When the Parent Becomes the Child: Loving Through Defiance and Entitlement

There are some things I never imagined I’d say to my mother.

“Because I said so.”

“Stop yelling, or we’re leaving.”

“No, you may not have dessert for dinner.”

And yet, here I am—saying the kinds of things she once said to me, only now I’m saying them to her.

When people talk about caring for aging parents, the stories tend to focus on the physical demands—medications, appointments, mobility. But what no one prepared me for was the emotional whiplash of parenting someone who once towered over me in strength, now lashing out like a tired toddler who skipped nap time.

My mother has become defiant.

When I suggest she doesn’t need her cane, she insists on having it, much like a child clings to their security blanket. When I mention her forgetting to turn off the stove, she accuses me of treating her like a child. She insists she can live on her own, despite evidence to the contrary. It’s like trying to reason with a teenager who thinks they’re invincible—except this time, the stakes are higher.

Defiance in aging can stem from fear—fear of losing independence, of facing mortality, of becoming irrelevant. But when you’re on the receiving end of the shouting, the accusations, and the slammed doors (yes, still happening at 78), it can feel personal. Hurtful. Exhausting.

Then there are the tantrums. I wish I were being dramatic. But my mother has pouted, sulked, and stonewalled her way through everything from doctors’ appointments to family dinners. She once refused to speak to me for two days because I wouldn’t let her eat cake instead of eating dinner. The roles have reversed, and it’s both heartbreaking and surreal.

And the entitlement—oh, the entitlement! She expects me to put everything on hold when she calls. She once asked me to postpone the first stage of a long-awaited move because she needed me there. When I gently told her I needed to be with my husband and youngest child and explained to her that our oldest was staying with her, she accused me of abandoning her. There are times when her demands feel endless, and my patience feels threadbare.

And Yet…

Here’s the truth that humbles me: I do love her. I’m not doing this because I have to. I’m doing this because I want her to feel safe, respected, and loved—no matter how she’s behaving.

But loving someone doesn’t mean enabling toxic behavior. It means setting boundaries. It means having hard conversations. It means protecting your peace so you can keep showing up with grace, not resentment.

Boundaries aren’t punishment. I learned this while studying for my master’s in clinical counseling. They’re protection for both of us. When I set limits on what I can and cannot do, it gives her clarity—and gives me sustainability.

Her behavior isn’t always about me. Aging is disorienting. Sometimes, she lashes out because she’s scared, not because I’ve done anything wrong.

Therapy is not weakness. For her or for me. Counseling has helped me cope with the emotional weight of caregiving. It’s a place to unpack the guilt, anger, grief, and love.

I can’t fix her—but I can love her well. Sometimes that means being firm. Sometimes it means walking away for a few hours. Always, it means remembering who she was—and still is beneath the struggle.

If you’re caring for a difficult parent, know this: You’re not alone. You’re not a bad daughter (or son, or spouse) for feeling angry, frustrated, or overwhelmed. You’re human.

And maybe, just maybe, loving our parents in their most unlovable moments is one of the holiest, hardest, and most sacred things we’ll ever do.

With grace and grit,