I’m 68 and finally understand why my adult children keep conversations short—here are 7 things I did that built walls I didn’t notice until it was too late

by Farley Ledgerwood | January 27, 2026, 6:00 pm

Last week, my daughter called to tell me about her promotion. The conversation lasted exactly four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. I know because I checked my phone afterward, wondering why it felt so rushed. That’s when it hit me. At 68, after decades of wondering why my adult children keep our conversations brief and surface-level, I finally understood. The walls between us weren’t built overnight. I constructed them myself, brick by brick, with behaviors I thought were helpful, loving, or just normal parenting.

The hardest part? Recognizing these patterns took me years of reflection and some uncomfortable soul-searching. But once I saw them clearly, everything made sense. The quick phone calls, the changed subjects when I asked certain questions, the careful distance they maintained. They weren’t being cruel. They were protecting themselves from habits I’d developed over decades.

1. I always had to fix their problems instead of just listening

Remember when your kid would come home upset about something at school? My immediate response was always to jump into solution mode. Bad grade? Let me call the teacher. Friend drama? Here’s exactly what you should say tomorrow. Work stress? Let me tell you how I handled similar situations.

What I didn’t realize was that sometimes they just needed someone to say, “That sounds really tough.” They needed validation, not a repair manual. My middle child once told me he stopped sharing his challenges because he knew I’d turn every conversation into a strategy session. He wanted a dad, not a consultant.

The irony? The more I tried to help, the less they shared. They learned to give me the abbreviated version of their lives because the full version came with unsolicited advice they hadn’t asked for.

2. I made everything about me without realizing it

This one stings to admit. When my youngest would share an accomplishment, I’d somehow steer the conversation toward my own experiences. “You got a raise? That reminds me of when I got my first big promotion…”

I thought I was relating to them, building connections through shared experiences. Instead, I was hijacking their moments. Their joys, struggles, and stories became launching pads for my own narratives. No wonder they started keeping the details to themselves.

3. I criticized their choices while calling it concern

“Are you sure that’s wise?” became my catchphrase. Whether it was their career moves, their parenting decisions, or even their choice of neighborhood, I always had concerns to voice. I wrapped criticism in worry, thinking it showed I cared.

When my eldest was choosing colleges, I pushed hard against her top choice because I thought I knew better. The art school she loved wasn’t practical enough for my comfort. She went to the state university I preferred, and while she did well, I later learned she spent years resenting me for it. That resentment created a distance that never fully closed.

Every “concern” I expressed taught them that sharing their plans with me meant defending their choices. So they stopped sharing the plans altogether.

4. I compared them to each other constantly

“Why can’t you be more organized like your sister?” seemed harmless enough. I thought a little comparison might motivate them. What it actually did was create competition where there should have been support, and resentment where there should have been love.

Each of my three kids needed completely different approaches, but I was too busy trying to mold them into some ideal version I’d created in my head. The comparisons didn’t stop when they became adults either. “Your brother already bought a house” or “Your sister had her second child by your age” became weapons I didn’t know I was wielding.

They learned to share less about their lives because any information could become ammunition in a comparison they never signed up for.

5. I dismissed their feelings when they conflicted with mine

When they’d express hurt over something I’d done or said, my first instinct was defense. “That’s not what I meant” or “You’re being too sensitive” became my shields. I was so focused on protecting my intentions that I ignored their impact.

My son once tried to tell me how my absence at his school plays affected him. Instead of listening, I launched into all the reasons I had to work those nights, how I was providing for the family, how he needed to understand adult responsibilities. I won the argument but lost the connection. He never brought it up again, but the hurt didn’t disappear. It just went underground.

6. I treated their boundaries as personal attacks

When my daughter asked me not to drop by unannounced, I was offended. When my son requested I not share his news on social media, I felt rejected. Every boundary they set felt like they were pushing me away, so I pushed back.

“I’m your father, I should be able to…” became my battle cry. What I didn’t understand was that boundaries weren’t walls meant to hurt me. They were guidelines for how to love them better. By fighting against them, I proved they were necessary.

7. I never truly apologized for the things that mattered

Sure, I’d say sorry for small things. Running late, forgetting to call back. But the big stuff? The missed soccer games, the harsh words during their teenage years, the times I chose work over them? Those got buried under justifications and explanations.

Even when I did apologize, it came with conditions. “I’m sorry, but you have to understand…” isn’t really an apology. It’s a defense dressed up in apologetic clothing.

Watching my children become parents themselves has been both beautiful and painful. I see them making conscious choices to be present in ways I wasn’t. They leave work early for school plays. They listen without immediately offering solutions. They’re breaking cycles I didn’t even know I’d created.

Final thoughts

Recognizing these patterns at 68 feels like finding the instruction manual after you’ve already assembled the furniture wrong. But here’s what I’ve learned: it’s never too late to change how you show up in your relationships.

I can’t undo the years of quick conversations and surface-level connections, but I can stop adding bricks to the walls. Every time I bite my tongue instead of offering advice, every moment I really listen without making it about me, I’m chipping away at the barriers I built.

The conversations are still shorter than I’d like, but they’re getting a little longer. A little deeper. And that’s enough hope for this old man to keep trying.

Original:https://geediting.com/gen-bt-im-68-and-finally-understand-why-my-adult-children-keep-conversations-short-here-are-7-things-i-did-that-built-walls-i-didnt-notice-until-it-was-too-late/