An open letter to all boomer parents – VegOut

Dear Boomer Parents,

I almost didn’t write this. Partly because I know my own parents will read it, and the last thing I want is for them to feel attacked. Partly because I’m wary of adding another generational “us versus them” piece to the internet pile. But mostly because this feels so personal—my experience with my own boomer parents, the specific push-and-pull that has shaped our relationship.

And yet, over coffee, in kitchen corners at dinner parties, and while walking through farmers’ markets with friends my age, I’ve heard the same refrains over and over. “My parents just don’t get why I’m so anxious about climate change.” “Every time I bring up work-life balance, they look at me like I’m speaking another language.” “I wish I could talk to them without it turning into a debate.”

So I’m writing this not just for me, but for them—and for anyone else who’s been in those same conversations. 

Okay, here we go. 

You came of age in a time that demanded grit. Houses cost less than a year’s salary, but interest rates spiked like fever. Jobs weren’t secure, but they were abundant enough to hop between. You were told you could be anything, but also to keep your head down and not make too much noise.

And you passed on those lessons to us—at least to me. You taught me to work hard, to push through, to sacrifice now for later. My friends say the same about their parents. One of them told me recently, “My dad literally said, ‘Just put your head down for ten years, then you can relax.’”

But here’s the thing: later looks different for us.

Later is drowning under climate reports, watching housing prices turn into cruel jokes, seeing wages continue to stagnate while the cost of lettuce feels like luxury. Endurance alone feels like carrying forward the torch of struggle without questioning whether we need to keep running the same race.

I can already hear some of you thinking, “You don’t know how hard we had it.” And you’re right. I don’t. My childhood, thanks to your grind, was shielded from the sharper edges of the world. The rent was paid. The fridge was full. You showed up to my school concerts even when your commute had been brutal.

There’s gratitude in that—deep, marrow-level gratitude. My friend Kira once told me she feels “guilty” for criticizing her mom because, “She worked two jobs so I could take ballet.” That’s real. That matters. But love and critique can live in the same breath. In fact, the ability to hold them together is one of the better things I learned from you.

Still, when we talk, it sometimes feels like there’s a cruel interpreter between us. I say, “I’m worried about the planet,” and you hear, “I’m accusing you of ruining it.” You say, “You need to work harder,” and I hear, “I don’t believe you’re trying.”

I once vented to my friend Alex about a conversation with my mom. He nodded and said, “Yeah, I told my dad I wanted to go part-time for my mental health, and he literally said, ‘That’s not a real problem.’”

I know, it’s not that you don’t care—it’s that the vocabulary of our worries doesn’t always translate. You taught us to respect authority, to not rock the boat. But now we’re in a storm, and the boat is taking on water, and we can’t stop bailing just because the captain might get offended.

And here we are, with the truth I keep circling back to: you taught us to survive a world we no longer want to inherit. That doesn’t mean your survival strategies were wrong—they worked for your time.

But they’re not universal.

Sometimes the lesson to hold on needs to be replaced with the courage to let go. Sometimes adapting isn’t enough; sometimes dismantling is the only option. If your toolkit was about keeping the engine running, ours has to include learning how to turn it off before it drives us all off a cliff.

This isn’t just about climate change or politics. It’s about the kitchen table, too. It’s about the way you ask if I’m “still vegan” with the same tone you might use to ask if I’m “still unemployed.”

It’s about the way you talk about “kids these days” as if I’m not one of them. It’s about the way love sometimes comes wrapped in unsolicited advice, folded like a paper cut—tiny, sharp, and easy to dismiss until it stings later.

It’s also about the way you’ve been hurt, too, by generational expectations. You were told to marry by a certain age, have children whether you wanted them or not, stay in jobs you hated because stability was worth the cost of selfhood. You survived those demands, but they took things from you. I see that now.

I wish I’d asked more questions about your twenties, about what it felt like to dream before mortgages and college funds. I wish you’d ask me what I think a good life looks like now, instead of assuming it’s just a lazier version of yours.

When I say we don’t want to inherit the world you fought to survive, I don’t mean we reject it. I mean we’re trying to build on what you gave us—the stability, the stubbornness, the refusal to quit—but we’re turning those traits toward new ends.

You taught us to keep the lights on. We want to figure out how to keep the air breathable. You taught us to budget. We want to budget time for rest, creativity, connection—not just money for bills. It’s not disloyal to dream of a world different from the one we grew up in. It’s the highest compliment to your legacy: you made us believe change was worth working for.

I know this isn’t every boomer parent. And I know we, as a younger generation, have our blind spots, too. Sometimes we speak in absolutes when nuance is needed. Sometimes we forget that you were once the “young radicals” shaking things up, too.

The middle ground is fragile, but it’s there. It’s in the moments when you forward me an article about plant-based diets without a single sarcastic comment. It’s in the moments when I ask for your advice, not because I have to, but because I actually want to hear it.

So here’s what I’m asking, wrapped in love. When I tell you I’m struggling, please believe me—even if my struggles don’t look like yours did. When I ask you to see the urgency in things like climate change or racial justice, please don’t hear it as blame. Hear it as an invitation.

And when you share your own regrets, don’t cushion them with “but that’s just how it was.” Let them stand naked in the air for a moment. I’ll hold them with you.

An open letter, by definition, is as much for the people reading it as for the ones it’s addressed to. Other Gen Xers, Millennials, Gen Z kids—many, I think, will read this and think of their own parents. Some will feel seen, others will feel defensive. And maybe you will, too. But if you feel defensive, stay with it for a moment. Let the sting soften into curiosity. Ask me what I meant. Ask me why I chose the words I chose.

I’m writing this as someone who loves my parents deeply, but also wants better for both them and myself. And I hope that, in putting my own experience into words, someone else will find the courage to have that next conversation, or at least to know they’re not alone in wishing for one.

We can’t undo the world you handed us, just as you couldn’t undo the one handed to you. But we can choose how we hold it, how we reshape it, and—if we’re lucky—how we pass it forward.

With love, and hope, and the stubborn resilience you taught me,

Avery