I tap gently on the ajar door before stepping inside. My teenage son is sprawled on his bed, his laptop aglow, with some indie band softly playing from his speaker. I can’t quite figure out if he’s tackling schoolwork, browsing a new gaming setup, or texting his buddies. Most likely, it’s a mix of all three.
“Hey there, buddy,” I say as I settle into the chair in the corner of his tiny room. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t utter a word, continuing his digital escapade.
I don’t have anything specific to share, and he’s not initiating any conversation. A few moments of awkward silence drag on. It’s clear he’s not in the mood for company, but I’m determined to stick around until we make some form of connection.
“How’s school treating you?” I ask, only to be met with more silence.
“Mom,” he finally sighs. “It’s fine.”
I wait for him to glance my way and flash his usual grin. No such luck.
“Okay then… awesome,” I say, feeling a bit lost. “Dinner’s ready in about 10 minutes.”
It’s only when I rise to leave and let out an exaggerated sigh that he looks up, rolling his eyes as if I’m the most embarrassing person on the planet. I attempt to match his eye roll with one of my own, trying to mask the sting of his rejection. In reality, it feels like being dismissed by the popular kid who used to be my best friend.
Despite what the parenting books proclaim about independence being a normal phase of adolescence, being pushed out of the inner circle is tough. In fact, feeling estranged from your child, regardless of their age, is one of the most disheartening experiences.
I don’t expect to be clued into every detail of my son’s life—like what goes down every hour at school—but it’s a real bummer when I sense he’s holding back his feelings or deeper thoughts. While this tends to happen more often with him, my younger daughter is also developing her own sense of independence, often imitating her brother.
The rational part of me understands. I’m no longer the first person he turns to for inside jokes, style advice, or even everyday updates. That coveted spot now belongs to his friends. I mostly hear about the intense stuff, like worries over grades or frustrations about hair days gone wrong.
Occasionally, he might give me a vague statement, like claiming it’s a “good day.” But when I dig for more information, it usually results in short, uninterested replies, which only reinforces my longing to connect.
The anxious parent in me wonders if there’s something more serious at play. What if my son is grappling with depression but feels too ashamed to open up? Is he facing bullying? Perhaps he’s struggling in math and doesn’t know how to ask for help.
It’s not that we don’t get along. For the most part, we do. There’s plenty of love between us, and I always assure him that he can talk to me without fear of judgment, that I can actually be helpful—even if I’m currently in my “uncool mom” phase.
I remember having my own secret life as a teenager. It began innocently enough in middle school when I’d stroll through town with my best friend. We’d see high schoolers hanging out or catch a couple sneaking a kiss behind the local pizza shop. Parties were held in dimly lit basements with slow music playing. When my mom would ask about my day, my go-to response was “Fine,” keeping the juicy details to myself. It felt empowering to carve out my own experiences away from adult supervision.
I want that same independence for my kids, but I also miss them. I know that bombarding them with questions often leads to frustration or curt answers. I crave the good stuff: how they feel, their hopes, their worries.
My latest plan? Just being there when they’re ready to talk. I position myself in the kitchen during late afternoons, cooking and working, making enough noise so they know I’m around. It’s a challenge to wait for them to approach me, but occasionally, it pays off.
Recently, my son came home wearing a sweatshirt I didn’t recognize. When I asked him about it, he blushed slightly and mentioned it belonged to a certain girl. I smiled and stayed quiet, waiting. Instead of retreating to his room, he sat at the kitchen counter and shared the story of how he ended up with her sweatshirt. As I sliced cucumbers, I listened, thankful for those few moments of connection.
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In summary, navigating the teenage years with your kids can be challenging, especially when they start to pull away. While it’s important to give them space, staying present and open to communication can lead to those meaningful moments of connection that both you and your child will cherish.