out how to navigate relationships. Some of those parents were good — or at least average. Others struggled, or missed the mark in ways that mattered. Others were frightening, or entirely absent.

Sometimes the realization that surfaces in the therapy room isn’t rooted in betrayal or abandonment. It isn’t about a dramatic rupture or a wound with a clear origin. It is something more uncomfortable, rooted in the present. It can be hard to say out loud because it doesn’t feel like a good enough reason to hurt as much as it does.

“We just have nothing in common.”

“I wouldn’t choose them as friends. Or neighbours. Let alone family.”

Underneath those words, something hums. An aversion. An awkward, guilt-soaked realization that most people have never said out loud.

I don’t like my family.

Not: I don’t love them. Love, for many people, is not the question. The love is still there — complicated, bruised, but present.

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What’s missing is the enjoyment of being with them, genuine curiosity and interest, and effortless comfort and openness. Liking involves basic compatibility; shared humour and overlapping values.

Dislike can Occur in Any Family Relationship

This can apply to the family we were born into — a parent, a sibling, a grandparent — and equally to the family that arrived later, through someone else’s choices: a brother-in-law, a mother-in-law, a sister-in-law who came with the marriage and stayed with the family.

The aversion can be rooted in many things. Sometimes it’s about who someone is — their personality, their values, their politics, the way they move through the world. Sometimes it’s about how they have treated us — dismissal, criticism, control, the kind of low-grade disapproval that never quite rises to the level of something you can name and confront. Sometimes it’s about what they represent: the divorce of your parents, the loss of a sibling to their own marriage and family life, a version of something in yourself you haven’t fully made peace with.

Not liking a family member can also show up in the most disorienting direction of all: toward a child. A parent who looks honestly at their relationship with a son or daughter and feels — beneath the love — something closer to friction than warmth. This can begin in adolescence, when differentiation does what it is supposed to do and creates distance. It can be shaped by divorce, by conflicting loyalties, by different temperaments, by the particular ache of a child who reminds you of someone else entirely.

None of these are easy to admit. Most people carry them silently for years.

What “Not Liking” Actually Feels Like

Sometimes it is a strong aversion, or dread. It is frustration in every interaction or the anticipation of it.

Sometimes it shows up in the way you feel and act in their presence. The way you become quieter, or louder, or less sure of yourself around them. The way you edit what you say, anticipate the reaction, and work harder in two hours with them than in a full day of everything else. How your leg shakes, waiting for them to complete their meaningless monologue; or how you clench your jaw when they give yet another piece of unsolicited advice.

Not liking a family member has an emotional toll that accumulates, but is often intensified by the obligation that family brings. The feeling of owing gratitude you don’t feel, agreement you can’t give, or a role you feel obligated to perform. This type of discomfort is not allowed, and often, naming it makes you the problem, because you “should” be more grateful than you are.

After all, it’s family.

Over time, the discomfort, boredom, and discomfort crystallize into resentment. The hum becomes a shriek you cannot ignore.

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A feeling of dislike tends to persist when a person fixates on the thing; the repeated behaviour, trait, opinion, or stubborn pattern. This thing becomes so big, so loud, so cumbersome that it cannot be avoided, and stands at the centre of every interaction or anticipation of interaction with that person. Every moment becomes defined by this thing.

What Tends to be Underneath

The roots vary, but certain themes appear again and again.

A sense of betrayal — especially where there is a history of abuse, neglect, or someone who stood by without acting. Unresolved conflict that accumulated without repair. Limits violated so many times — through guilt-tripping, control, or intrusions into privacy — that the relationship came to feel unsafe even when nothing dramatic was happening.

Different values and life choices that carry an implicit judgment, sometimes stated outright (“you’re a shame to this family”) and sometimes delivered in a subtler manner. Persistent looks, sighs, silences, and pointed omissions continue to highlight the alleged wrongdoing.

Within a family, old dynamics, especially between siblings, can grow into dislike and resentment. A history of comparisons, favouritism, or an atmosphere of competition where there should have been support can fester and shape the way you experience a sibling. And the particular pain of feeling unknown by someone who has known you your whole life. The pain accumulates through conversations that stay on the surface, a parent or sibling who shows no real curiosity about who you are or how you are doing, the quiet grief of being in the room with someone and feeling entirely unseen.

What To Do With It

The first thing is perhaps the most important: you are allowed to feel this. Disliking a family member — even a parent, even a child — is not only common, it is human.

Love and liking are not the same thing. You can be permanently bonded to someone, feel genuine care for their well-being, show up when it matters — and still find their company draining, their personality difficult, and their presence something you need to recover from. These two experiences of someone coexist in all families, whether people are able to recognize them or not. Most honest family relationships are a combination of shared values and obligation, and the balance between them will depend on life experiences, generations, and personal priorities.

When we finally name the experience of disliking a family member, a sense of loss can also surface. A grief that is worth naming as such. Grief for what never was — for the closeness that was hoped for and didn’t come, for the version of the relationship that existed in your imagination before you knew to expect differently. That grief, when unprocessed, can feed the resentment, or contribute to you trying again and again to make the relationship be something that it is not.

Relational curiosity can help zoom out, and look beyond the thing. Getting curious about what shaped a person, about what their inner world may be like, and what they might be hoping to achieve by acting the way they do. It doesn’t mean condoning how they have treated you. It means widening the lens enough that they become a whole person; someone beyond the trait, the behaviour, or the opinion that is unbearable. When a person is multidimensional, it gives you something else to connect to, and the dislike can feel less consuming.

And finally, exploring and naming how you can show up in this relationship if you choose to. This means exploring the ways in which you can adjust contact with this person and be more particular about the nature of closeness. Needing distance, limiting contact, deciding what you will and won’t share — these are not acts of aggression. They are acts of self-preservation in a relationship that costs more than it gives.

Part of adulthood is learning to love without requiring yourself to like. To show up for others that you care about, without carrying responsibility for who they are, and without absorbing their pain. It can mean staying in an honest, healthy enough relationship at a distance rather than close when closeness is not healthy. The dislike might never go away or be resolved. But recognizing it, and choosing your path forward, can help.

>Tell me: Is it possible to have a healthy relationship with someone you love but don't particularly like?

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Are you a mental health professional?

Send me a message to talk about professional consultation, speaking engagements and trainings for professionals. You can find out more about my clinical and consultation, find helpful resources, workbook, and courses by visiting Sorted‑Mind.com.

Many parents who seek parenting support have come to expect that they will be asked about their family of origin. And they are generally correct. Regardless of whether their child is 10 months old, 3 years, 13, or 23 years old, understanding the type of parenting they received and the meaning they have made of it is a window into the way they relate to their child. There are decades of research and thousands of studies showing that our childhood experiences with our caregivers, and the way we have made sense of them, impact the person we become and especially how we show up as a parent.

The more I work with parents, I realize that as important as it is for parents to reflect on their childhood experiences, the impact they had on them, and to make sense of them, it is also important to turn their attention to the future. Of course parents want their child to be happy, resilient, and capable of making good choices for themselves. But many parents harbor concerns that go beyond the parent they are today, and their current relationship with their child.

Millennial parents want to be granted a role in their child’s future. They want their child to like them, to want them around, to be the home they want to come back to during the holidays. Things that were taken for granted in previous generations — that your child will be around to support you in your elder years, that you’ll get to have a relationship with your grandkids — must now be earned. This generation of parents has rewritten the rules of family and what is owed to each other. Some have made the choice to cut off, or to significantly limit the involvement of their own parents in their lives. And they are determined not to share the same fate.

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These modern parenting goals are often a continuation of the grief they have uncovered when they reflected on their childhood, and sorted through their past and present relationship with their own parents. Millennial parents want to be part of their child’s life in meaningful ways — in ways they have not been able to have with their own parents. They do not want to repeat the hurt they have experienced.

And while there is absolutely an attachment thread to these worries, their goals lean more into the realm of anxiety and intolerance of uncertainty, where boundaries are inadvertently used as control. The parent is doing the right thing — reflecting, trying to break a cycle, wanting more for their child than they had. But the vehicle for that intention has become anticipatory management. Every decision is researched, choices about toys, activities, schedules are optimized, and extended family members are expected to follow strict rules. But when parents try to secure a future role by curating the present conditions of their child’s life, the result is likely to be the opposite.

Clinically, parents are conflating protection and projection, which happens when the parent does not differentiate their own experiences, needs, and wants from those of their child. In practical terms, this is a parent who lays out rules for grandparents around play and gifts because they don’t want their child to build a relationship with their grandparents based only on material things; as a result, tensions build between generations and contact with grandparents becomes limited. Or a parent who intervenes in rough-and-tumble play when the children are enjoying themselves and are safe, because that kind of play makes them uncomfortable — robbing the child of valuable interpersonal experiences. The strategies are well-intentioned. But when there is no actual risk of physical or emotional harm to the child — the parent responds to their own discomfort by setting boundaries. In its own way, projection repeats a pattern rather than breaking it. The wound travels in a different shape, and with a different name.

What makes this even more challenging is the confidence — the unapologetic certainty — with which this generation approaches parenting. Individualistic wellness trends give parents permission to place their “peace” and the boundaries necessary to sustain it at the center of the family. Because the intentions are good, and the language of therapy and attachment lends credibility to the choices, it can be difficult to see from the inside that something else is also happening.

The questions we should be asking more often are:

• How do you hope your relationship with your child will look in the future?

• What role do you hope to play in your child’s adult life?

• How do you want your child to remember you, and describe you as a parent?

Most parents I asked these questions to had immediate, visceral answers. They want to be close. They want to be trusted. They want their child to call them first when something goes wrong, and to want them in the room for the moments that matter. When these answers are adjacent to their parenting choices; those that include tighter rules, the managed relationships, unnecessary interventions, the paradox becomes clear. The strategies being used to secure connection are those that erode it. A child who is managed too closely learns that the relationship comes with conditions. A grandparent kept at arm’s length eventually stops reaching. The future the parent is working so hard to protect can be shaped by they are interpreting from their own wounds instead of their child’s needs.

These questions are not meant to replace the important work rooting back experiences and making meaning of it. It is a natural extension of it - a way to use what they have learned by looking backward. A parent who can hold both realities — the one in which they were hurt in the past, and the one in which their child needs something different in the present — is most likely to foster the type of relationship they hope for.

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