When You’re Worried About An 11-Year-Old Girl Pulling Away: Practical Tips From A Caregiver
Last Saturday, I hauled a bowl of potato salad out to the backyard for our monthly family BBQ, and spotted 11-year-old Lila, my cousin, sitting alone on the top porch step, face lit up by her phone. A year ago, she’d have been corralling the younger kids into a game of four square, or tugging my arm to drag me inside to see her latest friendship bracelet or sketch. This time, when I sat down next to her and held out the bag of salt and vinegar chips she used to beg for, she just shrugged without looking up. “I’m good,” she mumbled.
I’ve been worried about her for about six months, ever since she started 6th grade at the new middle school across town. Her mom, my aunt Marnie, works two jobs—nights at a grocery store, days cleaning offices—so I pick Lila up from school most afternoons. I’ve watched the shift slowly: she used to fill the 10-minute drive home with nonstop chatter about crushes and art class projects. Now she climbs in, plugs in her headphones, and doesn’t say a word unless I prompt her. Aunt Marnie says she’s just being moody, that all preteens are like this. But I work as a paraprofessional at a local middle school, so I know the difference between regular preteen distance and a kid who’s quietly drowning.
Two weeks ago, I forgot to charge my phone before picking her up, so the Bluetooth didn’t connect, and I couldn’t even put on a playlist for her. I apologized, said we could just drive in silence, and we were five minutes from her house when she mumbled, “All my friends are different now.” I didn’t jump in with “what’s wrong?” or “why don’t you make new friends?” I just waited. She went on to say that over summer, all the girls she grew up with started posting makeup selfies and talking about who liked who, and she still likes drawing foxes and playing old Roblox games with her cousin from another state. Last week, her math teacher called on her to solve a problem on the board, she froze, and someone in the back row called her “stupid.” She hasn’t raised her hand once since, and she stopped turning in homework because she doesn’t want anyone to see her messy, slow handwriting.
I’ve had versions of this conversation with a dozen 11-year-old girls in my job, so I know the first mistake most adults make is rushing to fix the problem. The default is to say “I’ll talk to the teacher” or “just ignore the mean kids” or “why don’t you try joining art club?” But that makes a kid who’s already feeling raw shut down, because it feels like you’re not listening to how bad it actually feels. What I did that day was just say, “Getting called out in front of everyone like that sucks. I’d be embarrassed too. I’d want to not do any homework either, if that meant I didn’t have to put myself out there again.” That’s it. No fixing, no unsolicited advice. She cried a little after that, which I don’t think anyone’s let her do in a while. Aunt Marnie’s so stretched thin with work, she’s just happy if Lila’s quiet and not causing trouble, so she doesn’t push when Lila says she’s fine.
After that, we made a few small changes, nothing big or expensive. First, I stopped asking her “how was school?” every day, because that’s a big, vague question that almost always gets “fine.” Instead, I ask one tiny, specific question: “What’s the weirdest thing that happened today?” or “Did any teacher say something annoying?” It’s easier to answer, and it doesn’t feel like an interrogation. Second, I noticed she’d started hiding her sketchbook under her bed after her little brother drew all over one of her drawings last year and Aunt joked that she had too much “junk art” lying around. I took her to the dollar store after school one day, bought her a $5 sketchbook with a little lock on it, and we keep it in the back of my car, so no one can get into it if she doesn’t want them to. She can draw whenever she’s waiting for me after school, and no one teases her about it.
I talked to Aunt Marnie about the screen time thing too. She’d been threatening to take Lila’s phone away because she’s always on it, but Lila’s phone is where she talks to her online friend who also likes drawing, where she watches art tutorials, and where she goes when everything else feels too much. Instead of taking it away, I suggested Aunt sit with Lila for 10 minutes every night before she leaves for her evening shift, and just let Lila show her the videos or memes she likes. No commenting on how they’re a waste of time, no lecturing about screen time, just watching. Aunt was skeptical at first, said she didn’t have 10 minutes, but it’s just 10 minutes while she’s making coffee for her shift. Last week, Aunt told me Lila showed her a 2-minute TikTok of a girl drawing a fox, and didn’t even scroll away when she stood next to her.
We also emailed Lila’s math teacher last week, just a short note asking if Lila could have an extra 10 minutes on in-class writing assignments, because her hand cramps up when she writes a lot and she’s embarrassed to say that. We didn’t ask for a big meeting or a formal evaluation, just a small adjustment. The teacher wrote back the next day saying that was totally fine, she didn’t realize Lila was struggling with that. Lila turned in her first homework assignment in three weeks last Monday.
Things aren’t fixed. Lila still sits alone on the porch at BBQs, she still sleeps until 1 on weekends when she can, Aunt still gets frustrated when Lila doesn’t text her back for hours. I still worry sometimes that she’s not getting what she needs, that between Aunt’s long work hours and the messy transition to middle school, she’s falling through the cracks. But last night, she texted me a blurry photo of a fox she drew in her locked sketchbook, and asked if we can get mint chocolate chip ice cream after school tomorrow. That’s more than we had a month ago. Some days, that’s enough.
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