Parenthood Paradox

The Ultimate Identity Check

Becoming a parent is less of a milestone and more of a metamorphosis—one that turns even the most self-assured adult into a paradox of power and humility. At the heart of it is a level of love so all-consuming, it’s almost alien. Many parents describe it as a love they didn’t know they were capable of—unconditional, irrational, and fierce. It’s not the romantic kind or the one born from friendship; it’s raw, protective, and transformative.

Suddenly, there's this small human—a "mini-me"—who looks up at you like you hold the keys to the universe. In that gaze, parents sometimes feel a fleeting sense of godliness: I created this. I am their everything. For people not used to being the center of attention—perhaps only ever spotlighted on their wedding day—parenthood thrusts them into the starring role of someone else’s life story.

But this star-power fades quickly under the humbling reality that parenting isn’t performance, it’s endurance. Parents often believe they know what’s best, only to discover their child is a better narrator of their own journey. A quiet defiance, a peculiar interest, a unique way of being—these are not flaws to fix but clues to honor. The lesson is profound: you're not here to mold, you're here to guide.

Ironically, in the name of protection, many parents develop narrower minds. Curfews, blocked content, social filters—these walls feel safe. But sometimes, they’re not built to keep danger out, but to keep complexity away. Fear can masquerade as wisdom.

And then comes pride. When their child shines, parents beam, silently claiming partial credit. But when their child struggles or fails? It’s the world, the school, the phone—anything but them. The balance of accountability is often lopsided.

Parents often like to believe they are the primary educators of their children, imagining themselves as wise guides shaping young minds—but in reality, the true teachers are strangers: actual schoolteachers the parents have never met, the child’s peers, television, and the vast, unfiltered expanse of the Internet. Children typically listen to their parents not out of deep conviction, but because they lack the power or freedom to do otherwise. The consequences of parental influence—often rooted in ignorance or unexamined biases—don’t fully reveal themselves until years later, when those formative choices echo through adulthood. By then, parents are quick to disown the damage: “That wasn’t MY fault.” And yet, in a twist of selective memory, if the child turns out to be successful, those same parents eagerly rewrite the past to cast themselves as the masterminds behind every triumph.

Some parents, having experienced a lonely or emotionally distant childhood—perhaps growing up without genuine friendships or emotional support—may try to fill that void by turning their child into a close companion. In doing so, they blur the lines between parent and peer, seeking emotional validation or camaraderie from their child while still attempting to maintain authority. This dynamic can create confusion for the child, who is expected to be both a confidant and a follower.

Additionally, some parents, having disagreed with how they were raised—feeling their own parents were too rigid, cold, or out of touch—may overcorrect by adopting extreme or inconsistent parenting methods. They might impose unusually strict rules in some areas to “do better,” while being overly lenient in others as a reaction to their own past restrictions. This imbalance can lead to instability for the child, who struggles to find clear boundaries or consistent guidance.

The truth is, no one really knows if they’re doing a good job. Parenting is the longest experiment with the slowest results. You think you're amazing—or at least trying your best—but the real scorecard won't come until 20 or 30 years from now, when that once-small human starts to raise a child of their own.

Children Know Who They Are Better Than Parents Know Who They Should Be

Children, in their rawness and innate self-awareness, often have a much clearer sense of who they are than their parents do of who they should become. Yet, paradoxically, it is the parents who often assume the authoritative role of identity architect—projecting hopes, fears, and unfulfilled dreams onto a child who never asked to be born. When the child matures into an articulate, reflective adult—capable of expressing who they truly are and what shaped them—parents often react not with openness, but with deflection and immaturity. Instead of listening, they retreat into a self-defensive shell, uttering lines like, “I did everything I could; you can’t judge me.” But the offspring—yes, the adult product of the parenting experiment—is precisely in the position to judge, not from a place of cruelty, but from lived consequence. After all, the child did not choose the blueprint; they only inherited it.

What the parents choose to do with that reckoning—whether to engage in meaningful dialogue or retreat into wounded pride—is a choice that may determine the possibility of healing or the cementing of estrangement.

Many parents believe they are leaving a legacy through their children—by passing down money, property, or values. But the truth is, they have no control over what their children will do with any of it. The next generation may not share the same beliefs, priorities, or sense of meaning. In the end, simply having offspring does not guarantee the continuation of one's legacy. Legacy is not defined by biology, but by impact.

Parents Must Own Their Role or Risk Re-inflicting the Past

For any parent who hopes to preserve or restore a meaningful relationship with their adult offspring, there must be a willingness to acknowledge the imprint they left—whether through action, inaction, or projection.

Refusing to take accountability not only invalidates the offspring’s lived experience but also risks deepening the emotional scars of a childhood already colored by misunderstanding or neglect.

True reconciliation requires humility: the ability to suppress ego, avoid weaponizing the past, and resist the temptation to play the martyr. Statements like “Why now?” or “Just let it go” serve only to reframe the parent as the victim, making the conversation impossible and leaving the offspring carrying the unresolved weight alone. If parents are unwilling or unable to do the inner work necessary for such conversations, then perhaps their silent withdrawal is, ironically, a final act of compassion—a letting go that at last frees the offspring to build a life not haunted by unmet apologies or half-truths, but grounded in self-definition and emotional autonomy.

Only then, maybe, will the circle make sense. Or not.