I wrote about a huge fight I had with my son.

In hindsight, it wasn’t really a fight at all—more a painful miscommunication, as most disagreements tend to be.

It was excruciating because of two things:

1. Our desperate desire to understand one another, and
2. The expectation that we should be able to—because normally we do. (Cue the panicked “WTF is happening right now?!”

A big, tangled ball of confusion.

When I returned to Holland, I told a friend what had happened.
She said, “Wow, your tolerance level is so low!”

Apparently, kids often say awful things to their parents, and many parents eventually build mental boundaries, becoming resilient—almost numb—to their children’s outbursts. I felt naïve hearing that, but also strangely grateful that my tolerance is so low. It means the shock still gets through, and also that my kids and I don't fight often!

This morning, though, I had a different insight: the suffering wasn’t only due to the absence of family conflict in our household.

It runs deeper.

I think it has to do with my connection—or the lack of —with my own parents.

I know that parent–child bonds can break, even when both people cherish the relationship and want nothing more than to stay connected.

My father died by suicide when I was 25, so there’s that.

My mother and I used to be close—very close—until I began to become my own person, doing things differently from what she believed was proper for a Japanese daughter.

My parents are incredibly important to me. They gave me so much: a piano, a bicycle, my brother; they paid for my education; they fed and clothed me. I am deeply grateful.
And yet… I don’t really remember them. It feels strange. And sad.

I know they loved me. They were parents who loved their children.
I know my father loved me because he wrote it on my 24th-birthday card. I’m grateful he felt open enough to say it. It’s one of the few tangible pieces of evidence I have of his love.

A therapist once used the phrase “emotionally unavailable parents,” and it was a lightbulb moment for me.



My children are my Achilles’ heel.
Nothing terrifies or pains me more than the possibility of losing connection with them.

Maybe that fear feels especially overwhelming because I never had the chance to repair things with my own parents.
Maybe, if I had grown up with a strong, stable, loving bond that endured through conflict, I would feel calmer—more grounded—trusting that relationships can be repaired.