If you weren’t taught these 9 things as a child, you were raised by emotionally immature parents

We don’t get to choose the families we’re born into, but we do get to choose what we learn next.

If you grew up without certain emotional skills, you may have felt like you were “too sensitive,” “too much,” or always walking on eggshells.

I know that feeling.

In my old life as a financial analyst, I could model market risk in my sleep—but I had no idea how to model my own emotions.

It wasn’t until much later, on quiet trail runs and in honest conversations, that I realized this: what we weren’t taught as kids, we can still learn as adults.

Here are nine lessons many of us never got at home—and how to give them to yourself now.

1. Naming feelings before fixing them

Do you ever rush to solve a problem without acknowledging how you actually feel about it?

Emotionally mature caregivers tend to mirror feelings first: “You’re frustrated,” “That was scary,” “You’re disappointed.”

When that didn’t happen for you, it’s easy to default to suppressing, joking, or bulldozing over emotions.

Try this today: pause and name your internal weather—“I feel anxious and a little lonely.”

Say it out loud or write it in a notes app.

The aim isn’t to dramatize; it’s to witness.

You’ll be surprised how much clarity arrives when you stop arguing with your experience.

Self-check: What’s the feeling, what’s the need, and what’s the next, smallest step?

2. Boundaries are clarity, not conflict

“Should I say something or let it slide?” If you grew up in a house where directness was treated as disloyalty, boundaries can feel like picking a fight.

They’re not. They’re instructions for secure connection.

As Brené Brown puts it, “Clear is kind. Unclear is unkind.” When we’re vague to avoid discomfort, we’re often being unkind—to others and to ourselves.

Try a boundary formula: “I’m available for X, not for Y.” Simple, neutral, respectful. 

Pro tip: practice in low‑stakes situations. “I can’t stay on after 30 minutes,” or “I don’t discuss my diet.” The muscle grows with use.

3. Repair after rupture

In emotionally stunted households, conflicts either exploded and got buried, or simmered forever.

What was missing?

Repair.

Not a performance, just accountability plus action: “I snapped earlier. That’s on me. Next time I’ll take a break and come back calmer.”

Adult you can learn this now.

Start your repairs with specifics, not global self-hate: “I interrupted you three times; I’m sorry,” rather than, “I’m the worst.”

Then ask, “Is there something you need from me to make this better?”

Notice how your relationships breathe easier when repair becomes normal.

4. Your worth isn’t performance-based

If love felt conditional on grades, achievements, or being “the easy kid,” you may have internalized a brutal equation: worth = output.

That shows up today as overworking, people‑pleasing, or crashing after you “earn” a rest.

Here’s the re-learn: your value is not a KPI. Yes, keep your standards.

But decouple who you are from how you did today. I like a mantra that’s grounded and practical: “I am a person, not a project.”

On tough days I’ll take a loop through the garden, touch a leaf, and say it again.

Experiment: at the end of each day, list one win and one worth—something valuable about you that had nothing to do with productivity.

5. Regulation is a skill, not a personality trait

Growing up around adult meltdowns (or adult shutdowns) teaches your nervous system to live on high alert.

Then when stress hits, you either blow up, freeze, or run. You weren’t “born dramatic”; you never got co‑regulation and coaching.

This is where Dr. Ross Greene’s reminder helps: “Kids do well if they can.” The adult version holds, too.

When we have the skills and support, we do better.

Build a tiny regulation toolkit: inhale through the nose for four counts, exhale for six; plant both feet and name five things you see; text “overloaded—circle back tomorrow?” before you spiral. 

Skills reduce shame. Shame reduces skill. Choose the first loop.

6. How to ask directly for what you need

Did your home reward hints and punish honesty?

Then you learned to speak in riddles and hope people decode you. That’s exhausting—for everyone.

Direct requests are an adult intimacy superpower.

Try: “I’d like a check‑in call before big meetings,” or “Can you hug me first and problem‑solve second?”

If you worry you’ll sound demanding, add a choice: “Would today or tomorrow work better?”

The clarity is a gift; the choice preserves autonomy.

One more upgrade: replace mind-reading tests (“If they cared, they’d just know”) with a rule—if it’s important, I say it.

7. Conflict can be safe and useful

When you grow up with unpredictable reactions, conflict registers as danger.

So you avoid it, or you overprepare like it’s a courtroom drama.

What if conflict is just information plus care?

A trail run taught me this—on steep switchbacks, you don’t sprint harder; you shorten your stride, breathe, and stay responsive.

Try the same in hard conversations: slow down, use shorter sentences, and keep your body still. Ask, “What part makes the most sense to you?” or “What feels off?”

That keeps both of you in problem‑solving mode, not prosecution mode.

And remember: if voices rise, you can pause. “I want to get this right. Let’s take ten, then continue.”

8. Self-compassion isn’t self-indulgence

If mistakes were met with mockery or silence at home, your inner critic probably became your default coach.

It’s efficient, right up until it isn’t—because fear-based motivation burns hot and then burns you out.

Swap the whip for warmth. Self‑compassion means treating yourself like you would a good friend on a bad day: honest, kind, and on your side.

You can practice it fast: hand on your chest, one slow breath, then—“This is hard. I’m not alone. I can be kind to myself here.”

Over time, that tone becomes your baseline.

Anchor this in something concrete: a sticky note on your monitor or a phone lock screen that says, “Talk to yourself like someone you love.”

9. Autonomy and interdependence can coexist

Some families swing between enmeshment (“We do everything together, and think alike”) and emotional desert (“You’re on your own”).

Neither teaches the adult skill we actually need: being a whole person who also relies on others.

Practice both sides. Autonomy: choose one decision this week without polling the group—what to eat, where to spend a free hour, which project to lead.

Interdependence: name one place you want support—“Can you read this draft?” or “I’d love company at that event.”

Healthy relationships hold both: I choose, and I’m chosen.

How to start re‑parenting yourself (without making it a second job)

• Pick one skill for 30 days. Most of us don’t need more insight; we need repetition.

• Choose boundaries, repair, or regulation and make it your theme for a month.

• Use scripts until they’re yours. “I’m not available for that.” “I was wrong there; here’s how I’ll fix it.” “I’m feeling overwhelmed; let’s continue at 3.” Say them verbatim until your voice finds its own rhythm.

• Make the environment do the heavy lifting. Put reminders where friction lives: a boundary script in your calendar, a breath prompt on your meeting notes, a “repair checklist” in your phone favorites.

• Recruit one “practice partner.” A friend, therapist, or trusted coworker who knows your focus and cheers micro-wins. If your original village couldn’t teach these skills, build a new, kinder one.

A note on grief (and grace)

Learning these nine things can bring relief—and grief. You might notice what you didn’t receive and feel angry or sad.

That’s not regression; that’s repair.

Let those emotions move through, then keep going.

As you become the adult you needed, you also become the adult others can rely on.

Final thought before you go refill your mug: you weren’t broken—you were under‑taught.

And that’s fixable.

Start small.

Be clear.

Repair when you miss.

Ask directly.

Offer yourself the steadiness you deserved.

One day you’ll catch yourself doing something different—pausing before reacting, stating a boundary without apology, forgiving yourself the way you do your best friend—and you’ll realize: I’m raising myself well now.

And that changes everything.