What My Parents Got Wrong — And What They Got Right

For a long time, I thought my parents got almost everything wrong.

That’s dramatic, I know. But when you’re twenty-two, broke, and trying to figure out who you are, it’s easy to turn your childhood into a courtroom. Every rule becomes evidence. Every “because I said so” becomes a scar.

I used to replay arguments in my head like I was preparing for a retrial.

My parents believed in stability. Safe jobs. Practical degrees. “Something with benefits.” My dad worked the same job for thirty years. My mom stretched every dollar like it was elastic. Security was their love language.

I wanted to write.

Not as a hobby. Not as something I’d “fall back on.” I wanted to build a life around words. When I told them that, they looked at me like I’d just announced I was moving to the moon.

“You can’t rely on that,” my dad said.

“Be realistic,” my mom added.

Realistic. That word followed me for years.

So I tried to be.

I chose a major I didn’t love because it sounded respectable. I took internships that looked good on paper but left me drained. I smiled through networking events while something inside me felt like it was shrinking.

And every time I felt miserable, I blamed them.

They taught me to be afraid, I’d think.

They care more about security than happiness.

But here’s the part I didn’t admit back then: I was also afraid.

Afraid of failing publicly. Afraid of proving them right. Afraid that if I tried and it didn’t work, I’d have nothing to hide behind.

It was easier to resent their caution than confront my own fear.

The breaking point came one Sunday afternoon at their kitchen table. I had just gotten a promotion at a job that looked impressive but felt hollow. Everyone congratulated me.

“You did it,” my mom said, smiling.

I nodded. But I felt like I was watching someone else’s life.

That night, driving back to my apartment, I cried so hard I had to pull over. I realized I had built a version of success that didn’t even feel like mine.

Have you ever achieved something and felt absolutely nothing?

That’s when I started questioning everything. Not just them. Me.

What if they weren’t wrong… just shaped by a different world?

My parents grew up without safety nets. Their parents struggled. Bills weren’t theoretical — they were threats. To them, stability wasn’t boring. It was survival.

They weren’t trying to limit me. They were trying to protect me with the only map they knew.

That realization didn’t excuse everything. There were things they got wrong.

They didn’t always listen. Sometimes they dismissed feelings that didn’t make sense to them. Mental health wasn’t a real conversation in our house. “Push through it” was the solution to almost everything.

When I told my mom I was overwhelmed in college, she said, “Everyone’s overwhelmed. That’s life.”

At the time, it felt like she was minimizing me.

Now I see she was repeating what she had been taught — that endurance equals strength.

But endurance without expression can turn into silence. And silence can turn into distance.

For a few years, there was distance between us. I stopped telling them what I really felt. They stopped asking questions that went too deep. We stuck to safe topics: work, weather, what’s for dinner.

It’s strange how families can love each other fiercely and still misunderstand each other completely.

The shift didn’t happen overnight.

It happened the day I finally told them I was leaving my “stable” job to try writing full time. I expected disappointment. Maybe even anger.

Instead, there was a long pause.

Then my dad said, “Are you sure?”

Not in a mocking way. In a worried way.

“I’m sure,” I said. My voice shook, but I meant it.

My mom looked at me for a long time. “We just don’t want you to struggle.”

And there it was. Not control. Not ego. Fear.

In that moment, I saw them differently. They weren’t trying to crush my dreams. They were trying to spare me pain.

The problem was, pain is part of building anything meaningful.

They got it wrong when they taught me that safety should always come first.

They got it wrong when they treated emotions like inconveniences instead of signals.

They got it wrong when they assumed their version of success was universal.

But they got a lot right, too.

They taught me discipline. I show up to write even when I don’t feel inspired because that’s what I saw growing up — showing up no matter what.

They taught me responsibility. I pay my bills on time. I keep my word. I don’t quit the second something gets hard.

They taught me loyalty. When I care about someone, I stay.

And maybe most importantly, they taught me that love isn’t always soft. Sometimes it looks like packed lunches. Like early mornings. Like quiet sacrifices you don’t notice until you’re older.

As I’ve grown up, I’ve had to separate what to keep from what to release.

I’ve kept the work ethic.

I’ve released the fear.

I’ve kept the resilience.

I’ve released the silence around struggle.

That’s the strange part of becoming an adult. You realize your parents are just people. Flawed. Doing their best. Carrying their own inherited fears.

Have you ever caught yourself repeating something your parent used to say and felt a jolt of recognition?

I have.

Sometimes I hear my dad’s practicality in my own voice. Sometimes I feel my mom’s worry creep in when I think about the future.

But now I have a choice. I can repeat it blindly, or I can reshape it.

We talk differently these days. I tell them about my writing wins — small ones, but mine. They don’t always understand the world I’m in, but they try.

And I try to see theirs.

I used to think growing up meant proving them wrong.

Now I think it means understanding them better.

They were wrong about some things.

They were right about others.

And somewhere in between their caution and my courage, I’m building a life that feels honest.

If you’ve ever wrestled with your parents’ expectations, you’re not alone. It’s complicated to love the people who shaped you while also choosing a different path.

But maybe that’s the real inheritance — not their exact beliefs, but the strength to examine them.

I don’t need them to have been perfect.

I just need to keep growing beyond what they feared for me.

And maybe one day, if I have kids of my own, I’ll get some things wrong too.

I just hope I get enough right to give them something solid to stand on — even if they eventually choose to walk somewhere I never imagined.