I Love Him Now I Need Him to Leave

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Here’s the Noise in My Head Today: Adult Kids Who Never Leave

I can’t stop thinking about this.

Grown children moving back home. Never leaving. They exist in a strange, suffocating limbo, where they are neither children nor fully immersed in the outside world.

My friend—let’s call her D—is living it.

Her son, 24, moved back home after college to "save money.” That was two years ago. He sleeps till noon. He works a low-stress job he doesn’t care about. He lives in his room, gaming, barely present in the home he now occupies like a ghost.

She loves him. God, she loves him. But every morning, when she walks past his closed door, something inside her screams.

She wants to grab him, shake him, scream at him, and drag him into adulthood.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she makes coffee and swallows the fear—the deep, gnawing, relentless fear—that he’ll never leave. She holds the belief that he finds himself imprisoned. She feels trapped. She failed in some way—either by doing too much, too little, or the wrong thing altogether.

Is there a critical moment? It's coming. Fast.

She watches him retreat further into his virtual worlds while the real one crumbles around them. Every passing day, the air in that house gets thicker, charged with resentment, exhaustion, and helplessness.

She tells herself she’ll hold firm. She is determined not to give in. The weight of it all becomes unbearable. Moments of silence stretch into hours, filled only with the echoes of their unspoken words. She wonders how long they can continue to drift apart before everything shatters completely.

And then—on top of everything else—he criticizes her.

Her clothes? Not flattering.
Her friends? Embarrassing.
Her lifestyle? Cringe.

Yes. The fully grown man-child who leaves wet towels to rot on the carpet, who doesn’t buy his own toilet paper, who treats her house like a free Airbnb—has the audacity to judge her.

She Sneaks Into His Room. She does this simply to observe.

The first thing she notices is the Starbucks cup. The dried-up caramel latte clings to the nightstand, adheres to the wall, and seeps into the carpet. She peels it off with a sickening crack. It leaves a stain. Of course, it does.

The second thing? No toilet paper. Ever. He uses it, but he never replaces it. It’s like the roll magically disappears into the void, and somehow, it’s always her problem.

The towels were soaked. Always soaked. Never hung up, never tossed in a hamper—just festering on the floor. The damp crept into the carpet, into the walls, into her sanity, spreading like mold she couldn’t scrub away.

Then there’s his closet—not that it matters. He doesn’t use it. Clothes are in piles so massive they’ve swallowed the door. He doesn’t even try to get in there anymore. In fact, his entire bedroom door barely opens because of the clutter. He has literally blocked himself in.

And the rest of the house? The shower. The long, long showers, which aren't actually showers, are characterized by the water running endlessly, first to steam up the bathroom and then again to maintain its warmth afterward. It feels like a rejuvenating spa experience. It feels like a luxurious escape in a house to which he makes no contributions.

No rent. No groceries. No cleaning. No laundry—except for when he suddenly shoves an entire month’s worth of dirty clothes into the washing machine at once, overstuffing it so violently she’s sure the machine is going to give up and die right there.

And yet… he still manages to find the time to tell her that her outfit looks “dated.” That she’s stuck in the ‘90s.

“Well, guess what?” She wants to shout at him. “You’re stuck too! Sitting in your childhood bedroom, living off my groceries, wearing the same damn band t-shirts from high school.”

She’s done.

She gives him an ultimatum. Thirty days. This is a concrete deadline. There is a list of tasks that are not negotiable.

And so far? He sends texts. Daily. He captures the most basic moments—a narrow path amidst the chaos in his room, a mound of unwashed clothes crammed into the washing machine akin to a crime scene. These photos serve as evidence that he is making an effort. He wants her to perceive him as making an effort.

She looks at the texts. She looks at the Starbucks stain. She looks at her life.

And she wonders, what if he never actually leaves?

Why is this looping in my head?

I understand the situation perfectly. This situation has occurred numerous times, leaving no one with a clear understanding of what to do.

It’s not like our parents' generation, where you turned 18, got a job, and that was that. Now? Rent is impossible. Wages are a joke. Kids leave and then come back, and then no one knows when or if they’ll leave again.

And for moms—especially moms—this hits deep. We are innately inclined to assist, provide care, and ensure their well-being. But at what point does helping turn into enabling? At what point does love turn into resentment?

Where I'm landing right now

I don’t have the answers, but here’s what I know:

• Mothers find themselves exhausted. The emotional, financial, and physical burden of raising grown children is overwhelming.

• No one talks about this. There’s shame in it. If your kid is struggling, if they’re floundering, if they don’t have a “real” job, it feels like a reflection on you.

• It’s not just about money. Yes, the economy is trash. But there’s something else happening—a kind of emotional paralysis. The fear of adulthood is prevalent. And we’re all trying to figure out what to do with that.

The Bigger Questions I’m Asking Myself

What does letting go actually look like?
What’s the line between support and sabotage?
How do we push them forward when everything inside of us wants to pull them close?

If this resonates with you, ask yourself…

• Do I feel responsible for my adult child’s success or failure?

• Am I holding on because they need me—or because I need them?

• What would happen if I stopped trying to fix things for them?

Here’s What I’m Reminding Myself Today:

Letting go is love, too.

Now Tell Me—

Are you dealing with this? Have you been through it? Let’s talk.