Common Hidden Signs Your Rising High School Senior Is Struggling (What Parents Can Do)
Last Tuesday, I stood by my kitchen sink scraping burnt sourdough into the trash when my son, my rising high school senior, slammed his laptop shut hard enough to rattle my half-full coffee mug on the counter. I turned around, wiped crumbs off my apron, and asked what was wrong. He muttered “Nothing” so quiet I could barely hear it, grabbed his vape off the counter, and stormed out to the garage — something he never does, because he knows I’d rather he not smoke it around the house at all.
I thought to myself, this isn’t just the usual teen attitude. Six months ago, when I was subbing in the local high school’s counseling office, I heard a dozen parents say the exact same thing: “My kid was fine all through high school, why are they like this now?” Rising senior year is this weird in-between place. They’re almost adults, they’ve been told their whole life this year makes or breaks their future, and they think they’re supposed to have it all figured out on their own. So they don’t tell you they’re stressed. They show you, in small, weird, easy-to-miss ways.
The first sign I caught with my own kid was blowing up over tiny things that never would have bothered him before. A month ago, we had a full-on fight because I bought the instant oatmeal with cinnamon instead of plain. I stood there staring at him while he yelled that I never listen to anything he says, and I almost yelled back that it’s just oatmeal, calm down. But I remembered that the night before, he’d stayed up until 1 AM scrolling through the University of Michigan’s admissions Instagram, deleting and retyping the first line of his personal statement. After he stormed to his room, I waited 10 minutes, poured him a glass of the orange Gatorade he likes, and knocked on his door. I didn’t say “calm down” or “what’s wrong with you.” I just said, “That oatmeal thing wasn’t really about oatmeal, was it?” He didn’t spill his whole heart right then. He just shrugged and said it’s been a lot lately. That’s more than I would have gotten if I’d fought back.
Another sign I’ve seen over and over, both at home and at school, is pulling away from things they used to love. My son has played soccer since he was 8, and every summer he goes to a week-long camp with his team. This year, he told me he didn’t want to go. At first, I thought he was too cool for it, or he wanted to stay home and hang out with his girlfriend. I pushed him to go, and it wasn’t until a week before that he admitted he didn’t want to spend a whole week talking about college with the other guys. Everyone’s comparing where they’re applying, what their SAT scores are, who got an early recruitment. He said it feels like a competition, not fun anymore. That makes sense — all the things that used to be just fun get wrapped up in this big future narrative now.
I didn’t force him to go, and I didn’t tell him he was being silly. Instead, I started a small weekly routine: every Sunday after grocery shopping, we stop for ice cream at the little stand on the corner, and we have a hard rule. No college talk. No grade talk. No talk about future plans at all. We just talk about whatever stupid thing he saw on TikTok, or argue about whether the new Spider-Man movie was better than the old one, or make fun of my bad parking job. It’s only 20 minutes, tops, but it gives him a break from all the pressure. It’s low effort, low cost, and any parent can fit it into their week.
From subbing, I’ve learned that one of the most missed signs is an out-of-character drop in grades or missing assignments. Last semester, I subbed for an 11th grade English class, and there was a girl who always turned in her work early, a straight-A student, who turned in a blank college essay draft. When I asked her about it after class, she twisted her hoodie string for five minutes before she said she couldn’t make herself write a single word. What if it’s bad? What if it makes her not get in anywhere? What if she picks the wrong major and ruins her whole life before she even starts? She wasn’t lazy. She was paralyzed, and that blank essay was her way of showing she couldn’t handle the weight.
If that happens with your kid, don’t start with “you need to get your act together.” Instead, sit down next to them and say “Let’s just do 10 minutes of this right now. We don’t have to finish it, we just have to start.” That breaks the big, scary, life-altering thing into something tiny that doesn’t feel impossible. I’ve done that with my son’s personal statement, and half the time we end up working longer than 10 minutes, but if we don’t, that’s okay too. No pressure to perform.
I also stopped doing one thing that I used to do every single night: I don’t ask “How’s the college search going?” at dinner anymore. It used to be the first question I asked, because I was worried about it. Now, I only bring it up if he brings it up first. If he does want to talk, I don’t jump in with my opinions or advice about safety schools or essay edits. I just ask “What’s the hardest part about that for you right now?” That’s it.
Last week, after our ice cream run, my son said something he hasn’t said before. He said he’s scared he’ll let us down, that all the money we’ve saved for college will be wasted if he doesn’t get into a “good” school. I didn’t give him a big emotional speech about how I’m proud of him no matter what. I just said “I don’t care what school you go to. I just care that you’re not carrying all this by yourself.” He didn’t cry or hug me or anything. He just nodded, and then pointed out a dog across the parking lot and said that corgi was fatter than our corgi.
That’s how it goes, right? Rising seniors don’t do big, clean emotional moments. They give you little signs, if you know what to look for. Some days are still messy, we still have awkward silences and fights over burnt toast and wrong oatmeal. But it’s getting better, slowly. We’re taking it one 20-minute ice cream run at a time.
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