Why I’ve Distanced Myself From My Boomer Siblings

“I want you to be there,” my father said, making it clear he wanted me to attend his 90th birthday party. Knowing I’d chosen not to attend the last one, I found myself saying, I’ll be there. We ended the call on a positive note, but later that night, my mind raced with dread. Tears welled up as the weight of my decision sank in. The last time I went to my hometown, I nearly had a panic attack, with abdominal pain and nausea that only subsided once I left. The time before that was my mother’s funeral—a day that became a painful turning point.

Since I returned to painting and writing, people often comment: “You look so happy now—you’re clearly doing what you’re meant to do.” And while creating art brings me more joy than anything ever has, it’s far more complicated than that. Art has allowed me to reconnect with parts of myself I had buried for years, but it has also brought new challenges.

My three siblings are Boomers, and I’m Gen-X. When I’m with them, I feel a lot of anxiety. My husband, who rarely offers opinions, once pointed out that I’m only “50 percent” of myself around them. I’ve often wondered why I feel so out of sorts around them.

Growing up, they had lessons, rules, and harsh punishments if they broke the rules. By the time I came along, my parents were tired—raising four kids takes its toll. I became the “she’ll be fine” kid, left to figure things out on my own (very common among GenXers). This disparity fueled my fierce independence and imaginative creativity, but it also created a gulf between myself and my siblings that now feels impossible to bridge. 

Like many families, we all create versions of each other that may or may not have any bearing on reality. In mine, the persona "KK" was created, and became my family nickname. Later, it became a role they cast me in—a label that was impossible to shed. No matter what I accomplished, achieved, or how much I grew, I was always "KK" to them. Endearing? Perhaps that’s what was intended, but when I repeatedly asked for it to stop, it didn’t. They continued to dismiss my contributions and expected me to comply with the family dynamic, rather than be a part of the family dynamic.

I am in my late 50s with a wealth of insight from my many difficult and often traumatic experiences. My well-known ability to get things done and work hard complements my relentless drive for growth, backed by a track record of documented accomplishments. Physical and emotional pain has shaped me in profoundly positive and negative ways, and I have rarely regretted feeling my emotions and expressing them fully, even when it has cost me jobs, or relationships. “Pigheaded” may come to mind, but staying true to who I am and my values is important to me, and I can't live with the regret that comes with not saying anything.

It’s easier for my siblings to relate to who they think I am than to make the effort to get to know who I’ve become. Their childhood beliefs of who I am remained stagnant and unchanged despite the fact that I had changed. It may be easier to label me “Crazy KK” than to accept that the person they created in their minds was never truly me. In some ways, it’s a badge of honor—I’m “crazy” because I’m willing to try, say, and experience things that help me grow as a person. But the label doesn’t feel like a badge, because I don’t believe it was ever meant as a compliment. That doesn't imply evil intent, it implies a lack of respect. It was meant to “other” me to make them feel better about themselves. 

One of the ways that “other-ness” manifests is through weaponizing silence. It’s no coincidence that my parents were from the Silent Generation. I believe that many of the people I’m related to superficially see silence as somehow more kind than arguing, and avoidance more respectful than even the hint of an argument. 

In the world my mother, her sisters, and my grandmothers grew up, silence was likely one of the few tools women had to balance the household power dynamic. Especially in situations of control or abuse, silence can be a tool to re-establish a sense of power. Passed down through generations, silence shaped how conflict was handled in my family. Generations have passed down silence as a way to avoid difficult truths or confrontations. 

For me silence is harsh, brutal even. I often overreact to not having information because not knowing is so anxiety producing for me. Being the target of weaponized silence feels like emotional torture to me. It's a cycle: I plead for engagement, and they respond by more shunning, more silence. My response is deep despair and pain while they maintaining the facade of normalcy. Weaponized silence has left lasting wounds in my life, even when it wasn’t meant to harm. 

The realization that I can simply refuse to participate in the things that causes me pain had never occurred to me until this season of my life. The hardest truth I’ve faced is that my siblings don’t seem to really have any desire to understand me. I haven’t always been kind, nor handled things well, but this silent punishment feels extreme, and for my own sake I need to call it out for what it is. It’s easier to hold on to the past than to take the time to know each other, to face who we really are. That realization is what ultimately forced me to create distance—space I desperately needed to breathe and grow, free from the box they built for me.

But distance came with its own pain—feeling cut off from them completely. It’s a constant trade-off: suppressing myself with them or feeling the emptiness without them. This emotional distance came to a crescendo when my mother passed away. At her funeral, I felt like a guest at my own family’s gathering - my job was to follow along. My memories of her didn’t fit the narrative they had crafted. I wasn’t part of her story and that was devastating to me. It was a moment that crystallized how much I didn’t belong in this family that constantly rejected me.

One moment that stands out was dinner after some funeral preparations. A minor conflict arose, and suddenly, the entire table shut down. Instead of talking through it, they made jokes to avoid tension. I sat there feeling even more invisible, like my perspective had no place in their version of reality. It stung, and I couldn’t stop the tears.

Through the pain, I realized that this experience was one I had lived a thousand times before, and I knew that I couldn’t continue. I couldn’t pursue an artistic life and go through that another thousand times. It was deflating. I felt worthless.

That realization didn’t feel freeing—it felt like hell. I wasn’t just losing my mother—I was losing the façade of a family my mother had created around us, and they carry her legacy of silence: her signature way of “enduring and making peace.”

Me—the truth about me, my existence as myself—has always felt unwelcome in that environment. It has always felt dishonest and disingenuous. While I can’t switch off these feelings, I do have control over how much I expose myself to situations that drain me. Distancing myself from my Boomer siblings, even though I love them, has been one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. And the unexpected fallout of their children joining in on the silence–people whom I deeply respected–makes me constantly question whether I should have continued to deny myself so that I could have their love in my life. 

I know why my mom made the choices she did and I forgave her many years ago. I don’t know why my boomer siblings chose the same path and it's very hard to forgive when they simply refuse to engage.

I do know that this space I’ve created is necessary for me to stay connected to myself and to my art. Being an artist means sitting with those uncomfortable emotions and learning to live with them, rather than pushing them aside. It means understanding that the journey isn’t linear, that sometimes it’s messy and confusing, but that’s part of what makes it real.

I know this pain—like the grief of losing my mother—will never fully go away. I can’t turn away from feeling everything so deeply, and maybe that’s okay. The real strength might not be in fixing or avoiding what hurts, but in learning how to carry it. So for now, I’ll keep creating, keep feeling, and keep moving forward, trying to make sense of it all in the best way I can.