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There was a time when everything my parents said would piss me off. Even though I rarely reacted to what I perceived as provocations, inside I was boiling—repressing emotions like anger and anxiety.

In the last years, however, I’ve begun finding peace with them, and I still can’t believe it took more than thirty years.

It wasn’t a single moment of clarity. I had to go through a long process that involved distancing myself from them, listening to other people’s stories so I could detach from my own, getting randomly triggered by memories of past moments, and trying to understand what that whole first part of my life meant—if anything at all. It meant facing a lot of uncomfortable emotions, going through multiple breakdowns, and sitting with questions that didn’t have clear answers.

By the end of it—or what feels like an end, if such a thing even exists—I didn’t experience a dramatic breakthrough or sudden epiphany. It was more of a slow realization, one that I’m only now starting to grasp with more clarity. I want to share it briefly here, because it might help someone reflect on their own situation—or smile knowing they’ve gone through the same necessary shit. Or maybe shake their heads, not understanding what I mean. And that’s fine too.

What I realized is this: I don’t have to take everything my parents say seriously or personally, or interpret it as criticism or a lesson.
Learning to read between the lines helped me find peace with them.

And by that, I mean understanding the real meaning—or lack of meaning—behind what they say. Sometimes there is no lesson, no deeper message to decipher, no hidden agenda. Sometimes parents talk simply because they want to be in connection, even when their words don’t land well.

I now understand why this took so long.
Up to a certain point, we expect direction from our parents. And it’s not always clear what they’re trying to say—even though they may be convinced that they used all the words and methods available to communicate their point.

With time, some things did become clearer, mostly because I closed part of the communication gap by making the effort to listen without expecting anything at all. Other things, I believe, will never be totally clear—and I now know I can live with that.

Of course they made a ton of mistakes along the way. Who doesn’t?
What parent doesn’t make mistakes?
What child doesn’t?

We may spend years victimizing ourselves for the things that happened to us—and that’s okay too. It’s part of the process of understanding, of putting together the pieces of a puzzle that takes a long time to make sense. Abuse leaves scars; trauma is no joke. But we can overcome anything—even the heavy things we bury deep in our soul, the things that make us shake when we access them, but that we eventually have to face in order to transcend them.

Once we acknowledge the humanness of our parents, and see how they, too, are normal people trying to do the right thing while raising another human—something nobody ever taught them to do—even the unclear things start to feel a bit clearer.

And some things simply lose importance along the way. We look back and wonder why we spent so much time dwelling on them.

When we finally start listening—really listening—to them or to anyone, without resistance and without judgment, we realize how often we didn’t read between the lines. How often we refused to fill in the blank spaces, the things people cannot express with words.
In my experience, many people from older generations often found it harder to show vulnerability or express certain emotions compared to how we approach these topics today. It’s still not easy now either—but difficulty isn’t an excuse. If we want to convey real meaning in what we say, we need to open up and share our fears, emotions, and the things that scare us most.

And we also need time. Time to learn how to do that, in the right context, and at the right moment.