Sitting in my house one evening, skimming through the last pages of ‘It didn't start with you’ by Mark Wolynn, with a coffee in my hand, I found myself wondering about the conversations I never had with my parents. Growing up in a middle-class Indian family, communication often felt like a directive set of instructions where there was no space for opinions or feelings or introspection. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve realized there were things I yearned to discuss, things that could have healed both them and me. I wished I had these conversations with my parents.

The first topic that lingered in my mind was boundaries. My mother used to say, "Family comes first," which frequently felt like an invitation to disregard my own needs. I wish I had explained to them how exhausting it was to be on call all the time and to be told that refusing a relative's request was tantamount to betrayal. I wanted to explain how boundaries weren’t about shutting them out but about creating space where love could breathe without resentment. If only I had mustered up the courage to say no to the things I was uncomfortable with or ask for what I wanted emotionally at the time Perhaps they would have understood, or maybe they wouldn't but it would definitely have been a start.

Then there was patriarchy, the invisible script that directed so much of our lives. My father’s voice carried an unspoken authority at home. His decisions weren’t to be questioned, even when they felt stifling. My mother, the gentler one, upheld his authority with a quiet acceptance I didn’t yet have the language to question or call it out. I wish I had asked them: “Why does Dad’s word weigh more? Why do we all walk on eggshells around his anger?” I wanted to talk about how patriarchy wasn’t just limiting for me as their daughter but also for him as a father, how it robbed him of softness, of vulnerability and his ability to express emotions rather than shutting out everytime. I wish he could be more than just “the provider” with us, I wish he could be his free self. I wish I could have built a family where everyone’s voice matters equally.

And then there was the weightiest topic of all generational trauma. It’s the kind of thing you don’t recognize until you’re far enough away to see the patterns. My mother’s anxiety, born from her own childhood of scarcity, seeped into our household. My father’s silence, a legacy of being told that emotions were weaknesses, created an emotional void. I wish I could have asked them about their childhoods, about the hurts they carried that I had unknowingly inherited. “What was it like for you to grow up?” I would have asked. “What fears and dreams did you bury because you had no one to talk to?” I wanted to tell them that acknowledging this trauma wasn’t about blame but about understanding. “Let’s stop passing this pain forward,” I wish I had said.

One evening, I imagined these conversations unfolding not as arguments but as heartfelt exchanges. I would start by sharing my experiences, using vulnerability to open the door. Perhaps I’d tell my father about the time his anger scared me, not to accuse but to show him its impact. Or I’d share with my mother how her insistence on perfection made me afraid of failure. These aren’t easy things to say, but they’re the truths that connect us.

I also wish we could have talked about love, not in the abstract sense but as a practice. “What does love mean to you?” I would have asked. “How did your parents show you love, and how did you want to show it to us?” I think this conversation could have bridged gaps that silence widened. Love in our home often felt transactional. “If you succeed, we’ll celebrate; if you fail, we’ll withdraw.” I wanted to tell them that love didn’t need to be earned, that it could exist freely, even in imperfection, it could be just something that holds us together, that holds them together in their relationship always. .

Of course, hindsight is kind in ways that reality often isn’t. Back then, I didn’t have the words or the emotional courage to broach these subjects. Even now, the thought of bringing them up feels daunting. But imagining these conversations has taught me something valuable: the power of breaking cycles begins with having open, transparent conversations , even if they make us uncomfortable.

Today, I try to take small steps. When my parents ask about my life, I share more than I used to. I talk about therapy, about boundaries, about how I’m learning to unlearn some of the things I grew up with. Sometimes they respond with curiosity; other times, they change the subject. But I’ve learned to meet them where they are, just as I hope they’ll meet me someday.

I’ve also learned that healing isn’t linear. It’s an imperfectly perfect dance of progress and setbacks, of trying and trying again and then yet again. There are days when I feel hopeful, when a simple acknowledgment from my parents feels like a breakthrough. And there are days when their resistance to change feels insurmountable and heartbreaking. But even on those days, I remind myself that the conversations I wished I had with my parents are still unfinished, but they’re not impossible.

And maybe that’s the real gift of awareness and introspection, it gives us a chance to rewrite the story, one word at a time.

If you or somebody you know is struggling with something difficult and needs to get in touch with a therapist, consider reaching our Support and Engage verticals for affordable and inclusive help!    

Like our content? Please show us some support by sharing and up-voting!

Image Credits: Unsplash