How to Help Your Teen Get Through High School: Real Tips From a Mom Who’s Been There
Last March, my 10th grader Lila dropped her backpack by the living room couch, kicked off her scuffed sneakers, and face-planted into a throw pillow without saying a word. Her neon cross country socks were still draped over the kitchen counter, her hoodie had a half-inch coffee stain from where her lab partner spilled a latte that morning, and she didn’t even reach for the TV remote—her go-to move the second she walks in the door. After five minutes of silence, she mumbled into the fabric: “I don’t want to go back tomorrow. Can I just do online school forever?”
I leaned against the doorframe for a minute, because my first instinct was to say the thing all parents say: “It’s not that bad, high school flies by, you’ll miss this someday.” But I remembered saying that to my sister when she was Lila’s age, and she told me to stop talking like I’d forgotten what being 15 felt like. I had forgotten, a little. I’d built up my own high school memories into a soft blur of football games and graduation, not the constant knot in my stomach over pop quizzes and messy friend fights. So instead of the speech, I said: “Want leftover apple pie? I put extra cinnamon in it this time.” She nodded, so I cut two slices, added a scoop of vanilla ice cream to both, and sat down next to her on the couch. That’s when all the small stuff poured out: a group project where her two partners bailed and she ended up with a B that dropped her overall grade, her best friend was mad because she couldn’t go to a pop concert that weekend for my grandma’s 80th birthday, she’d failed her last chemistry quiz because she stayed up until 11 helping her little brother glue his volcano together for middle school science fair. It wasn’t one big crisis, just a pile of small, annoying, exhausting things that add up when you’re spending seven hours a day in a building full of people and deadlines.
I called her guidance counselor the next day, because I had no idea what to do. I’d spent the first two years of Lila’s high school career stressing about college apps, checking her grades online once a week, nagging her to join more clubs that would “look good.” The counselor told me she sees at least 10 kids a month with this exact same burnout, and the problem almost never is the kid—it’s all the extra stuff we pile on top of them before they even figure out what they like. She gave me one simple piece of advice I still use: let them cut the stuff that doesn’t matter.
That night, Lila and I sat down with a spiral notebook and made what we call a quit list. We wrote down every single class, club, sport, and commitment she had, then went through one by one. If she actively hated it and it wasn’t required for graduation, we crossed it off. She crossed off student council first—she’d only joined because her friend asked, and she hated the hour-long meetings after school that made her miss dinner. Next was AP Bio; she switched to regular Bio the next week, and her stress level dropped 50% immediately. She kept cross country, even though she complained about early Saturday meets, because she said she liked running when it wasn’t for a grade. The quit list only took 15 minutes, and it’s now a twice-a-semester ritual we do right after midterms. It’s not about quitting everything when it gets hard—it’s about clearing space for the stuff that’s actually worth the stress.
After that, I changed one small thing about how I talk to Lila when she gets home. I stopped asking “how was school today?” That question never gets anything but “fine” or “good,” and then the conversation dies. Instead, I started asking: “What’s the dumbest thing that happened today?” It sounds silly, but it works. Most days, she laughs and tells me about the teacher who accidentally called the principal “mom” over the intercom, or the kid who brought a pet goldfish to class in a soda can. On bad days, it gets her talking about the dumb, annoying stuff that’s bugging her—like the lunch line being too long to get food, or the teacher who assigned three hours of homework on a Friday. It doesn’t feel like an interrogation, it just feels like a casual question that opens the door to whatever she wants to talk about.
I also made a rule for myself that I don’t talk about Lila’s grades unless she brings it up first, or she’s failing a class. I used to check the parent portal every few days, nag her about missing assignments, and quiz her on when her next test was. Now I don’t even log in unless she asks me to help her find an assignment. If her desk is covered in laundry and old candy wrappers and she can barely see her laptop, I just close the door. It’s her space, her mess. I also stopped running forgotten lunches, gym clothes, or homework to school when she texts me to bring it. The first time she forgot her running gear for a meet, she had to borrow an old pair from a teammate, and she was annoyed, but she survived. Now she checks her bag the night before 9 times out of 10, which is way better than me having to remember everything for her.
Lila’s a junior now. We still have bad days. Last week she came home, threw her bag down, and said she wanted to drop out and open a plant shop in our garage. I got her the pie, we added “high school” to the quit list for five minutes, then crossed it back off. She knows she has to finish, but it’s okay that she hates it some days. We don’t have a perfect system. She still pulls all nighters studying for tests she procrastinated on, she still fights with her friends, and she still gets Bs in classes she tries hard in. It’s not the perfect high school experience I pictured when she started, where she’s top of her class, leading five clubs, and has her whole future figured out. But it’s working. She’s getting through it, and she’s still happy most days. I used to think getting through high school meant checking all the boxes and getting into a good college. Now I know it just means getting to the end without breaking your kid. That’s enough for me, right now.
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