Dear Dr. Emma, our youngest son has been in the US Marine Corps for 20 years and plans to retire at 30. He has gradually decreased communication with us. For the last several years, he only called on our anniversary, birthdays, Mother's Day, Father's Day, and Christmas. He offers very little regarding what is going on in his life both personally and professionally. When we call, we get a 'what do you want' attitude, and the past year we decided to stop calling him. It's much the same with email or texting, even when visiting him. We have tried a heart-to-heart conversation with him several times, but nothing has changed.
He revealed in a recent conversation that he keeps in touch with no one beyond 2-3 close military friends. He also indicated he is not interested in what might be going on with us and has not been home in 6-7 years, except once when I asked him to so we could have a conversation. He denies having PTSD or any mental health issues. Sadly, I have several military mom friends who are experiencing similar circumstances with their children, including no contact at all. What gives? Is there anything we can do to change this relationship dynamic? -- Disappointed Mom
Dear Disappointed Mom,
I first want to acknowledge your pain. You're not just missing your son; you're missing the child you raised, the future you imagined and the version of motherhood you thought might unfold.
Parenting is a job that requires living in and preparing for two completely different timelines at once: the present and the future. You've likely spent years asking, "How do I keep this tiny human alive today? And how can I prepare him to stand tomorrow on his own?" And yet, the outcome of who your child ultimately becomes is only ever partially within your control.
Parenting is a dance between now and later. When you raise children, you don't just feed them and bathe them and cheer from the sidelines. You also build dreams for them. These dreams, while created with the utmost love and warmth, can become invisible threads of expectation. Without meaning to, we can bind our children to a version of closeness our children never chose for themselves. Adulthood often involves the work of untying those threads. From the outside, it can look like distance, silence or even rejection.
You write with a sense of pride in your son's service and dedication, even while holding pain over the current state of the relationship. Your ability to balance pride and pain in the same breath is no small feat.
It also sounds like you envisioned a son who would want to remain connected to you and your extended family. Someone open to sharing about his life, both professionally and personally. Someone who would come home for visits, call and include you. For whatever reason, that is not the case.
Instead, you're left with a strange duality: He is alive and yet gone. It hurts to love someone who won't let you see them.
When parents find themselves confused or heartbroken by their adult children, there is often invisible grief at play. The grief is not just for the child you once knew but for the imagined adult. When that version of your child never shows up, it can feel not just disappointing, but disorienting. You have every right to feel sadness that things didn't turn out the way you had dreamed.
Grief stands at the intersection of pain and love. It is the aching reminder of things that mattered. While we are often taught to resist it or rush it, grief can also be a crossing guard, steadying us through the traffic of disappointment and memory, helping us step toward something new. That something isn't control. It's curiosity. Acceptance. A path paved with hard truth and the hope of being in relationship with what's real.
Here is one hard truth: There may be more to this story than you can see from where you stand. Your son has a reason for keeping his distance. In all my years of work, I've never known someone to cut off a relationship for no reason. The reason may not have been expressed to you. And even if it was, you may disagree with it, not like it, not understand its significance or recognize its validity.
I don't say this to wound you. I say it because you asked whether there is anything you can do. My answer is yes: Stay curious and open.
Stay curious and open about how your relationship changed, how it moved from what it was to what it is. Based on your letter, it seems you're missing that key piece of the puzzle.
You can also accept the humbling truth that parenting is designed to make you feel like you're failing. It's the only relationship where perfection is silently expected, total dependence is the norm and the most formative years happen while the person you're caring for can't speak, barely moves and is learning how to be human for the very first time. If you can accept that you likely missed the mark in some meaningful ways and that this is an inescapable part of parenting, not a personal indictment, you'll be better positioned to meet your son with openness rather than defensiveness.
Practice radical acceptance. This requires letting go of the fantasy of how the relationship should be and allowing it to be what it is. This includes making peace with not knowing why, having no confession, no closure and accepting it may never change: "My son is alive, but our relationship is not active right now. And that hurts."
You've already tried pursuing or attempting to fix with heart-to-hearts. They haven't worked. And the more you push, the more likely it is that he will continue to pull back. Finding a therapist who specializes in family therapy or practices Acceptance and Commitment Therapy can help you on this journey. Under no circumstances is it reasonable for you to carry this alone.
You asked what gives. What gives is that it is difficult to love someone when you're lost and don't know how you got to this point. So send up a beacon. One that says, "This is where I am. I'm here if you ever want to find me."
Sometimes, that has to be enough.
Off the clock but always in your corner,
Dr. Emma
Dear Son of Disappointed,
Your mom wrote me a letter. While I was writing to her, I couldn't stop thinking that if you happened to read my response, you might want to shout, "Lady, that's not what happened!"
I don't know your side of the story, but I know there is another side.
I know this because I have been the estranged kid. I've wrestled with feeling indebted to the people who gave me life and needing a kind of healing safety that only seems possible with distance. I've felt the push and pull between feelings of empowered self-preservation and guilt-laden self-doubt. Beyond my own experiences, I have worked with many who've also chosen distance from family. I can say this with certainty: Estrangement rarely comes from nowhere. It's often not random or cruel, but it's intentional and sometimes necessary. No-contact relationships are bids for psychological safety, autonomy or peace.
Two decades as a Marine leaves an imprint. Your career has likely been shaped by constant mobility, controlled emotions, high-stakes environments and more goodbyes than most people endure in a lifetime. I don't pretend to know you, but I've known enough long-term service members to understand how emotional boundaries can become not just a habit but a form of survival.
Maybe there's hurt you've never voiced. Maybe you felt unseen, misunderstood or unsupported in ways your family never recognized. Maybe there's unspoken grief or anger. Maybe distance is the way you've chosen to protect or repair yourself. Sometimes what looks like silence is actually self-preservation. Sometimes it's the only viable path you can see to grow beyond a role that no longer fits.
Families are complicated, even in the best of circumstances. Of course, it can be disorienting for loved ones left on the other side of that silence. I imagine your mom's outreach -- however imperfect -- has come from a mixture of confusion, longing and love.
That doesn't mean you owe her an explanation, but it does mean that what feels like an intrusion to you may have been meant as an invitation.
I don't know whether reconnection is possible or wise, but I do know this: In my own story, there came a time when I felt I could risk opening the door again. The relationship will never be what it once was, but it no longer feels like a threat to who I am becoming. There's space now. There's space for silence when I need it and closeness when I don't. When I step back, it's received with care, not punishment, not guilt and not intrusive bids for connection that I can't possibly fulfill.
If there's ever a version of reconnection that feels safe and true for you, I hope you'll trust that it's not too late.
Maybe, just maybe, the space between you and your parents can one day be bridged by something gentler than expectation or disappointment -- something more like curiosity, mutual consent and the quiet courage it takes to meet one another again, not as you were but as you are.
Off the clock, but always in your corner,
Dr. Emma
The content shared in this column is for informational and educational purposes only. It does not constitute clinical advice or create a therapist-client relationship. If you are in need of mental health support, please reach out to a licensed professional in your area.
Ask Dr. Emma Your Question
Every month, Dr. Emma will answer questions from the Military.com community. And she wants to answer yours! From romantic frustrations to family bonding, anxieties over current events to homecoming excitement, she wants to hear from you. Submit your question, and we may choose it for anonymous publication along with Dr. Emma's response. Your personal information will not be shared, and your responses will be used only for editorial purposes.
Keep Up with the Ins and Outs of Military Life
For the latest military news and tips on military family benefits and more, subscribe to Military.com and have the information you need delivered directly to your inbox.
