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When I was in my twenties, I thought my parents were dinosaurs. They didn’t get it. Their rules, their values, their whole approach to life seemed outdated and unnecessary.
Why save when you could spend? Why stay home when you could go out? Why work the same job for decades when you could chase your dreams?
Now I’m sixty-four, and I catch myself sounding exactly like my old man. Not because I’m getting old and cranky. Because I finally understand what he was trying to tell me all those years ago.
The things I rolled my eyes at back then? Turns out they were right about most of it. And my generation is just now figuring out what they knew all along.
They knew dinner together was non-negotiable
Growing up, we ate dinner at 5:30 sharp. Every night. No exceptions. If you weren’t at that table, you better be in the hospital or jail. My mother would have that food on the table, and my father would walk in from his pipefitting job, wash his hands, and sit down.
I hated it as a kid. My friends were out playing. There were things I wanted to do. But 5:30 meant 5:30.
When I started my own family, I tried to be more flexible. More modern. We’d eat when it was convenient. Sometimes together, sometimes not. Kids had practice, I had late jobs, my wife had her things. We’d grab something quick, eat in shifts.
You know what we lost? Everything important.
Those dinners weren’t about the food. They were about looking each other in the eye and asking about the day. They were about my father teaching us things without making it a lesson.
They were about my mother keeping tabs on what was really going on in our lives.
By the time I figured this out, my kids were teenagers. We started having dinner together again, but it was harder. The habit wasn’t there. The expectation wasn’t there.
My parents understood that the family that doesn’t eat together slowly becomes strangers living in the same house. They were protecting something I didn’t even know needed protecting.
They understood that “enough” was actually enough
My father worked the same union job for thirty-five years. Same company. Same type of work. He could have chased bigger money, could have moved us somewhere else for a promotion. He didn’t.
I thought he lacked ambition. Why not want more? Why not climb higher?
But here’s what I saw every day: He came home tired but not broken. He made it to my CYO basketball games. He coached on weekends. The bills were paid, we had food on the table, and he was present.
Me? I spent thirty years chasing more. More money, more jobs, more everything. I built a successful business, sure. But I also missed more games than I made. I was physically there but mentally at the next job site.
My father understood something it took me decades to learn: Enough means the bills are paid and the people you love are fed. Everything after that is just stuff that pulls you away from what matters.
He wasn’t unambitious. He was clear about his priorities. And his priority was being a father and husband first, pipefitter second.
They knew complaining was a waste of time
My mother came here from County Kerry as a young woman. No money, no connections, just determination. She worked part-time at the parish office and ran our house with zero tolerance for excuses.
When things got tough, she didn’t complain. She figured it out. Washing machine broke? She’d wash clothes in the tub until we could afford to fix it. Not enough money for new shoes? She’d make the old ones last another season.
I used to think she was just tough. Now I realize she understood something deeper: Complaining changes nothing. It just makes you feel worse about what you can’t control.
My generation loves to talk about our problems. We process, we share, we vent. And you know what? Most of us are still miserable. We’ve turned complaining into an art form, thinking that talking about problems is the same as solving them.
My mother’s approach was simpler: Fix what you can fix, accept what you can’t, and get on with it. She wasn’t suppressing her feelings. She just understood that dwelling on problems without action is like sitting in a rocking chair. Lots of movement, no progress.
They understood that some things shouldn’t be convenient
Everything in my parents’ world required effort. Want to talk to someone? Walk to their house. Want to buy something? Save up for it. Want to know something? Go to the library.
Nothing was instant. Nothing was easy. And that was the point.
I watch my generation now, me included, struggling with the fact that we can have everything immediately. We can’t wait for anything. We can’t work toward anything. If it takes more than five minutes, we’re out.
But the things that matter have always taken time. Building a reputation, raising kids, creating a marriage that lasts. These things can’t be sped up. They can’t be hacked or optimized.
My parents knew that the effort was part of the value. The walking to your friend’s house made the friendship stronger. The saving for something made you appreciate it more. The waiting taught you patience.
We’ve confused convenience with improvement. Just because you can do something faster doesn’t mean you should.
They knew the difference between being strong and being silent
This one took me the longest to figure out, and it’s where my parents weren’t completely right.
My father’s generation believed in toughing it out. Don’t complain, don’t show weakness, just push through. I thought that was strength. Turns out it was just silence dressed up as strength.
But here’s the thing. They were half right. You do need to be tough. Life is hard, and nobody’s coming to save you. But being tough doesn’t mean being silent about what you’re going through.
My father coached basketball, provided for us, showed up every day. But he never talked about his fears, his doubts, his struggles. That silence got passed down to me, and it took me fifty years to realize I could be strong and still admit when things were hard.
My parents’ generation understood resilience. What they missed was that talking about struggles doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.
Bottom line
I spent most of my adult life thinking I was smarter than my parents. More evolved. More aware. I had access to information they never had, opportunities they never got.
But information isn’t wisdom. And opportunity isn’t the same as knowing what to do with it.
My parents understood the basics: Family comes first, enough is enough, actions matter more than words, and some things are worth the effort.
They knew that life wasn’t about having the most or being the happiest all the time. It was about showing up, doing your part, and taking care of your people.
These days, when I catch myself sounding like my father or making decisions like my mother, I don’t fight it. I lean into it. Because it turns out they knew what they were doing all along.
I just wish I’d figured that out sooner.
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