This as-told-to essay was submitted by Mariah to Cottonwood Psychology and edited for length and clarity.
I remember the first time I noticed it in public. We were in the Costco on Golf Road outside Chicago, the kind with the sample carts and the tired-looking parents steering giant packs of paper towels like shopping was a sport. My dad leaned over his cart, squinted at a guy in a Cubs hat and said something sharp enough that I felt my neck get hot.
He was 66 then. A year earlier, he would have said the same thought with a smile, or he would have kept it in his head and winked at me later. That day, he just let it fly. When the man turned, my dad lifted his chin like he had been waiting for a challenge.
I did the thing adult kids do when they still feel like kids. I tried to smooth it over. I laughed, too loud. I tugged the cart forward. I said, “Come on, Dad,” in the voice you use when you want to sound casual and you want the whole world to hear you are not attached to what just happened.
On the drive home, the radio was set to one of his talk stations. The windshield wipers squeaked. My hands sat tight at ten and two, even though I have been driving for twenty years. I kept thinking about a sentence I had said to friends at least a dozen times: “He’s getting older, he’s just set in his ways.”
That sentence gave me peace for a while. It also gave me a blindfold. It kept me from seeing the pattern that was building, month by month, comment by comment, until I realized I was planning every family get-together like a mini crisis drill.
Later, sitting in a Starbucks off Milwaukee Avenue with my friend David, I finally said the truer sentence out loud. “I feel like I’m meeting my dad more fully,” I told him, stirring cold foam into my coffee. “And I don’t always like who he is when he feels free to say everything.”
1. When his filter started slipping
I remember when my dad’s “filter” felt like a cute family joke. He used to call it his “inside voice,” like it was a switch he could flip on and off. At my cousin’s wedding in Naperville, he would lean close and whisper a spicy opinion, then pat my shoulder like we shared a secret. It felt mischievous, even affectionate.
Then, sometime after 65, the whisper became a normal volume. The joke became a habit. He started narrating the world, including people’s bodies, service, clothing, politics and choices, like his thoughts were public property. I would find myself scanning rooms, searching for anyone who might overhear and I hated that I was doing that.
The thing is, “filter” is a social skill. It takes energy. It asks you to pause, read the room, imagine impact and decide what matters most. When life gets harder, energy gets limited and plenty of people spend that energy on surviving and coping instead of polishing every moment.
Years ago, I used to assume becoming “difficult” meant someone’s character was turning sour. Now I think of it as a mix of factors that can stack up, like sleep, pain, stress, fear and the way a person has always handled frustration. When my dad started snapping at cashiers, it connected to how he snapped at the dog when he couldn’t find his glasses. The tone was the same.
I admit I also felt a private grief. I missed the version of him who could “play nice” for a dinner, then vent later in the car. I missed the version of me who could relax in public, instead of bracing for impact. I started to realize I was grieving a kind of family ease and that grief made me extra sensitive to every remark.
2. The day I stopped calling it “just aging”
There was a day it shifted from annoying to serious. We were at Portillo’s, the loud one in Skokie and my dad complained about the line like the line had personally betrayed him. A teen behind the counter looked overwhelmed. My dad leaned in and raised his voice and I watched her shoulders rise like she wanted to disappear.
After we sat down, I tried a gentle approach. I said, “Dad, she’s doing her best.” He stared at me like I had joined the enemy. He said, “People need to do their jobs,” and then he added a comment about “kids these days” that landed like a slap.
On the drive home, I noticed my hands shaking on the steering wheel. That surprised me. My dad was not yelling at me and I was still rattled. That is when I understood something simple and painful: when someone you love becomes unpredictable, your body treats it like a threat, even if your mind keeps making excuses.
My friend Sarah from accounting once told me something that stuck. “Your nervous system keeps score,” she said when we were walking around Millennium Park on lunch break. She meant that repeated small moments of tension add up and they change how you show up. You start anticipating. You start shrinking. You start over-functioning.
That night, I did something I had avoided for years. I wrote down what had happened, almost like a police report, with dates and examples. I wasn’t building a case to punish him. I was building clarity for myself. I wanted a solid answer to the question I kept dodging: Is this a phase, or is this a pattern?
3. What he used to swallow and what started coming out
It took me a long time to realize my dad had always had strong opinions. He grew up in a tight South Side family where people argued over the Sunday paper and then passed the potatoes like nothing happened. He learned early that the loudest person often “won” the moment. In his younger years, he also learned when to keep quiet, especially at work.
When he was a project manager, he had a polished version of himself. He could speak in meetings, keep a steady tone and save his real frustration for the drive home. I used to think that meant he was naturally calm. Now I see it as decades of self-control shaped by consequences.
After retirement, those consequences got smaller. He did not have a boss. He did not have quarterly reviews. He did not have to keep a “professional voice” to protect a paycheck. He also spent more time at home and home is where many people drop their masks.
I remember asking him once, in his kitchen in Arlington Heights, why he was so harsh lately. He shrugged and said, “I’m tired of pretending.” The word pretending sat in my chest. It made me wonder what he had been holding back all those years and what it cost him to hold it.
At the same time, I had to face an uncomfortable truth. His harshness was not newly invented. Some of it had been there, tucked inside jokes or expressed toward strangers we never saw again. Age seemed to make it easier for that side of him to take the front seat.
4. Agreeableness changes in old age and families feel it
My therapist in Evanston once asked me a question that made me pause. “What do you think your dad gains by being blunt?” At first, I wanted to say, “Nothing.” Then I realized he gained a feeling of power. He gained relief. He gained the little thrill of saying what he felt and watching the world adjust.
In psychology, people sometimes talk about personality traits as long-running tendencies. One of those traits is “agreeableness,” which includes warmth, patience, cooperation and a willingness to smooth conflict. You can picture it as how easily someone moves through life without bumping into everyone around them.
I started reading about how traits change across adulthood and it helped me hold two ideas at the same time. A person can have a stable core and people can still shift. Some research suggests that traits often change across the life course, including in later adulthood. That does not excuse hurtful behavior and it explains why families can feel blindsided.
My own “agreeableness” seemed to rise in response to his. I became the fixer. I brought extra side dishes to dinner. I offered to handle reservations. I texted everyone reminders about what topics to avoid. When he got sharper, I got smoother and it wore me down.
Years ago, I would have described our dynamic as “Dad is stubborn, I’m sensitive.” Now I describe it as two people responding to pressure in different ways. His pressure looked like less social polishing. My pressure looked like constant emotional scanning.
When you live inside that dynamic, it changes your mood, your sleep and your confidence. I started replaying conversations in the shower. I started dreading birthdays. I started feeling guilty for wanting distance. That guilt kept me stuck longer than I want to admit.
5. Retirement, pain, grief and fewer reasons to perform
I’ll be honest, I underestimated how much retirement can shake a person. My dad used to have a schedule that shaped him. Up early, lunch packed, jokes with coworkers, a reason to shower even when he felt grumpy. Then retirement came and the days stretched out like an empty parking lot.
He also had more aches. His knee bothered him, then his back. He started sleeping in a recliner during bad weeks. Pain changes a person’s patience. It also narrows their world and a narrow world can make small irritations feel huge.
Around that same time, his best friend Frank died. They used to meet at a diner near Des Plaines on Saturdays. After Frank’s funeral, my dad stopped going. He did not cry much. He got quieter for a while, then sharper. Grief sometimes comes out sideways, especially in families where feelings were handled with silence.
One afternoon I caught him staring at old photos in his basement. He looked smaller, like the air had left him. When I asked what he was thinking, he said, “Time goes fast.” Then he changed the subject and complained about a neighbor’s fence. That jump from vulnerability to criticism felt like a protective move.
If you have someone like this in your life, you may recognize the pattern. Loss and uncertainty can push people toward control. Criticism can become a tool to feel steady. When my dad judged everyone, he sounded certain and certainty can feel soothing when everything else feels slippery.
6. My side of the pattern, walking on eggshells, then snapping
I used to pride myself on being “easygoing.” In my twenties, I lived in Seattle for a few years and I loved the casual kindness, the coffee shops, the way strangers would hold the door without making it a big deal. I thought I carried that vibe home with me. Then my dad’s new edge turned me into someone I barely recognized.
I started walking on eggshells. I would plan family meals at quieter places. I would choose times when the restaurant was less crowded. I would coach myself in the car, like, “Stay calm, keep it light, redirect if needed.” That level of preparation made me feel like a parent raising a moody teenager.
My body kept sending signals I tried to ignore. Tension headaches. A tight jaw. A stomach that flipped when my phone lit up with his name. Those are clues that your system is working too hard to keep peace.
Then came the snapping. It happened in his driveway, next to the recycling bin, in the middle of a sunny Saturday. He made a comment about my weight, casual and cutting. I felt something rise up, fast. I said, “Stop talking to me like that,” louder than I meant to and the neighborhood went quiet.
Afterward, I cried in my car like I was 16 again. I was embarrassed by my tone. I was also relieved. That moment showed me I had a limit and my limit mattered. It also showed me I had been training myself to tolerate too much, which can make your eventual reaction feel bigger and messier.
7. The boundary talk I practiced and the one I actually said
For weeks, I practiced boundary lines in my head while doing ordinary things. Folding laundry. Waiting at a red light on Lake Shore Drive. Standing in line at Whole Foods. I kept rehearsing the “perfect” sentence that would change everything, like boundaries were magic spells.
What I finally learned is that boundaries work best when they are plain. They also work best when they connect to actions you can control. You cannot control another adult’s mouth. You can control whether you stay, whether you respond and whether you come back next time.
The real talk happened on a Tuesday. I stopped by his house with a bag of bagels from a local place he likes and we sat at his kitchen table. I told him I wanted to spend time together. I also told him I would leave when he insulted me or made cruel comments about other people in front of me.
He rolled his eyes. He said I was “too sensitive.” My heart thumped. I repeated myself, slower. I told him I would take a break from visits if it kept happening. I felt my hands sweating and I stayed seated anyway.
Later, he tested it. He made a nasty remark about a neighbor. I stood up, said, “I’m heading out,” and I left. I cried halfway down the block. I also felt something new, a tiny thread of self-respect that had been waiting for me to choose it.
8. How I stayed kind without becoming the family shock absorber
My aunt called me after that and said, “Your dad is upset.” I could hear the worry in her voice. In my family, kindness often meant absorbing discomfort quietly. The person who kept the peace got praised. The person who spoke up got labeled difficult.
I started defining kindness differently. Kindness meant bringing soup when he had the flu. Kindness meant asking about his doctor appointment. Kindness also meant refusing to participate in cruel jokes. It meant protecting my nervous system so I did not become resentful and cold.
My friend David gave me a practical idea when we met at a small café in Logan Square. He said, “Pick two topics you can always talk about.” For us, that became baseball and food. If my dad started drifting into criticism or politics, I could steer back to the Cubs bullpen, his chili recipe, or the new bakery near his house.
I also stopped sending myself into battle alone. If there was a big gathering, I would ask my brother to come early so we could arrive together. I would plan a clear start and end time. I would drive my own car. Those small plans lowered my stress and it helped me show up with more patience.
Over time, my dad noticed I was less available for arguments. He started adjusting in small ways. He would still slip and he would sometimes grumble. He would also pause sometimes, like he remembered I was serious. That pause was progress and progress was enough for me to keep trying.
9. When “difficult” signals depression, anxiety, or cognitive change
One night my dad called me at 9:30 p.m. and sounded confused. He asked what day it was. He laughed it off after, but my stomach dropped. I had been focusing on his sharp comments and I suddenly wondered what else I was missing.
As people age, changes in mood and thinking can show up in everyday behavior. Depression can look like irritation. Anxiety can look like control. Early cognitive changes can look like stubbornness, suspicion, or a shorter fuse, especially when a person feels embarrassed by forgetting things.
I asked him if he would go to a checkup with me. I framed it around health, sleep and pain. I told him I wanted him around for a long time. He resisted at first. Then he agreed, partly because he hates being “handled,” and I approached it like a teamwork plan.
At the appointment, his doctor asked about sleep, alcohol, mood and memory. My dad was prickly. He also answered. Later, in the parking lot, he admitted he had been feeling “on edge” for months. Hearing that helped me feel compassion without erasing the impact of his words.
If your parent is getting harsher, it can help to watch for changes that go beyond personality. Big swings, confusion, getting lost, poor hygiene, new paranoia and dangerous driving deserve attention. Getting support early can reduce suffering for everyone, including the person who is acting “difficult.”
10. What I wish I had asked him earlier
I used to ask my dad questions that stayed on the surface. “How’s the weather?” “How’s the car running?” “Did you watch the game?” Those questions are safe. They also keep you stuck in small talk when something bigger is happening.
Now I wish I had asked, gently and consistently, “What feels hard right now?” I wish I had asked, “What do you miss?” and “What are you scared of?” Those questions can sound dramatic. They also open a door for the feelings that often hide behind criticism.
Last summer, I met him near the lakefront in Chicago, by the Museum Campus and we walked slowly. He complained about traffic. Then he went quiet. I asked him what he thought about getting older. He surprised me by saying, “I hate needing help.”
That sentence changed how I heard the rest of his behavior. I started hearing a man who felt his independence slipping. I started seeing fear disguised as bluntness. I still held my boundaries. I also softened in places where I could, like offering choices instead of instructions.
These days, our relationship feels more honest. It feels less effortless and more real. I can love my dad and refuse his cruelty at the same time. I can leave when I need to. I can come back when I’m ready. That balance has been my version of growing up.
Psychology Note From Us:
- Agreeableness is a personality trait linked with patience, warmth and cooperation. Personality can shift across adulthood, including later life, which can change how “filtered” someone seems.
- Research across many studies suggests personality traits show average patterns of change over the life span. One widely cited meta-analysis is Roberts, Walton and Viechtbauer (2006). You can find the PubMed record here:
https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/16435954/. - Family members often slide into roles, like peacekeeper, translator, or fixer. These roles can lower conflict short-term and raise stress long-term.
- Chronic stress shows up in the body, including headaches, jaw tension, stomach upset and sleep trouble. These are signals that your system is working hard to stay safe.
- Boundaries work best when they connect to actions you control, such as leaving a conversation, shortening a visit, or taking a break from contact.
- In later life, irritability can be connected to pain, sleep issues, grief, depression, anxiety, medication side effects, alcohol use, or cognitive changes. A medical checkup can provide clarity and support.
- Compassion and accountability can coexist. Many families find progress when they pair empathy with clear limits and consistent follow-through.