In recent years, I have become increasingly aware of what appears to be a growing trend: adult children distancing themselves from, and in some cases completely disowning, their parents because of painful experiences from childhood. It raises an important question. Is this truly a modern trend, or are we simply more willing than previous generations to openly discuss family wounds that once remained hidden behind closed doors?

I suspect the answer is complicated.

From conversations with my siblings, friends, and people from many different walks of life, I have discovered something remarkably common. Most of us believe, in one way or another, that we could have been raised better. Some carry disappointments. Others carry deep emotional scars. And some, like me, carry memories that shaped the entire course of their lives.

I can only speak honestly from my own experience and leave others to tell their stories in their own way.

My childhood could only be described as horrific.

That statement is difficult to write because it would be easy for someone reading it to assume my parents were cruel people. They were not. They were products of the era in which they lived, just as I was shaped by the era in which I grew up. During my childhood, there were deeply ingrained social beliefs about children who were perceived as “different.” Children like me were not encouraged to embrace who they were. They were not guided toward understanding, confidence, or self-acceptance. The prevailing belief was that you “fixed” them.

Parents were told to trust experts, institutions, religious leaders, educators, and societal expectations. My parents did exactly what many loving parents of that generation were told to do. They believed they were helping me. They believed they were protecting my future.

Of course, none of it changed who I was.

What it did do was send me into adulthood profoundly unprepared for the world I would encounter. I entered life without a roadmap, without emotional tools, and without the confidence that so many people take for granted. I was vulnerable in ways I did not fully understand at the time. Looking back now, I realize how easily my life could have taken a much darker path. There were certainly people in this world who would have gladly exploited someone carrying that level of fear and uncertainty.

Thankfully, somehow, that did not happen.

But it could have.

As an adult, I eventually spoke honestly with my parents about my childhood. I told them something I believed then and still believe today: parents are responsible for a child’s upbringing, whether that experience is good, bad, or somewhere in between. I told them the truth as I experienced it. For me, childhood was lived in fear.

Every single day.

I woke each morning terrified that before the day ended, someone would stand up, point at me, expose me in the cruelest possible way, and that my life as I knew it would effectively end in that moment. That fear was not occasional. It was constant. It shaped how I moved through the world, how I saw myself, and how I believed others saw me.

That was my reality.

But I also told my parents something equally important. While they were responsible for my childhood, I became responsible for my life once I became an adult. My healing, my happiness, my peace, and ultimately my future became my responsibility.

That realization changed everything for me.

As painful as my childhood was, it also forged certain strengths within me. It forced me to become resilient. It forced me to create a path where none seemed to exist. When I left home, there was no clear direction for my life and honestly, not even the belief that a meaningful path was possible for someone like me. Yet somehow, step by step, I built one.

I achieved successes professionally and personally that many people once told me would be impossible. I reached places emotionally, socially, and professionally that were never expected of me.

And because of that, eventually, I had to forgive my parents.

Not because my childhood was acceptable.
Not because the pain was imaginary.
Not because the damage disappeared.

I forgave them because I finally understood they were acting out of the beliefs, fears, and cultural expectations of their time. They were not trying to make my life unbearable. They were trying, however imperfectly, to give me what they believed would be the best possible chance at life.

There are two sayings that have stayed with me throughout much of my life.

The first came from my grandfather. He once told me this is what he wanted written on his headstone:

“I was once as you are now. I am now what you will be. Pray for both of us.”

In that simple statement was profound wisdom. He was reminding me that age brings perspective impossible to fully understand when we are young. He was saying, “I once stood where you stand today, and one day you will stand where I stand now.” I have carried that lesson with me whenever interacting with older generations. Experience changes how we see the world, often in ways youth cannot yet comprehend.

The second saying has remained just as powerful to me:

“There was a day when your parents picked you up for the last time.”

Most of us never realize when that day happens. There is no ceremony, no announcement, no recognition that a chapter has quietly ended forever. Yet I can assure you, most parents remember it. They remember the child you once were. They remember the weight of you in their arms, the sound of your voice when you were small, and the realization that time had moved forward without their permission.

Even without children of my own, I have felt the emotional truth of that idea deeply.

For me, my relationship with my father was complicated. We were not especially close, and there were wounds between us that never fully disappeared. But despite that, I could never completely turn my back on him. My mother and I, on the other hand, shared a very close bond, and I cherish every moment and memory we created together.

None of this is meant to suggest that every parent deserves forgiveness or reconciliation. Some wounds are unimaginably deep, and some people endured abuse no child should ever experience. Every family story is different, and every person must decide for themselves what boundaries are necessary for their own emotional survival and well-being.

But I do think we live in a time when compassion is often being replaced with judgment, and understanding is too quickly abandoned in favor of division. Perhaps before completely severing ties, more of us should ask not only what happened to us, but also what happened to the people who raised us. What fears shaped them? What pressures defined them? What pain did they carry from generations before?

Understanding does not erase accountability.

But sometimes, understanding makes forgiveness possible.