I can’t say ‘I love you’ to my parents. I finally know why

How do I explain that the same three words I casually shout across the street to my friends are the very same three words my body refuses to say to my parents? “I love you”. It’s strange, really. At 28, after experiencing so many different forms of love, through friendships, strangers, even learning to love myself (I think), I still find myself wondering when those three words will feel just as natural with my parents. A few months ago, they both read my book. One of the chapters is called “’I love you’ feels like a swear word”. In it, I wrote about everything I’d never managed to say out loud, and I remember thinking how painfully uncomfortable it was knowing that the two people I struggled most to open up to were about to read words that had never even left my mouth. When my parents read my book it literally felt like they were granted access to my forbidden heart, to see what’s inside and then zip it back up. But I’ve always wanted for that to happen. I’ve always thought if I finally put my walls down and became the vulnerable person with them that I am with my friends, then the problem would be solved. That, or at least we’d have a conversation about it where we might cry, laugh and awkwardly hug it out. But nothing’s really happened since then. My mum hugs and kisses me more than ever, almost overcompensating, and my dad quietly checks in more. But nothing has miraculously changed, because I guess we’re all still figuring out how to speak a language none of us have ever learnt. Ever since I can remember, love has felt confusing to me. I grew up in a family of six, as the youngest child, or as my family knows, the “problem child”. On the surface, I was the moody kid who cried and refused to be in any family photos. But looking back, I don’t think I was necessarily difficult, I think I was just a child desperately trying to feel seen in a house full of people where attention is naturally divided. And with a lot of therapy, I now know that I interpreted attention as love. Some days I’d earn my parents’ attention and other days I didn’t, which felt like some days I was loved and other days I wasn’t. So I learnt that suppressing any kind of feelings around love was easier. It felt safer in an unpredictable environment. It’s just how my younger self made sense of the world. Underneath all of that was another unspoken rule: love didn’t need to be verbalised because it simply “went without saying”. I grew up believing that if you’re family, of course you love each other. It was something you were supposed to know so it wasn’t frequently vocalised. I knew my mum loved me because she cooked dinner every evening. I knew my dad loved me because he’d come home from the shops with a Twix he knew I’d like. Love existed in the walls of our house. It was the infrastructure of our family, built into gestures and routines rather than conversations. And I think those same walls became the blueprint for the ones I built around myself. I’m sure someone might be reading this and thinking “just say ‘I love you’, why is it so hard?” I mean, that’s exactly what I tell myself . But whenever I’ve tried to say it to my parents, my body freezes, my shoulders tense, my eyes can’t look any higher than the chair leg in front of me. I cringe. I almost “ick” myself out. Saying “I love you” feels more like a high-risk confession than anything else. Vocalising love means allowing someone to see exactly how much they matter to me. It means being vulnerable in a way that has never felt entirely safe because I can’t predict how it will be received. Even if I know, rationally, that my parents love me, my nervous system still reacts as though there’s something at risk. And that’s exactly why I don’t struggle to vocalise love to my friends because those relationships feel safe and predictable. They are built on explicit communication rather than implied. We’ve always said how we feel, so saying “I love you” simply reflects what’s already known. As I see it, the ability to say “I love you” comes down to the gap between the information I know and the information I have to assume. With my friends, that gap is tiny, so there’s very little room for uncertainty. The smaller the gap, the smaller the risk feels. But with my parents, where love wasn’t in our vocabulary, that gap has always felt much bigger. And the bigger the gap, the riskier vulnerability becomes. I think after writing this, that’s the thing I’ve got wrong all along. Saying “I love you” was never going to feel natural overnight just because I spilled my heart into a book. Love is a language, and like any other language, you have to practise it. And for a family that’s spent decades saying it through Twix bars, dinners and WhatsApp check-ins, perhaps we’re all just beginners trying to learn it together. This week I have been… Reading… I wouldn’t say I’m proud of it, but my life this past year has been work, gym, sleep, repeat. So recently I gave myself a little pep talk, burst my own bubble and threw myself back into culture, creativity and, most importantly, fun. Which includes my morning Substack read. I recently loved reading “How ‘It’ Girls Build Personal Taste Outside of Pinterest”, which explores how algorithms are slowly replacing our own sense of style (I’m definitely guilty of it). I always find my best outfits in charity shops or after hours of playing dress-up in my bedroom. Real taste and style is about having the confidence to wear whatever you truly want to wear and having the courage to honour that. It’s a super refreshing reminder to me. Listening… My ADHD brain also loves an audiobook or podcast (there’s only so much Justin Bieber I can listen to… although, as one of his top 0.01 per cent of Spotify listeners, that’s definitely a lie). Recently I’ve been obsessed with “Hot Smart Rich” by Maggie Sellers Reum. One episode with body language expert Vanessa Van Edwards was so interesting, especially her advice on how the tiniest changes in posture can completely alter your perceived confidence when walking into a room and sitting in conversation. Note to self, always remember “croissant feet” – angling your feet outwards in a V-shape to signal openness and approachability. Running… Despite swearing I’d never run another marathon after London last year, I’m somehow training for the New York Marathon this November. Mainly because I’ll take any excuse to visit my favourite city. I’m halfway through training now, running three times a week, and whilst I genuinely love it, marathon training is RELENTLESS. It will steal your weekends, humble your soul and introduce you to the world of very expensive sports massages (I love it though). Things I Told My Notes App by Milly Goldsmith is published by Bantam, £16.99.