Why Your Teen Might Ask ‘Do People Really Find Life Worth Living?’ And What To Do Next
I was folding damp soccer socks on top of our warm dryer last Wednesday when my 16-year-old son Sam leaned against the washing machine, picked at a frayed edge of his faded hoodie, and asked it straight: “Do people really find life worth living?” I fumbled a sock, and for half a second I reached for the automatic upbeat response I’d given a hundred times before to his big, heavy questions. But I stopped. I’d reacted that way two years ago when he asked why we bother with school if everyone dies eventually, and all it did was make him shut his laptop and go to his room without talking for three hours.
So I sat down on the wicker laundry basket full of clean towels instead, and said, “That’s such a fair question. What made you think of that today?” He said he’d been scrolling a subreddit for high schoolers, and someone linked a thread from a 42-year-old guy who said he still goes to work every day, pays his bills, has a wife and two kids, and most mornings he wakes up wondering why he bothers. No one in the thread disagreed with him much. Sam said all the adults he sees online are always posting about their dream jobs and fancy vacations and how great their kids are, and he was starting to wonder if it was all just a lie we tell kids to get them to grow up.
I took a breath and told him the truth I’d never said out loud to him before. “You know what? I had a day last week where I thought exactly that. Remember when I spent two hours on hold with the car insurance company fighting over a $28 copay, then I burned the meatloaf for dinner, then your sister texted at 7 pm that she forgot her clarinet and I had to drive all the way back to the middle school to get it? That day, I cleaned up the burnt meatloaf and I stood there at the sink and I thought, Is this really all there is? Is this what I’m working for?”
Sam’s head snapped up. He’d never heard me say that. I’ve always been the mom who brushes off bad days, jokes about it, and puts on a happy face for the kids. For years I thought that’s what I was supposed to do—protect them from my stress, give them a stable, happy view of adulthood. But that’s the thing I’ve started to figure out, now that I volunteer in the high school counseling office once a week: kids see through the act anyway. They know we have bad days. They just don’t hear us talk about it honestly, so they think they’re the only ones who feel like life can be pointless and hard, and that something’s wrong with them for feeling that way.
Last month I was supervising after-school study hall, and a group of three juniors sat in the back talking about this exact thing. One girl said her mom posts all their family ski trips and her mom’s new promotion on Instagram, but she’s heard her mom crying in her home office after work every Wednesday for six months because her boss yells at her. Another boy said his dad always tells him college will be the best time of his life, then after college he’ll get a great job and a house, but his dad spends every weekend on the couch watching TV and complaining about work. None of it adds up for them, so they ask the big question: is this really what we’re all heading toward?
Most of the time, when kids ask this, it’s not a cry for emergency help. Of course, if your kid is talking about hurting themselves or says they don’t see the point of going on at all, you call a doctor or a therapist right away. But most of the time, it’s just them testing what we really believe, and asking to be let in on the real secret of adulthood, not the social media version.
What I’ve found works, and what I tell other parents when they ask me about this, is three small, concrete things that don’t take any extra time or fancy training. First, don’t rush to reassure. Saying “Of course life is worth it, you have so much to live for” just shuts the conversation down. It tells your kid their question is wrong, that they shouldn’t feel what they’re feeling. Starting with “That’s a really fair question. What made you think of that today?” gives them space to keep talking, instead of closing them off.
Second, be honest about your own bad days, but don’t dump all your unprocessed stress on them. You don’t have to talk about your biggest worries or conflicts if you don’t want to. But a quick, honest “I felt that way just last week” normalizes the feeling, and lets them know they’re not broken for thinking it.
Third, point to the small, boring good things instead of the big distant milestones. We always tell kids “You’ll get into college, you’ll get a great job, you’ll have a family of your own” but that’s all years in the future, and it feels distant and unconvincing. Instead, name the specific little things that make your hard days worth it. For me, it’s Sam leaving half of his homemade iced coffee on the counter for me every morning without me asking. It’s finding a forgotten pack of mint gum in the pocket of my winter coat when I pull it out in October. It’s listening to my younger daughter sing off-key to pop songs in the shower when I’m walking past the bathroom. Those are the things that add up, not the big promotions or the fancy vacations.
After we talked that night, Sam didn’t suddenly become a ball of sunshine and decide life is perfect. He grabbed his phone, went back to his room, and forgot to take the trash out like he’d promised. Last week, we were driving to get gas before his soccer practice, and he brought it up out of nowhere. “I still think it’s weird that no one talks about how most of life is just boring, hard stuff,” he said. I nodded, and turned down the radio. “Yeah, it is weird,” I said. He paused for a second, then said, “But that iced coffee I make you? That’s pretty good.” I smiled, and pulled up to the pump. “Yeah,” I said. “It is. That’s enough for me most days.”
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