I adore my family. I don't love their politics. I think they're

The words of Alexandra Fuller strike like a double-edged sword, both tender and cutting: “I adore my family. I don't love their politics. I think they're wonderful parents. They were dreadful at parenting.” In this paradox, we find the eternal truth of human relationships—that love and disappointment can dwell in the same heart, that reverence for one’s family may coexist with sorrow at their flaws. Fuller’s words are not an indictment but a confession of the complexity of love, for it is possible to cherish the people who gave us life while mourning the ways they failed to guide it.

In the ancient world, the sages often spoke of the duality of the home. The hearth was warm, yet sometimes the fire burned too hot. Parents, though guardians of their children, were also captives of their own fears, beliefs, and limitations. Thus, they could be wonderful parents in devotion and sacrifice, while at the same time being dreadful at parenting—failing in patience, in gentleness, in wisdom of nurture. It is this paradox that Fuller gives voice to: the ability to hold gratitude for life itself, while acknowledging the wounds left by imperfect care.

History offers us many examples of such paradox. Consider the life of Emperor Marcus Aurelius. He adored his family and honored them with every duty, yet his son Commodus grew into a cruel and reckless ruler, shaped in part by Aurelius’s failure to restrain him. Was Aurelius a wonderful parent, giving his son wealth, honor, and legacy? Yes. Was he dreadful at parenting, neglecting to instill discipline and humility? Also yes. From this tension springs the same bittersweet truth that Fuller speaks of: love is never simple, and family is both refuge and trial.

The heart of Fuller’s words also lies in the recognition of generational divides. She declares, “I don’t love their politics.” This reveals another timeless struggle: children rising to new ways of seeing the world, while parents cling to the beliefs forged in their time. The clash of ideas between generations is as old as humanity itself. We need only recall the story of Antigone, who defied the king’s law in order to honor her brother, embodying the eternal conflict between inherited authority and individual conscience. Fuller’s words remind us that even when we cannot embrace the beliefs of our parents, we may still honor their humanity.

This paradox is painful, but it is also liberating. For if love demanded perfection, none would ever be loved. To adore one’s family while acknowledging their failures is an act of maturity, a reconciliation between gratitude and truth. It allows us to carry forward the good—courage, endurance, humor—while discarding the burdens that would harm us, such as prejudice, rigidity, or neglect.

The lesson for us is clear: embrace complexity. Do not fall into the trap of idolizing your parents as flawless gods, nor condemning them as irredeemable tyrants. They are human, as you are human, bearing both gifts and failings. From their strengths, take inspiration. From their weaknesses, learn caution. In this way, you honor them without being bound by them.

Practically, this means cultivating forgiveness while refusing to repeat harmful patterns. Speak openly with your family, not to erase the past, but to illuminate it. Seek wisdom from their virtues, but when their “politics”—their beliefs, habits, or fears—bring harm, have the courage to walk another path. And above all, when you become the parent, the elder, the guide, remember that your children too will one day weigh your deeds with both love and sorrow. Let this knowledge humble you and stir you toward patience and gentleness.

Thus, Fuller’s words are both lament and blessing. They teach us that family is not a temple of perfection but a forge of contradictions, where love is tested, wounded, and reborn. To adore one’s family even while naming their failures is to see them clearly—and in that clarity lies the freedom to both cherish and transcend, to carry the flame forward without repeating the burns of the past.