I asked 30 people over 70 what they wish they'd said to their kids before it got awkward — and 22 of them gave some version of the same devastating answer

Last week, I sat in my living room with a voice recorder and a list of phone numbers, calling people I'd known for years—some from my teaching days, others from book club, a few from the senior center where I volunteer. I asked them all the same question: What do you wish you'd told your children before it became too awkward to say? The answers broke my heart in the most beautifully consistent way.

Twenty-two out of thirty people, in their own words, wished they'd said some version of "I love you" more often. Not the quick, habitual "love you" at the end of phone calls, but the full-bodied, look-them-in-the-eyes, stop-everything-else kind of declaration. The kind that feels too intense for a Tuesday morning or too sentimental for a forty-year-old child who's rushing to pick up their own kids from soccer practice.

The weight of unspoken love

One woman, 78, told me she wished she'd explained to her daughter that every lunch she packed wasn't just about nutrition—it was a prayer wrapped in wax paper. Another man, 81, said he never told his son that sitting through those mind-numbing Little League games was actually the highlight of his week. "I thought he'd figure it out," he said. "Why else would I be there?"

But here's what haunts me: they all thought their love was obvious. They thought their children knew. They assumed that actions spoke loudly enough.

I understand this assumption intimately. I spent decades teaching teenagers to find their voices, but when it came to my own children, I never told them the one thing that mattered most: that every sacrifice I made, every night I fell asleep exhausted, every moment I chose their needs over mine—I did it because loving them was the greatest privilege of my life, not a burden. I thought they knew. I thought showing it was enough.

But now, watching them parent their own children with the same silent devotion, the same unspoken exhaustion, I realize they inherited my silence along with my strength. They learned to love without words, to serve without acknowledgment, to give without expecting gratitude. And while that made them good people, it also made them believe their own sacrifices were just what you do, not acts of extraordinary love worth naming.

When love becomes too awkward to name

There's a window of time when telling your children how much you love them feels natural. When they're small, we shower them with "I love yous" between bandaging scraped knees and reading bedtime stories. But somewhere around adolescence, the words start to feel heavier. By the time they're adults, with mortgages and children of their own, sitting them down to express the depth of your love feels almost presumptuous, like you're demanding an emotional response they don't have time to give.

One gentleman I spoke with put it perfectly: "After a certain point, it feels like you're asking them to take care of your feelings instead of the other way around."

So we stay quiet. We show up for grandkid birthdays and bring casseroles during hard times. We send cards with pre-printed sentiments because writing our own feels too vulnerable. We love fiercely and silently, hoping the message transmits through some invisible family frequency.

The inheritance of emotional silence

What strikes me most about these conversations isn't just what wasn't said, but what got passed down instead. When we don't name our love, our children learn that love is something you do, not something you declare. They become adults who excel at service but struggle to receive care. They're the ones who insist they're "fine" when they're drowning, who apologize for needing help, who feel guilty for wanting recognition.

If I could go back, I'd tell my children every single day: "What I'm doing for you isn't just duty or instinct—it's a choice I make because you are worth every hard moment, every sleepless night, every dream I adjusted." Maybe then they wouldn't spend their lives wondering if they're enough, the way I did. Maybe they'd know that being loved completely doesn't require earning it through silent sacrifice.

Breaking the cycle (even if it feels too late)

Here's what those thirty conversations taught me: it's never actually too late, just increasingly awkward. The woman who wished she'd told her daughter about those lunch-prayers? She called her that night. It was clumsy and her daughter was confused at first, but then she heard her crying on the other end of the line. "I thought you resented having to do all that," her daughter said.

Can you imagine? All those years of love, interpreted as obligation.

I've started writing letters to my own children. Not emails—actual letters they can hold, maybe keep in a drawer somewhere. I tell them specific memories: how their father and I would peek at them sleeping and marvel that such perfect humans lived in our house. How making their favorite meals wasn't a chore but a form of meditation on their happiness. How every sacrifice was actually an investment in the people we most wanted to see thrive in the world.

The letters are awkward. I've started and crumpled up dozens. But I keep writing because the devastating truth is that we pass down our inability to receive love as surely as we pass down our capacity to give it.

Final thoughts

Those twenty-two people who wished they'd said "I love you" more weren't just talking about three words. They were talking about context, explanation, the whole messy truth of parental love that we assume is understood but rarely is. They were wishing they'd been brave enough to be awkward, vulnerable enough to seem foolish, clear enough that their children could never doubt they were chosen, cherished, and loved beyond measure—not for what they achieved or who they became, but simply for existing.

The conversation doesn't have to be perfect. Write the letter. Make the call. Say the awkward thing. Because someday, someone might ask your children what they wish you'd said, and wouldn't it be wonderful if they couldn't think of a single thing?