We think we’re doing them a favour.
That’s the cruellest part of the whole affair.
I watched my friend Michael yesterday, bent over at his daughter’s flat, fixing the washing machine that had been “broken” for three weeks. His knees aren’t what they used to be, and his back was already playing up from the drive over. Forty minutes later, he’d extracted a sock and a hair clip from the filter while she stood scrolling through Instagram.
“She’s thirty-two,” he muttered on the way home. “I was running a department at her age.”
It’s not just Michael. Everywhere I look, I see my generation still rushing to the rescue.
We’re dipping into our pensions to cover house deposits.
We’re providing free childcare three days a week.
We’re keeping fully-equipped bedrooms intact well into our children’s thirties, like museum exhibits of their adolescence.
The cultural narrative applauds this. We’re told good parents sacrifice everything. Meanwhile, the economic reality means many young adults genuinely need help their parents never required. Housing costs alone have skyrocketed beyond any reasonable comparison to our early years.
But there’s something deeply uncomfortable bubbling beneath these acts of generosity. A question we rarely ask aloud: are we actually handicapping the very people we’re trying to help?
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The answer isn’t simple, and it’s certainly not comfortable.
I should know.
My own son still phones me when his car makes “that funny noise,” despite having had a driving licence for eighteen years. My daughter, approaching forty, still expects me to remember all the family birthdays and buy the cards. Small things, perhaps, but telling ones.
What I’ve been slower to admit is how much I’ve contributed to this dynamic. There’s a quiet pleasure in being needed—a role I know how to play perfectly. And sometimes, if I’m brutally honest, it’s easier to just do the thing than to watch them struggle through it.
But at what cost?
A study from the University of Minnesota found that children who had everything done for them showed markedly lower resilience scores later in life.
They struggled more with setbacks, showed less initiative, and reported higher levels of anxiety when facing new challenges.
The researchers called it “learned helplessness”—a term that makes me wince every time I hear it.
This isn’t just about practical skills like cooking or household repairs. It extends to emotional resilience. When we rush to solve every problem, we tacitly communicate that we don’t believe they can handle difficulties on their own.
“I just want them to have it better than I did,” said my friend Carol recently over coffee.
We were discussing her son’s third redundancy in five years. Each time, she’d paid his rent until he found something new. “But sometimes I wonder if I’m making it worse,” she admitted, stirring her tea absently. “He doesn’t seem to take it very seriously anymore.”
That’s the moment it hit me hardest.
The real question isn’t whether we’re helping them—of course we are, in the immediate term. The deeper question is whether our help is preventing them from developing the very qualities they’ll need most when we’re gone: resilience, resourcefulness, self-reliance.
My lowest point came last year when my son , at 42, called me in tears over his divorce. “I just don’t know how to do this, Dad,” he said. Not the emotion—that was perfectly understandable—but the practical matters of finding a flat, setting up utilities, managing his own schedule. It was a brutal realisation that in trying to smooth his path, I’d denied him the chance to develop these fundamental skills.
I sat in my kitchen that night, wondering how I’d failed so completely at the most important part of parenting: preparing him for a world without me in it.
What Now? Drawing Healthier Boundaries
If you recognise this pattern in your own family, here are some steps that have helped me begin to correct course:
Ask before helping. “Would you like some advice on that, or are you just sharing?” This simple question acknowledges their autonomy.
Let small failures happen. When they mention a problem, resist the immediate urge to solve it. Instead try: “That sounds challenging. What are you thinking of doing about it?”
Praise effort over outcome. When they do tackle something themselves, focus your approval on their initiative rather than whether they did it “right.”
Be honest about your own struggles. Share stories of how you figured things out in your own life, including the messy parts and false starts.
Set financial boundaries in writing. If you’re providing financial help, make the terms clear—whether it’s a loan, a gift, or has conditions. Ambiguity breeds dependence.
The hardest part, I’ve found, is managing my own emotions.
There’s a particular kind of heartache in watching your child struggle with something you could easily fix. It requires sitting with discomfort—theirs and yours—when every instinct screams to intervene.
Last month, my daughter’s car broke down on a rainy Tuesday.
In the past, I would have immediately called my breakdown service and driven over. This time, I asked what her plan was. There was a long pause on the phone. “I… I guess I should look at my insurance papers? I think I have coverage for this.”
The silence that followed was excruciating. I nearly broke and offered to sort it. But I waited.
“Actually, can I call you back in a bit, Dad?” she finally said.
She phoned an hour later from the recovery truck, sounding oddly energised despite the inconvenience. “They’re taking it to a garage near me. The driver says it’s probably just the alternator.”
It was such a small thing. But the pride in her voice told a different story—one where she was capable, resourceful, and in control of her own life.
Sometimes the most valuable gift we can give our adult children isn’t another rescue but the space to rescue themselves. It’s harder, messier, and infinitely more precious than anything money can buy.
I still fix things sometimes. I still help out. But I’m learning the difference between supporting and substituting. Between loving and limiting. It’s probably the last and most important lesson I’ll teach them—that I trust them to handle their own lives. Even if my hands still itch to take the spanner.
A gentle invitation
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