What To Do When Your Teen Asks: Do People Really Find Life Worth Living?
I’m scraping congealed marinara off spaghetti plates, the cat rubbing sticky crumbs off its fur onto my sweatpants, when my 16-year-old Javi leans in the kitchen doorway and says it. “Hey Mom. Do people really find life worth living?” I almost drop the sponge in the sink. Ten minutes earlier he’d begged for the last slice of garlic bread and complained that his soccer cleats were too tight. This question doesn’t fit the rhythm of a random Tuesday night.
My first impulse is to rattle off the list of good things I’m supposed to name: your friends, the new Zelda game you’ve been waiting for, graduation next summer, all the trips we want to take. But I remember last spring, after his grandma died, when he said he couldn’t see the point of going to school, and I did that exact thing. He just nodded, turned around, and walked to his room, and didn’t talk about it again for three months. So I wipe my hands on the towel, lean against the counter, and say, “That’s a really big question. What made you think of it tonight?”
He sits down on the opposite end of the table and explains he’d been scrolling TikTok, where a thread of people were talking about how everyone just pretends life is good. Most people work 40 hours a week at jobs they hate, pay for houses they can barely afford, complain all the time, and no one admits it’s not worth it. It makes sense, he says. Everyone I know is tired all the time. My coach complains about his ex-wife and his mortgage every practice. You complain about grading papers and car insurance every month. What’s the point of all this?
As a high school teacher of 12 years, I’ve had this conversation at least 20 times, with 10th through 12th graders. I used to assume this question only came from kids in immediate crisis, but over time I’ve learned it’s often just the first time they’ve stopped repeating the story adults fed them and started thinking for themselves. Even so, I know I need to check in clearly. I push off the counter and sit across from him, and say, “Before we talk about any of this, I need to ask straight. Are you feeling like you don’t want to be here right now? Do you need help?” He blinks, then shakes his head. “No, I’m not suicidal. I just… want to know. No one ever talks about this.”
Okay, I say. Fair. Then I tell him the truth: I don’t have a yes or no answer. Some days I don’t think it is. Remember two weeks ago, when the water heater broke at 10 pm, and we had to pay $1800 we didn’t budget for, and then the dog got into the kitchen trash and tracked chicken bones all over the carpet? I sat on the laundry room floor after you guys went to bed, and I thought, this is it? This is just one thing after another breaking, and cleaning it up, and paying for it? What’s the point? He stares at me, like he’s never heard me say that out loud. No adult ever says that out loud to kids, right? We all pretend we have it together.
But I tell him, most days, it’s not the big stuff that makes it worth it. It’s not promotions or beach vacations or college acceptance letters. Those things are nice, but they’re over in a week. It’s the small stuff no one posts about. It’s when you come off the soccer field after a win and you look over to where I’m standing, and you grin, and I know you’re proud. It’s when the cat curls up on my lap while I’m grading essays, and she purrs so loud my pen shakes. It’s when we all sit on the couch after dinner watching that stupid reality show you like, and no one is talking, but we’re all together. I don’t wake up every day thinking “oh life is so great!” Most days I wake up and think “I have to get up and make coffee and pack lunches and grade papers.” But the small stuff adds up, enough to get me through.
We talked for another 40 minutes, until he remembered he had a physics lab report due at midnight, and jumped up to run to his room. On the way out he stopped, and said, “It’s weird that you said you think that sometimes too. I thought I was the only one.” Then he left.
I’ve thought a lot about this conversation since that night, both as a parent and a teacher. The biggest mistake most of us make when a kid asks this question is panicking. We either shut it down by saying of course it is, don’t be silly, or we jump straight to calling a therapist— which is needed sometimes, but not always, and not before you talk. Or we give them a polished speech about all their blessings, which just makes them feel like their confusion is wrong. The small, concrete things that work, that I’ve tested with my own kids and my students, are straightforward. First, ask directly about safety. Don’t hint around it, don’t be scared to name suicide. Asking doesn’t put the idea in their head—it gives them permission to tell you if they are hurting. Second, don’t rush to fix the question. You don’t have to have an answer. Just saying “that’s such a good question, let’s talk about it” is enough. Third, be honest. Don’t lie and say life is always amazing. Kids know that’s not true. They see you stressed, they see you tired, they see the bad stuff on the news. If you pretend everything is perfect, they won’t trust anything you say after that.
Last week, we were driving to soccer practice, and Javi brought it up again. He said, “I still don’t know the answer, by the way.” I turned down the radio and said, that’s okay. I don’t think anyone ever gets a final answer. We just figure it out day by day. He nodded, turned the radio back up, and we drove the rest of the way in silence. Some nights I still lie awake and wonder the same thing, honestly. There’s no neat ending here, no big revelation that fixed everything for him. What I do know is that he asked the question, and I didn’t run from it. That’s enough, for now.
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