Why Is It So Hard to Say Those Two Words—Words That Heal, Comfort, and Provide Security and Protection?

While reading the fantastic book “My Name Is Lucy Barton” by Elizabeth Strout, I couldn’t help but reflect on my own relationship with my mother, as well as the relationship she had with her mother, and so on, endlessly into the past.

What kept running through my mind throughout the entire novel was: Why is it so hard to say those two words—words that heal, comfort, and provide security and protection?

Why have generations upon generations of our parents, their parents, and their parents before them grown up learning not to show tenderness to their own children, let alone utter those two difficult yet so important words?

The most precious words, which many children (myself included) feel, yet still long to hear from the mouths of the most important people in their lives—their parents.

I love you.

Why is it so easy to say those same words to our grandchildren, to our own children, even to our friends—but not to our parents?

Even when we manage to get them out, we often don’t receive the response we expected or needed.

It’s as if they are made of lead, or as if they are forbidden…

Like saying Voldemort—as if merely speaking them out loud would break their magic, making the feeling disappear.

I recently had a conversation with a very good friend, who is a little younger than me, about this exact topic. He said: “I have always felt loved, but to this day, I have never heard my parents say ‘I love you.’”

That’s when I realized we were talking about a universal issue.

What is it about wartime generations, post-war generations, Baby Boomers, and even us Millennials that makes people stay silent about their emotions?

Men, of course, were raised to never show emotions—especially not sadness. Because that would be a sign of weakness, making them “less of a man” if they admitted they were sad. And God forbid they shed a tear!

I remember when my grandfather lost his own brother. I wasn’t more than 15 years old (so I wasn’t a little child anymore). He was sitting in the living room, trying to suppress the tears that were coming. He didn’t succeed, and he began to sob.

My grandmother immediately scolded him: “For heaven’s sake, pull yourself together, the children are watching.”

He simply replied: “But my brother just died.”

That was the first and only time I saw him cry.

I couldn’t understand why my grandmother had reprimanded him—because I couldn’t even imagine the state I would be in if I were in his place.

The very thought of having to suppress all those emotions terrified me.

And now, after so many years and countless situations where people were expected to bottle up their feelings because “What will people say?”, I still don’t understand.

Why?

Why is it socially unacceptable to express completely human emotions—both sadness and love?

I’m not saying that people who struggle to say those two magical words don’t love their family or children. Far from it.

I’m just trying to understand why it is so difficult.

Why is our society built in such a way that it feels like the world will collapse if you say “I love you” to your own child?

Elizabeth Strout’s book, along with many films, confirms the theory that this is a global issue.

The fantastic series “Trying”, which I wholeheartedly recommend, explores this topic in one of its episodes.

The main character tries to tell his father that he loves him—but he can’t find the right words. Both of them struggle to get the words out, so they use football analogies to express their love for each other, yet by the end, they still don’t manage to say the words themselves.

It’s hard, I know. Oh, how well I know.

To be honest, I’m not even sure how many times in my life I’ve actually said “I love you” to my own parents.

I tell my daughter Sofija every day, to the point where she sometimes replies, half-annoyed: “I know, Mom, you tell me every day.”

When I tell Sofija I love you, it’s as easy as breathing air.

But when I turn around and try to say the same words to my own mother, they linger in the air—heavy as lead, impossible to push past my tongue.

Why?

I grew up in a happy and harmonious family. Not a day passed when I didn’t feel safe and loved—both by my parents and by my grandparents.

Yet no matter how hard I try, I can’t recall explicitly hearing the words “I love you”.

I heard “We’re proud of you” countless times, along with many other loving words. But not those words.

On the other hand, just because I don’t remember them doesn’t mean they were never spoken.

But they weren’t said enough for them to stay imprinted in my memory.

I don’t blame anyone, nor do I want to judge.

I want to understand.

I want to help create awareness—to open the floodgates and practice saying these difficult words together, until they become easy.

Because I know the feelings are there.

Sofija hears them every day.

So I know they are possible—they exist.

Let’s say them to each other.

While we can, while we are here—because when someone is gone, it’s too late.

And those are usually the moments when we realize we didn’t say them enough. Then all we can do is hope that the one who is no longer here knew we loved them. And they probably did.

But is that enough?

To avoid a life filled with regret and what ifs—as cliché as it may sound—call your parents, your children, and stay in the conversation as long as you need to.

But say the words.

I promise you, each time will be easier.

And I am quite certain that the benefits and quality of your relationships will be much greater when that difficult yet so important “I love you” is in the air.

Sincerely,
S-Mama