Making Sense of Our Parents' Imperfections

Can we create peace with the parents we had?

One of the bittersweet realities of growing up was coming to terms with the fact that my parents didn’t give me everything I needed as a kid, and that they probably never would.

It’s bittersweet because while seeing the gaps left by unmet needs hurts, there’s also a sense of relief in letting go of impossible expectations. The childhood fantasy that your parents are emotional superheroes, capable of providing everything, can feel unexpectedly liberating.

Some of us had severe experiences—abuse, emotional neglect, or a constant feeling of unsafety. That pain can leave deep scars. Others, like myself, had less dramatic but still difficult upbringings with families that wouldn’t exactly fit into the “healthy family” section of a psychology textbook. They weren’t abusive, but they definitely lacked some essentials. This post is about this latter group.

Even in those less dramatic cases, missing essentials can leave a lasting impact. They certainly did for me. Research confirms this: our family experiences in childhood and adolescence shape our well-being, health, and relationships as adults.

A 30-year longitudinal study tracked children from ages 9-17 and then again at age 38, examining family dynamics and their impact on health and happiness. The findings showed that growing up in a supportive family strongly predicted positive relationships, better health, and greater happiness in adulthood. Similar findings emerged from another long-term study which measured family functioning at age 15 and developmental outcomes at age 30. It found that feeling valued and being able to confide in family members at 15 predicted better mental health and stronger interpersonal relationships at 30.

These studies remind us that the love, support, and respect we receive, and how conflicts are handled in our formative years, are crucial for our wellbeing as adults. And let’s not forget the science behind how a secure attachment with a significant other—the care and responsiveness we receive—is crucial for psychosocial functioning in different developmental stages of life.

That’s why it’s so hard to overlook the gaps left by our parents.

But as I’ve reflected on this over the years, despite my inner turmoil filled with anger, pain, guilt, and that occasional “but why” moment, I made a choice to step back and take some perspective. And in doing so, I found a surprising amount of hope and love buried beneath those unpleasant feelings.

This didn’t happen overnight. It was the result of a lot of reflection and growth, including learning how to be psychologically flexible, which is one of the most essential life skills. It took time to shift from blame to understanding, and to let go of my own expectations about how parents "should" be. To be fair, my parents, too, evolved as they aged, becoming more adaptable and more empathetic in their own ways.

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Most of the parents were winging it back then.

They did the best they could with what they had, which, often wasn’t much. Over time, I began to develop more empathy and compassion for my parents, even through the pain. I started seeing them—and their generation (apparently they’re called baby boomers)—with greater nuance.

Let me be clear: this isn’t about excusing our parents' wrongdoings. It’s about acknowledging that many parents loved us in their own way, but struggled to show it in ways that truly mattered. They might have nailed the basics—shelter, food, even birthday gifts—but when it came to emotional support, that part often got left behind. The part where they didn’t just assume we felt loved because they provided for us but actively made us feel it.

The reasons for this are complex. Many of our parents were hurting, whether from their own childhoods or life’s many battles, but their pain was often never acknowledged or addressed. It was like there was an unspoken rule that no one would talk about it. So, as kids, we didn’t understand what was happening. But as adults, some of us look back and realise: they weren’t doing well, either personally or in their relationships. And many actions they took, like punishments or emotional coldness, were just the norms of the time. They were simply repeating what their parents had done.  

We inherited many scars.

Of course, their pain didn’t stay neatly contained within them. There were times it spilled out onto us. Their inability to deal with their own wounds meant that they either lashed out or withdrew emotionally. They didn’t put their own oxygen masks on first, so they couldn’t help us with ours. Sometimes, in their struggle to deal with their unmet needs, they unintentionally hurt us.

They followed what I like to call the “I’m fine” principle. If no one says anything, there’s no problem, right? Meanwhile, some of us became experts at reading the room, decoding tension through clenched jaws and stiff smiles. We learned to adapt, to be quiet, to anticipate their needs. But we weren’t exactly given a crash course on how to express our own emotions.

And it’s not surprising, really. Our parents didn’t have the tools to manage their own emotions, so how could they teach us? Many numbed themselves with work or the comforting lie that everything was fine. Some carried around silent shame and unspoken sadness, sacrificing their own dreams for the sake of security and stability. For them, sacrifice was the ultimate love language, even if it came at the cost of emotional presence.

And while we might have sensed that they loved us, it wasn’t always in a way that made us feel truly seen or connected. Sometimes it was more of a vague, "You know I love you, right?" rather than a "Let me show you in ways that actually matter."

Perhaps there were moments when we were told to be grateful, even when we felt neglected. The guilt crept in early. We were reminded of their sacrifices, their hard work, and how we were lucky to have what we did. And so, we felt guilty for wanting more—more connection, more affection, more validation. It was like being handed an empty cup and being told to appreciate how shiny it was, even though we were thirsty.

Fast forward to adulthood, and here we are, carrying all that emotional baggage into our lives. Not that every single thing I’ve described happened to everyone, or that all our parents did every one of these things. But the impact is real for many of us who had similar experiences. Our parents’ struggles with conflict become our struggles. Their emotional distance influences our relationships, making it hard for us to trust or feel truly worthy of love without conditions. We might still carry anger, sadness, or confusion about how we were raised. Or maybe just a quiet, nagging sense of shame that we can’t quite shake, or feeling that there’s something wrong with us.

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Can some peace be found?

Holding onto these wounds is exhausting though. It’s like lugging around a heavy suitcase filled with grievances and tangled emotions. You grieve the love that was absent, the guidance you had to figure out on your own. Or maybe you feel angry, hurt, or lost. If you’ve been there, you know the weight of it.

Eventually, though, some of us start to believe that things can improve. We come to terms with certain realities, and maybe, if both sides are willing to do the work, we can rebuild an estranged relationship or improve the one we already have. But even if our relationship with our parents doesn’t change—and, honestly, some of us may not even want it to—what we really seek is peace of mind.

But this process requires honesty. Pretending everything was fine or sweeping our pain under the rug won’t help. What we can do is recognise that our parents were shaped by their own brokenness. Most of them were likely doing the best they could with what they had. And they were probably doing better than their parents, just as we’re doing better than them.

This realisation doesn’t erase the hurt. It doesn’t instantly fix anything. But it does soften the edges. Our parents stop being the people who let us down and become individuals who were just as lost and confused as anyone else.

Then comes the question: Do you need to forgive them? And more importantly, can you forgive them?

The thing is, forgiveness isn’t easy, especially when parents don’t acknowledge their wrongdoings or take responsibility. Some might even flip the script and blame you, triggering that familiar guilt. Or worse, they judge you for even bringing it up—cue the frustrating, “What did you do wrong?” dance. It’s tough to forgive when you’re still waiting for an apology that may never come. It’s even tougher when they don’t see the pain they caused.

No, forgiveness isn’t easy. But it’s an obligation either. It’s a personal choice. If you do decide to walk down that path, it takes emotional readiness and sometimes support from others. If you don’t, that’s okay, too. In fact, in some families, forgiveness causes more harm than good. It’s something to consider, but it requires careful reflection and, ideally, some collaboration from our parents.

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Recovering and repairing becomes a lot easier when parents can admit that, despite their good intentions, their child experienced their behaviour as hurtful. A parent’s willingness to take responsibility and truly listen can open doors to a closer relationship. But not all parents are capable of this, and not all children are willing to engage. Some families remain stuck in a state of misunderstanding and unresolved hurt.

That said, I’ve seen parents gain clarity later in life, especially when their parenting duties aren’t so front-and-center. Some realise the effects of their actions when they see their own children with their grandkids. A few even feel guilt and wish they could go back and do things differently. And while it doesn’t fix everything, that insight can bring some hope.

And I know that for many parents, apologies don’t come in words. They might not say “I’m sorry” outright, but they show regret through their actions—by showing up differently in your adult life or trying harder in small, subtle ways. It’s not the grand apology you might have envisioned, but it’s something. If you notice these small gestures, it can help create a bit of hope.

As we work on ourselves, some of us start to extend compassion toward our parents, even while feeling hurt. We shift from asking, “Why did they treat me this way?” to “It happened; now what choices can I make to build the life I want?” We can hold space for both love and anger, gratitude and disappointment, all at once. WE can understand them and still feel hurt by what we went through.

Ultimately, we're all grappling with our own imperfections, and that includes the people who raised us. No one else can hand us the life we seek; it's up to us to forge our own path, shaped by the lessons we've learned. Perhaps true progress isn't found in what we were given, but in what we choose to create for ourselves as we move forward.

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