The most painful thing an adult child can do isn't argue with their parents - it's go quiet

Growing up as an only child, I mastered the art of the silent treatment somewhere around age fourteen. When my parents pushed too hard about grades or criticized my choice of friends, I'd retreat to my room and go radio silent for days. Back then, I thought I was winning. Now, decades later, I realize I was just practicing for the more sophisticated version of emotional withdrawal I'd perfect as an adult.

Last month, my mother introduced me at a family gathering as "my daughter who worked in finance" rather than "my daughter the writer." It's been years since I left my analyst job, but she still can't quite accept the change. Instead of correcting her or starting an argument like I might have in my twenties, I just smiled tightly and said nothing. The conversation moved on, but that silence hung between us for the rest of the evening, heavy as concrete.

That's when it hit me. The arguments we have with our parents, however heated, at least keep the connection alive. But when we go quiet? When we stop sharing our lives, stop calling, stop trying? That's when something fundamental breaks.

The weight of unspoken words

Think about the last time you had a real conversation with your parents. Not the surface-level "how's work?" chat, but something genuine. If you're like most adult children I know, it's probably been a while.

We tell ourselves we're protecting our peace. We're setting boundaries. We're being mature by not engaging in pointless arguments. And sometimes, that's true. But other times, we're just too exhausted to bridge the gap between who our parents think we should be and who we actually are.

I recently read Rudá Iandê's new book "Laughing in the Face of Chaos: A Politically Incorrect Shamanic Guide for Modern Life", and one passage stopped me cold: "Their happiness is their responsibility, not yours." It sounds liberating, right? And it is. But Rudá's insights also made me realize that while I'm not responsible for my parents' happiness, I am responsible for the quality of connection I choose to maintain with them.

The book inspired me to examine why I'd gone so quiet with my parents over the years. Was it really about boundaries, or was it about avoiding the discomfort of being truly seen by the people who raised me?

When protection becomes isolation

Here's what happens when we go quiet with our parents. We start editing our lives before we share them. That promotion at work becomes "things are fine." The relationship struggles become "everything's good." The therapy sessions, the spiritual awakening, the career pivot that actually brings us joy? Those stay locked away.

We become strangers living parallel lives, connected only by shared history and obligation.

My friend told me recently that she hasn't had a real conversation with her father in three years. They talk every Sunday, but it's all logistics and weather. She knows he's struggling with retirement, and he knows she's going through a divorce, but neither of them knows how to break through the polite distance they've created.

The saddest part? Both of them are lonely. Both of them want connection. But the silence has become so familiar that breaking it feels impossible.

The cost of emotional distance

When we withdraw from our parents, we often think we're the only ones who feel the pain. We're wrong. Parents feel it too, even if they don't know how to express it.

They notice when we stop sharing our dreams. They feel the shift when our calls become dutiful rather than genuine. They sense the walls we've built, even if they don't understand why we built them.

But here's what really gets me. By going quiet, we rob ourselves of the chance to be known by the people who've known us longest. We deny ourselves the possibility of adult relationships with our parents, relationships based on mutual respect rather than outdated dynamics.

Growing up with achievement-oriented parents who measured success by traditional metrics, I spent years hiding my creative pursuits. When I finally left finance to become a writer, their disappointment was palpable. So I stopped talking about my work. I stopped sharing my wins. I thought I was protecting myself, but really, I was ensuring they'd never understand who I'd become.

Finding your voice again

Breaking the silence doesn't mean returning to old patterns of arguing or people-pleasing. It means finding a new way to communicate, one that honors both your truth and your relationship.

Start small. Share one real thing about your life, even if it makes you uncomfortable. Ask your parents one genuine question about theirs. Not "how are you?" but "what's been on your mind lately?" or "what's bringing you joy these days?"

You might be surprised by what happens when you crack open the door you've kept closed. Your parents might surprise you too. They're not the same people who raised you, just as you're not the same person they raised.

Sometimes, they'll disappoint you. They might not respond the way you hope. They might revert to old patterns or fail to meet you where you are. That's okay. The point isn't to achieve perfect understanding. The point is to stay in relationship, to keep the channel open, to choose connection over comfortable distance.

The bridge between worlds

Recently, I've been experimenting with sharing more of my real life with my parents. Not dumping everything on them, but offering glimpses of who I am now. I told my mother about a challenging piece I was writing. I shared with my father how trail running helps me process difficult emotions.

The conversations aren't always smooth. My mother still occasionally asks when I'm going back to a "real job." My father doesn't quite understand why I spend Saturday mornings volunteering at farmers' markets. But something has shifted. The silence between us has softened into something more like curiosity.

We're learning each other again, as adults this time. It's messy and uncomfortable and sometimes painful. But it's also real in a way our relationship hasn't been in years.

Final thoughts

The most painful thing an adult child can do isn't argue with their parents. Arguments, at least, carry the heat of engagement, the possibility of resolution, the evidence that we still care enough to fight.

Going quiet is different. It's a slow fade, a gradual disconnection that leaves everyone wondering what went wrong but lacking the words to fix it. It's protection that becomes prison, boundaries that become barriers.

I'm not suggesting you tolerate toxic behavior or abandon healthy boundaries. Some relationships truly are better at a distance. But for many of us, the silence we've chosen isn't about safety. It's about avoiding the vulnerability of being truly known by the people whose approval once meant everything.

If you've gone quiet with your parents, ask yourself why. Is it protection or is it fear? Is it necessary or is it habit? What would happen if you broke the silence, not with grand revelations, but with small, honest moments of connection?

The relationship you build might not be the one you dreamed of. But it might be something even better: real, complicated, and yours to shape. Your parents won't be here forever. The silence you maintain today might be the regret you carry tomorrow.

Choose connection, even when it's messy. Choose truth, even when it's uncomfortable. Choose to be known, even when being unseen feels safer. Because in the end, the pain of staying silent often outweighs the discomfort of speaking up.