I Know My Parents Love Me, But They've Never Said It

I keep thinking about something my dad said to me a few times. "Si tu n'existais pas il faudrait t'inventer" translates in English to "If you didn't exist, you would have to be invented." My dad used to say that after I made him laugh, always with a tenderness in his voice. I’ve kept this precious memory for decades, but only understood its underlying meaning recently. It was my dad—with his history, education, and fear of being vulnerable—trying to tell his child three terrifying words: I love you.

As far back as I can remember, my parents never told me they loved me. I always thought that life would have been easier for me if, from a young age, I had been told that I was loved by the most important people, like a song you’ve heard so many times that you know it by heart and make it your own. I think this little melody would make it easier to love myself. 

I’ve been trying to understand why some parents can't tell their children they love them. My mom and dad clearly feel unconditional love for their children. Why are they incapable of verbalizing it?

When asking people around me, I realized that I wasn't alone. Some of my friends also haven't been told they were loved in their childhood or even adult lives. While I can't find clear behavioral patterns between them, I can’t help but think that it might be more of a cultural habit; in France, where I come from, people have a reputation of being extremely reserved when it comes to expressing their feelings. I’m happy that all of them are now aware of the importance of expressing verbal affection to a child and sometimes still hope to hear those words—probably to reassure the child they once were who was searching for validation.

My mom and dad clearly feel unconditional love for their children. Why are they incapable of verbalizing it?

There is no doubt that my friends and I have been loved. I consider myself lucky to have had a happy childhood, where everything material was provided for me to grow in the best conditions. But just because you know something doesn’t mean you don’t need to hear it. 

And when I didn’t hear it, I went searching for a reason. Because I saw my parents as my whole world, I was incapable of criticizing them. So naturally I blamed myself instead. I believed that I hadn't been good enough or that I’d done something wrong to deserve this treatment. Or even worse, that I was unworthy of love.

I can confirm that my parents’ failure to say “I love you” had an impact on who I am today. I've never been the most self-assured person; I tend to doubt myself easily and I developed insecurities that sometimes push me to seek validation from others. Like my parents, I have difficulty talking about my feelings. Saying “I love you” feels unnatural and I'm struggling with this feeling of vulnerability that, for too long, I confused with weakness. I’m not alone: Many studies show that children who have been told they were loved by their parents are more likely to turn into confident adults, while the ones who haven't are more prone to anxiety and confidence issues.

Thankfully, it seems like the new generation is willing to take the leap and break the cycle of generational unspoken love. Each time I go home to see my family, I witness my sister telling my nieces she loves them. It hasn't been easy for my sister, but she probably knew how important it is to hear it, to be comfortable with your own vulnerability and for my nieces to learn that we shouldn't be afraid to express our feelings nor to tell our family we love them. 

And now, little girls who are only seven and two years old are showing their whole family how to do it. Even if the delivery is a bit shy and hesitant, I’ve noticed that my parents are happy to tell my nieces they love them back. It almost sounds like liberation for them. The relief of doing the thing you always wanted to do. They’re not initiating, just following. And catching up on all the words they’ve never said.

But saying “I love you” to a child is easier than saying it to an adult who will see the vulnerability in the declaration. In an ideal world, I'd be the one breaking the cycle by saying “I love you,” but I feel incapable of doing so. The weight of the family tradition made me like my elders: mute. It makes me wonder how many times my parents, grandparents, or siblings have contemplated trying before they abdicate.

So here I am: Lost, full of questions, wondering why these lovely families I see on TV shows are nothing like mine. The ones that can talk about the more intimate things, discuss their feelings without feeling awkward, and fix any issue with the power of love.

As creatures of habit, it's difficult for us to break cycles and go against what we learned but it's also hard to learn something that we never witnessed. How uncomfortable and unnatural must that feel to jump into the pool of vulnerability, the one that none of my parents or grandparents dared to swim before? How do we learn how to say I love you? How do we unlearn everything we know? When do we stop acting like our parents? Those questions—or rather the absence of them— created generations of mute parents and children waiting for a miracle.

As an adult, the constant search for a parent's verbal love is emotionally exhausting. It brings me back to the insecure child I was and thought I said goodbye to long ago. So instead of waiting for something that might never happen, the best thing I can do is accept and forgive. Accept that I might never hear my mom tell me she loves me. And forgive that my dad's childhood made it too hard for him to say it. They're not only my parents, they're also imperfect humans. 

As consolation, I've learned to pay attention to the ways they are telling me they love me, not with words but with actions. I notice that my mom asks me to text her to make sure that I’ve arrived home safely, even if it's the middle of the night. It makes me smile when my dad remembers my favorite cereals and buys them every time I come to visit, even though I’m 33 now. I witness my mom getting emotional when the holidays are over and it’s time to say goodbye. Because I learned how to read them, I know that when she leaves the room it is to hide her tears. And of course, I’ll always remember that my dad thinks that if I didn't exist I should be invented. 

Verbal love may be rare, but acts of love are everywhere. Even if the delivery might be tricky, parents always find a way. Their own imperfect way.