Can you Regain your Child’s Trust Once it’s Been Broken?

My daughter was home from college for just under two weeks before she had to return for her summer RA position, internship, plus a class she’s taking. She had enough credits to be considered a sophomore before her freshman year had ended. For the internship, she is working with a doctor, performing a study on patients who are receiving methadone treatment, but aren’t cooperating with the program as directed. Apparently this doctor doesn’t typically offer opportunities to freshman or sophomore students. Not only that, but my daughter is the only student working on this project and once the study is completed, her name will be published in a medical journal. She is doing all she can to go above and beyond so that she will stand out when applying for med school. She’s one of the most driven and hardworking people I know. Unlike me, she never backs down from a challenge and has always been willing to take the lead. I’m endlessly proud of her. I know she’s going to be an incredible doctor someday.

Though her stay with us was short, it worked out perfectly that she was able to make it to her little sisters’ dance recital . They were ecstatic to have her there. I wish I could say I got to spend some quality time with her during her visit, but I didn’t. I had two days off while she was home and let her know in advance. I said I’d love to get coffee or do whatever she wanted to do. I told her it didn’t need to be a whole afternoon. She said she would. But when the day came, she had already made other plans.

I was disappointed, but I get it. That’s life. I remember being her age and wanting to spend time with my friends. Moreover, she had only a small window of time to try and fit everyone into a short visit. Some of her friends still live nearby; others have scattered across the country and are only in town for the summer.

I don’t want to love my kids in a selfish manner. My mother’s love was often wrapped in guilt. If I wanted to spend time with friends or do something independent, she made me feel like I was hurting her. I never want my children to feel that guilt. It’s not easy to let go and watch your baby bird fly away. The irony is that we say love isn’t selfish, yet the human heart often is.

Still, what hurts isn’t that she wanted to see her friends. It’s the indifference I sometimes feel from her. The shortness. The coldness. The distance. If she were like this with everyone, I might chalk it up to a phase, or stress, or just her personality. But I see her warmth with my husband. I see the way she laughs at his jokes, how she teases him, how often she calls and texts him. She gets moody with him sometimes, sure. But the tone is different. It’s lighter. She responds to him. She chooses him. That contrast stings.

And I worry.

I worry that I broke something between us. I worry that my own wounds turned into sharp edges she had to walk around.

The truth is, I was too hard on her when she was younger. In ways that mirrored my mother. I yelled. I lost patience. I expected too much from a child.

She was eight when my youngest was born. Unlike my first three kids, this baby cried constantly and had difficulty sleeping, which meant I wasn’t getting proper rest either. It turned out that our youngest daughter had sensory processing disorder and severe anxiety. For years, she had behavioral issues and terrifying tantrums. She didn’t sleep well until she was four. During that stretch of time, I was at my worst. I was overwhelmed and under-supported. My son, then thirteen, needed less from me. He spent half his time with his dad and was often out with friends. My middle daughter was just three when she became a big sister, still a baby herself. But at that time, my oldest daughter seemed so capable and my expectations for her were higher than they should’ve been for a child her age. When those expectations weren’t met, I was the hardest on her. A part of me believed that was how to raise a strong child. Had I given much thought to my own upbringing, I would have toned down the yelling and listened more. Or I’d like to believe that’s how it would have gone.

Eventually, we started working with professionals who helped us navigate our youngest’s needs, and I began learning to parent more softly. But by then, our oldest daughter was about eleven years old. I was trying to unlearn the damage just as she was beginning to pull away.

By the time she was twelve or thirteen, her affection seemed transactional. She was kind and warm when she needed money for the mall, snacks, or a ride somewhere. I tried to say yes, even when I couldn’t afford to. It wasn’t great parenting, I know. But I was trying to patch holes I’d already torn. Trying to fix it with Band-Aids.

Then she got a car. A job. And didn’t seem to need me anymore. For the past two years, it’s seemed like she rarely acknowledges me.

I once wrote her a long letter, apologizing for being so hard on her. I explained what I was going through with her sister. I explained that it was no excuse, just where my head was at the time. She read it and told me she wasn’t upset, that her mood swings had nothing to do with me. At first, I was relieved. But her distance didn’t change.

And so I kept wondering: If that wasn’t it, then what was?

It wasn’t until recently, while talking to someone about it, that I saw another possibility. Maybe it was the yelling, and she just doesn’t realize how much it impacted her. Or maybe she does but doesn’t know how to say it. Or maybe it’s just easier to say everything’s fine than to pick at old wounds.

I thought about a moment from my own life, when I was around sixteen years old. My mother asked if something she’d said had hurt me. It had. But I didn’t want to get into it. So I smiled, said it was fine, and kept going. It’s easier, sometimes, to just carry the weight quietly.

So maybe that’s what she’s doing.

And maybe all I can do now is love her from a safe distance—enough space for her to heal, if she chooses to. Not in a performative way. Not in desperation. But in small, steady ways that remind her I’m still here.

Even when she’s indifferent.

Even when it stings.

Because while I may never fully repair what was broken, I will never stop trying to be someone she feels safe coming back to.

If you’ve ever felt this kind of ache with a child, I see you. You’re not alone.