I’m Financially Supporting My Adult Son and I’m Starting to Resent Him

Money Dilemmas is where we talk about the tricky stuff - the conversations about money that live in the grey area between love, power, fairness, and everything in between.

Each story starts with a real member dilemma, the kind many of us have quietly wrestled with but rarely said out loud.

Because money isn’t simply transactional; it’s about what we value, what we tolerate, and what we’re taught to accept.

And at the end of every story, one of our co-founders weighs in - offering her two cents and best advice on how to navigate the dilemma.

The Dilemma

I’m 62, and I’ve been financially supporting my son on and off for most of his adult life. Writing that sentence already makes me feel uncomfortable, because I know how it sounds.

He’s in his mid-30s. He’s creative, thoughtful, sensitive. He was always the child who felt things deeply.

School never really worked for him in the traditional sense, but he’s incredibly talented in his own way. He writes, he makes music, he’s always had big ideas about what he wants to do with his life.

I’ve always believed in him. I still do.

The problem is that believing in him has slowly turned into paying for him.

At first it was small things. Helping with rent between jobs. Covering a course he was excited about. Sending money when freelance work dried up.

Each time felt temporary. Each time I told myself this was just a rough patch and that my support would help him get through it.

Years later, here we are.

He’s never asked for a huge lump sum. It’s always framed as short-term help. But short-term has quietly become permanent.

I pay part of his rent. I help with groceries. I step in when his bank balance hits zero.

And because I can afford it, at least on paper, it feels cruel to say no.

I’m not wealthy, but I’m comfortable. I worked hard, saved carefully, and planned for a modest but secure retirement.

Lately, I’ve started to realise that my sense of security is eroding. Not dramatically, but enough that I notice it.

I hesitate before booking holidays. I think twice about spending on myself. I find myself calculating how long I can keep this up.

What’s hardest to admit is the resentment.

I love my son deeply, but I’m tired.

I’m tired of being the safety net.

I’m tired of feeling like his life hasn’t quite started because I’m always there to soften the consequences.

And then I feel ashamed for even thinking that.

I’m tired of being the safety net

He isn’t lazy. He works, just not consistently. He genuinely struggles in a world that rewards stability and structure.

Part of me worries that if I stop helping, he’ll fall apart. Another part of me worries that by continuing, I’m keeping him exactly where he is.

When I try to bring it up gently, he gets defensive. He talks about how hard things are for his generation. How impossible housing is. How the system isn’t built for people like him.

And I agree with a lot of that. I really do. But agreement doesn’t make the resentment go away.

Sometimes I catch myself wondering what my life would look like if I wasn’t carrying this responsibility. I hate that thought, because it makes me feel selfish.

Mothers aren’t supposed to think like that. Especially not when their child is struggling.

But I’m getting older.

I want to enjoy this phase of my life without constant low-level anxiety about money.

I want to feel generous because I choose to be, not because I feel trapped.

I want to feel generous because I choose to be, not because I feel trapped.

I don’t know where compassion turns into enabling. I don’t know how to set boundaries without feeling like I’m abandoning him.

And I don’t know how to keep going like this without something inside me hardening.

I love my son. That part is not up for debate.

But I’m starting to wonder who is taking care of me.

Camillas take:

Thank you for writing this so honestly. I can feel how much love and fatigue sit side by side in what you’ve shared, and I don’t think either of them cancels the other out.

What struck me most is how quietly this responsibility has grown.

You didn’t decide one day to support your adult son indefinitely. It happened in small, reasonable steps, each one easy to justify in the moment.

That’s often how these situations become so heavy. By the time you realise something needs to change, it already feels entrenched.

I also want to say this clearly: resentment doesn’t mean you love him less.

It means something in the arrangement is no longer sustainable for you. Ignoring that feeling won’t make it disappear. It will only harden it over time, and that’s rarely good for the relationship you’re trying to protect.

One thing I’d gently encourage you to consider is separating support from obligation.

Helping your child through a difficult period is one thing. Being the permanent safety net is another.

Right now, it sounds like the boundary between the two has blurred, and that’s costing you peace of mind and financial security in a stage of life where both matter deeply.

You don’t need to cut him off overnight or deliver an ultimatum.

But you may need to be honest in a way you haven’t been before.

Honest about what you can continue to offer and what you can’t. Honest about how long this level of support can realistically go on.

Avoiding that conversation may feel kinder in the short term, but it keeps you trapped in a role you’re already starting to resent.

It’s also worth remembering that protecting your own future is not selfish. You worked for your stability, and you are allowed to enjoy it.

Supporting your son should come from choice, not fear or guilt. When help comes from obligation, it tends to erode both sides of the relationship.

I don’t think this is about choosing between compassion and boundaries.

It’s about finding a version of support that doesn’t require you to disappear in the process. And if that means stepping back a little, that doesn’t make you a bad mother.

It makes you a human being who has carried a lot for a very long time.

Take your time with this, but don’t ignore what your resentment is trying to tell you.

It’s information, not a failure.

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