It’s just like ‘That’s how it is, huh?”
― Kalen Dion
You express a small concern, a mild disappointment, a gentle request. And the moment you do, they shut down. Fiercely, violently, abruptly. Not just sometimes. Every time. Like clockwork.
You are not allowed to be anything but their perfect, content, compliant child.
You only have the permission to be happy, grateful, and quiet on demand.
The minute you venture beyond these prescribed emotions, the wall slams down.
They turn away, walk away mid-sentence, counter-attack with “after all I’ve done for you,” guilt-tripping with all that they have suffered for you.
Your feelings, your very right to feel, are framed as a betrayal, punishable by silence, rage, the cold shoulder.
Sometimes, it’s a blank stare. Sometimes, it’s a dismissive wave; most of the time, it’s the eruption of anger and attacks. All designed to push you back into the box, to remind you of your place, to silence the voice that dares to question what they have said or done.
You know that slam far too well.
For those who value fairness, logic, and mutual respect, the slam cuts even deeper. For you are trapped in a dynamic where your principles are fiercely, repeatedly violated. Conversations are not equal for they hold all the power — the power to walk away, to shut down, to leave you stranded in a game of waiting for the apology that never comes.
You are left with the bitter taste of injustice, the gnawing ache of loneliness, and the heavy weight of unspoken words.
Here’s what may be happening beneath the surface.
Perhaps, deep down, they know.
Perhaps, buried beneath layers of denial, lies deep shame.
Shame because they know they had failed. Shame because they are well aware of what they have done to create the scars you now so clearly have to bear for the rest of your life. The shame is a burden so heavy it threatens to crush their carefully constructed ego.
Your truth — or the truth — is a dangerous current, threatening to pull them under.
Their reactions aren’t merely defensive; they are desperate acts of self-preservation.
In fact, the intensity of their defensive response is precisely proportional to the shame they carry. The fiercer the reaction, the deeper the resonance of your words — meaning they know, deep down, you are telling the truth.
Decades of practiced denial have hardened into reflexive defenses, automatic shields. It is not even conscious anymore, just automatic and immediate.
You see, their entire sense of self depends on not looking at their shadow. They’ve built their identity around being the good parent, the one who sacrificed, the one who did their best. That image cannot afford a single crack. One crack in the facade and the flood of shame and regret might drown them. The shame of knowing they have betrayed your love. The shame of their growing irrelevance, their aging body, their dysfunctional lifestyles, their isolation, their emptiness. Sometimes even the buried shame of regretting parenthood itself.
Their emotional landscape, brittle and underdeveloped, cannot hold the complexities of both good and bad. Like a child trapped in an adult body, they must split, compartmentalize, and be either all good or all bad.
They cannot afford to say, “Yes, I made a mistake there; I am sorry,” because admitting to even one tiny failing, one reminder of their dysfunction, their aging body, their deteriorating memories, threatens to unravel everything.
This is why they resort to such desperate measures — attacking, fleeing, shutting down, guilt-tripping. Anything to squash back down the threatening surge of shame, self-blame, and buried trauma that your simple truth threatens to unleash.
Always, always remember their reactions — the attacks, the withdrawal, the guilt — are not at all about you. They are a frantic scramble to silence the internal voice that whispers of their failings, a desperate attempt to stay afloat in the swirl of their own shame and guilt. They are drowning, and in their panic, they are pulling you down with them.
Understand this: You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to agree or disagree. You don’t have to fight for anything. You have the choice to simply be a calm, solid witness to their reactions, to their struggle. Observe the storm without being swept away by it. You do not have to drown with them.
In moments where you feel so triggered you are on the edge of losing your sanity, when you lose breaths and are about to ruin your own life because of their absurdity, see if you can let their defensive intensity be confirmation rather than confusion.
You do not have to say anything. You do not have to agree or disagree. You do not have to fight for anything. You have the choice to simply be a calm witness to their reactions.
You do not have to calm the storm, battle the defensiveness. You just need to calm yourself, that defensive storm will pass on its own.
Seeing the truth of what could be happening certainly does not obligate you to forgive, sympathize, or excuse their behavior. Understanding this may not soothe the sting, but it might ignite a seed of something — not necessarily forced or premature forgiveness, but maybe a second of breathing room, a potential doorway to your release.
Your task now is not to make them understand. It’s to grieve.
Grieve fully for everything that happened and didn’t happen. Grieve for the possibilities that will never exist. Grieve for the parent you should have had, but didn’t. Grieve for the child you were, who learned to shrink themselves to survive.
Grieve for the silent rehearsals of conversations that will never take place. Grieve for the understanding you will never receive. Grieve for the justice you will never see. Grieve for the belief that if you could just explain it perfectly, they would finally understand. Grieve for the false conviction that clear communication always leads to understanding, that truth always wins, and that wrongs are always made right.
Grieve for the future you will not have with them. Grieve for the relationship that will never grow. Grieve for the conversations that will never become deeper. Grieve for the self-awareness they will likely never develop. Grieve for the healing they may never experience. Grieve for the grandparent they might become, repeating the same patterns, the same defenses, the same inability to truly see and hear you.
This grief is complex because they are still alive. Physically present, but emotionally absent in every way that matters. This grief comes in waves. Just as you think you’ve dealt with one layer, another appears. You grieve not only for past hurts but for the ongoing pain. You grieve for the parent who still cannot understand your needs, who still uses your pain to defend against their own shame, who still prioritizes self-preservation over connection.
But this grief, despite its devastation, can also bring freedom. Every tear shed for what cannot be is a step towards accepting what is. Every moment spent mourning the parent you needed is a moment spent releasing the hope that they will change. Each wave of grief brings you closer to shore, to solid ground, to a place where you no longer need their validation to know your own truth.
This grief cannot be hurried. It cannot be planned. It cannot be forced. All you need to do is to welcome it like a house guest, as Rumi says. Allow it to come. Allow it to sit in your living room. Allow it to empty you so you can finally fill yourself with your own truth, your own understanding, and your own acceptance.
You do not owe them your understanding. You do not owe them forgiveness before you are ready. You do not owe them protection from their own shame. Take care of your inner child first. The one who learned to swallow feelings, to doubt reality, to blame themselves.
Save yourself first, before you can empathise.
You deserve to exist in all your complexity, with all your feelings, rage, and resentment.
Even if they never acknowledge it.
Even if they never change.
Even if they never learn to listen.
Their denial is their burden. Your truth is your freedom.
Walk away from the drown, and choose to breathe.
