When Co-Curricular Leadership Roles Go To Teacher’s Favorites: What I Learned After My 15-Year-Old Broke Down
I pulled up to the high school’s west entrance last month, iced matcha sweating in the cup holder, wipers slapping at the October rain, and knew something was wrong before Riley opened the door. They slid into the backseat, hood pulled up over their damp hair, didn’t reach for the matcha like they usually do. Just stared at their scuffed sneakers for 15 minutes while I sat through after-school traffic.
“Jake gave the lead producer spot to Lila,” they finally mumbled. I already knew Lila. She’s the assistant principal’s daughter, the one who’d missed half the fall planning meetings, skipped the three consecutive weekend set build days Riley worked, forgot to turn in the venue deposit two weeks ago that Riley had to stay after school to submit. Last year, when Riley was assistant stage manager, they did 70% of Lila’s work when Lila took a last-minute ski trip with her family. Jake, the drama club advisor, had told Riley back in May that their work that year put them at the top of the list for lead producer that fall.
Riley had been planning for this role for a full year. After last spring, when they had that suicide scare, when we did four weeks of partial hospitalization and they were coming home every day saying nothing felt worth it, drama club was the first thing that pulled them back. They’d wake up 10 minutes early to print blocking sheets, stay late three nights a week, talk nonstop about the fall show they wanted to pick—this weird, wonderful indie play about queer teens they’d found online. This role wasn’t just a line on a college application. It was proof they could show up for something, and that it would matter.
Riley finally looked up, and said, “I did everything right. Why does she get it when she doesn’t even care?” By the time we got home, they were shaking. That night, after we ordered their favorite pepperoni pizza and I didn’t push them to talk, they told me they’d stood at the bus stop on the way to the car, thinking it would be easier if a bus just came and it all ended. They said they didn’t actually want to die, just that the disappointment was so heavy they couldn’t imagine carrying it. That’s when I realized how much this wasn’t “just a club leadership spot.” It was the first thing Riley had put their whole heart into in almost a year, and it got taken away for no reason other than favoritism.
My first instinct was to grab my laptop and write a scathing email to Jake, copy the principal, demand they revisit the decision. But I stopped. I remembered what our therapist had said after last spring: when your kid is hurting from unfairness, the first thing they need isn’t a fix—it’s proof their hurt matters. So I didn’t jump in. I sat down next to them on the couch, passed the bag of stale gas station cheese puffs they love, and said, “That is the worst thing I’ve heard all month. You worked so hard for this, and it’s totally unfair. I’d be furious too.” I think a lot of parents miss this step: we rush to minimize the hurt to make ourselves feel better, saying things like “it’s just a club” or “everything happens for a reason.” But the most concrete thing you can do right away is just name the pain and confirm it’s okay to feel it. You don’t have to solve anything that first day.
After they cried for a little while and finished half the bag of cheese puffs, I asked them what they wanted me to do. I said, “I can email whoever you want, I can drive you to talk to Jake, I can do nothing at all. What feels right for you?” That’s another small, concrete step: don’t assume you know what your kid needs. I’ve heard so many parents say they stormed the school only to find out their kid just wanted to vent, not fight for a role they no longer wanted. Riley said they didn’t want me to do anything. They said they still loved the rest of the cast, still wanted to work on the show, they just didn’t want to fight for the spot anymore. Fighting would just make it more hurtful.
I’ve talked to a handful of other parents since this happened, and most of us have been here. It’s easy to write off high school co-curriculars as silly, unimportant extra stuff. But for teens struggling with mental health, those clubs, sports, and performing groups are often the only place they feel like they belong. When leadership roles are handed out to favorites instead of people who put in the work, it doesn’t just feel like a missed opportunity. It feels like proof that hard work doesn’t matter, that who you know is everything, that you’ll never get what you deserve no matter how hard you try. That message cuts deep when you’re already questioning why you should bother getting out of bed.
After that first night, we made two small, low-effort changes to help Riley process. We talked to their therapist, and added a 10-minute walk around the block after dinner every night. No big conversations, no problem solving—just space for Riley to vent if they want, and I just listen. We also made a clear rule: Riley gets to decide how much effort they put into drama club now. They don’t owe anyone extra work, they don’t have to be the bigger person, and if they don’t want to fix Lila’s mistakes, they don’t have to.
Right now, three weeks later, Riley still goes to drama club twice a week. They don’t stay late anymore, they come home and draw for an hour before dinner, something they stopped doing when they were gunning for the producer spot. Lila still forgets to order props and confirm rehearsal space, and she still texts Riley to fix it. Riley just texts back “Sorry, I’m busy” and leaves it at that. Some nights they still get mad, and they sit on the couch and rant about it for 20 minutes, and I just pass the cheese puffs and listen.
I didn’t fix the unfairness. The system still favors kids with connections, the teacher still plays favorites, and that’s not going to change just because my kid got hurt. I don’t know if this will end up being some big story about resilience or growth. Right now, it just is. And that’s okay.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » When Co-Curricular Leadership Roles Go To Teacher’s Favorites: What I Learned After My 15-Year-Old Broke Down