Asking Your Teen About Their Favorite High School Experience: What Parents Can Learn
Last night I was folding Lila’s soccer uniform at the kitchen table while she slouched in the chair next to me, scrolling TikTok and complaining that midterms had turned her brain into mashed potatoes. I’d already asked how her bio test went and got the usual shrug, so I tried a different question on a whim: “What’s your favorite part of high school so far?”
She paused her scroll, looked up at me like I’d asked her to recite the periodic table backwards, and thought for a second. “Study hall,” she said.
I was surprised. I’d expected her to say soccer practice, or art class, or even lunch. “Study hall? Why?”
“Nobody yells at you to do anything, for one thing,” she said. “I sit in the back with Mia and we draw stick figure comics of the teachers, or people-watch, or talk about our cats. No tests, no one asking for college essays, no deadlines. It’s just… time. That’s my favorite part.”
That stuck with me after she went upstairs to do homework, because I started thinking about my own high school experience. What was my favorite part? I wracked my brain, and the big “important” moments didn’t pop up first. I couldn’t tell you what I got on my AP English final, I don’t remember the theme of my junior prom, I barely recall winning that state debate trophy my parents still have in the attic.
What I do remember is the 10 minutes before first period every morning, standing by my locker with my best friend Jen. We’d get to school a few minutes early, lean against the cold cinder block wall, split a pack of sour gummy bears, and talk about absolutely nothing important. We’d make fun of the vice principal’s bad toupee, complain about the bus driver that always left us waiting in the rain, dissect the latest episode of whatever dumb teen drama we were watching that week. Sometimes we’d pass notes back and forth about the people we had crushes on, or the fight we’d had with our parents the night before. That was my favorite part. Those 10 unstructured, ungraded, completely “useless” 10 minutes every day.
It made me realize how much we, as parents and teachers, focus on the graded, structured parts of high school. We talk about GPA and college apps and sports stats and honor roll. We fill our kids’ after school time with tutoring, travel teams, volunteer hours, all stuff that looks good on an application. We cut out any “wasted time” because we think every minute should be productive.
But what I’ve started noticing, since Lila answered that question, is that the “wasted time” is what’s actually important for teens. It’s where they practice being people, not just students. They learn how to listen to a friend who’s upset, how to joke without hurting someone’s feelings, how to work through a petty disagreement without an adult stepping in. Those unstructured conversations are where they process the stress of classes and college pressure and all the other stuff that gets thrown at them in high school. It’s not wasted time at all. It’s development.
After that conversation with Lila, I made a couple of small changes that I never would have thought of before. I used to wake her up 15 minutes earlier every morning so she could get to school early, grab a good parking spot, and get a head start on homework in the library. Now we set the alarm 5 minutes later, so she can pull into the parking lot right when her friend Mia gets there, walk in together, and stop at their lockers for 10 minutes to chat before first bell. That small shift made her way less stressed about the start of the day, and she told me it’s the new best part of her morning.
I also stopped only asking her about grades and soccer scores. Now a couple of times a week, I ask, “What’s the silliest or best thing that happened today that wasn’t a test or a game?” It’s a small question, but it opens the door for her to talk about the stuff that actually matters to her. Last week she told me about a kid who wore a full chicken costume to lunch, and how she and Mia spent 20 minutes laughing so hard they could barely breathe. That’s the moment she’ll remember 20 years from now, not the score on her algebra midterm.
I went to my 20-year high school reunion a few months ago, and that hit home even more. I spent an hour catching up with Jen, and we didn’t talk about grades or college or our first jobs. We talked about those sour gummy bears, the toupee jokes, the time we snuck a candy bar into study hall and got sent to the office. Those are the moments that stuck.
I don’t have all the answers about how to raise a happy, successful teen. I still worry about her grades, her college apps, all the stuff every parent worries about. But I’ve stopped counting the “wasted” time she spends chatting with her friend between classes. I’ve started asking more about the small, unimportant moments, because that’s where the good stuff is. That’s what they’ll remember.
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