I’ll never set foot in that coffee shop again. When the barista awkwardly asked me if I had an “outie” twice, I lost my cool and snapped, “What’s wrong with you? Why would you even ask that?” He looked hurt and explained, “I just thought we had the same car,” pointing to the Audi key in my hand.
This experience hit me hard: I realized I don’t listen effectively. The barista wasn’t entirely innocent either; every week, I give him my name, and he consistently writes “Jazz” on my cup. I secretly enjoy being perceived as interesting enough to warrant a name like that. But when I order, I catch myself mumbling my own name as if I’m struggling to speak. This makes me reflect on my listening skills—not just at Starbucks, but in my daily life, especially with my teenage daughter.
My newly minted teen often claims that I don’t listen to her. I argue that I do, but I’m frequently afraid of what I might hear because it signifies that my once adoring little girl is growing up and drifting away—right into the waiting arms of someone like Noah. I find myself resisting this change. It’s challenging to let her grow up, but how can I listen when every word echoes my own fears about her teenage years?
Suddenly, her views diverge from mine, and it terrifies me. Why did I encourage her to question authority? I meant her to challenge rules at school, not mine! I find myself lamenting the loss of her childhood while trying to keep her from becoming the independent young woman she is meant to be. I often stifle her growth, insisting on her staying the sweet, innocent child she was at seven. I need to stop trying to silence the emotional turbulence that is part of her becoming someone separate from me. I’m failing at this gracefully.
I realize now that I might be projecting my fears. As she matures, my sensitivity to her words intensifies. Her innocence feels threatened, making every comment seem alarming. When puberty hit in sixth grade, I once overreacted to a pediatrician’s innocent question about school, imagining he was asking my daughter inappropriate things.
When she was a small child, I didn’t listen as closely. I often ignored that nagging voice suggesting her Halloween costume might not be entirely appropriate. Back then, the stakes felt lower. But now, with adolescence comes a whole new set of challenges: relationships, technology, and risks that feel overwhelming. I can’t control these things, and that terrifies me.
In my scramble to protect her, I tend to give advice that comes off as commands. I forget that listening is crucial. If I don’t start really tuning in, she might just stop talking to me altogether. Conversations have become stilted as I feel the pressure to be more engaging than Instagram. I imagine heartfelt moments of connection, only to find her silently scrolling through her phone.
Other parents tell me I have it easy; their relationships with their teens can be icy. Here, it’s not about animosity but humility. It’s tough to let go of the child who showed me the meaning of joy while wrestling with the reality that I can’t shield her from every hurt or disappointment.
My attempts to share wisdom often fall flat. I find myself sharing profound insights, but it’s as if I’m trying to secure a lock onto an old car—ineffective and misguided. She hears my words as me trying to “vet” her experiences rather than trusting her to navigate her own path.
I need to stop putting up barriers to her independence by trying to smooth out the rough edges of adolescence. I forget that she is learning to navigate her own thoughts and life. Honestly, I’m still figuring it out myself.
Maybe by the time my younger daughter becomes a teenager, I’ll have this listening thing down. I’ll be less controlling and more open to truly hearing her. But even now, my old habits surface. For instance, when my 7-year-old read from a storybook and dropped the last letter from words, I was startled by what it sounded like.
I need to stop interpreting every stage of my daughters’ growth as a threat. Instead, I should listen to what they are truly expressing. Just the other night, I practiced this with my younger daughter when she said, “I only sleep with black guys.” Before I could react, I listened, and she clarified that she meant she only wanted stuffed animals with black eyes, not blue ones!
If I take the time to really listen, I might hear so much more than I expect.
This article was originally published on June 23, 2015.
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Summary:
Listening to my teen has become increasingly difficult as she grows up and our perspectives diverge. As I grapple with the desire to protect her, I realize the importance of truly hearing her thoughts and feelings. I must learn to let go of fears and trust her to navigate her own life. Engaging with her instead of projecting my worries will strengthen our bond and foster her independence.