My Senior in High School Wants to Drop Out and Get a GED—Here’s What Helped
It was a Tuesday night, and I was draining pasta while my son, Leo, sat at the kitchen counter scrolling through his phone. He’d been quiet for days, but that wasn’t unusual. Then he put the phone down and said, “I’m not going back to school after Thanksgiving. I’m going to get my GED instead.”
The pasta water kept boiling. I didn’t know what to say, so I said the worst possible thing: “No, you’re not.”
Leo didn’t argue. He just shrugged and went up to his room, which somehow felt worse. My 17-year-old senior, three months into his final year of high school, had just announced he wanted out. And my first reaction had slammed the door shut.
It took me two days to get over myself and actually ask him why. When I did, sitting in his room on the edge of his unmade bed, he told me things I hadn’t expected. He wasn’t lazy. He wasn’t in trouble. He said school felt pointless. He had a part-time job at a bike shop and was good at it—really good. The shop owner had hinted he could move into a full-time mechanic role with certification. Leo had looked at the GED requirements, and they seemed easy compared to his current course load of trig, chemistry, and four other classes he described as “busywork.”
“I can pass it in a month,” he said. “Then I can actually do something with my life.”
That hurt to hear, because from my side, he was already doing something. He had a quiet friend group, a decent GPA, and a teacher who said he was “capable but distracted.” But of course, capable and distracted means something different to a kid who’s been sitting in classes since 7:30 a.m. for thirteen years. The burnout was real. The GED felt like a bypass around all of it.
Instead of saying no again, I said, “Okay, let’s look into it together. But I want to see what you’re looking at.”
That changed the conversation. Over the next week, we sat down with a laptop and actually researched what getting a GED would mean for him. The first thing we learned was that it’s not as simple as signing up and taking a test. In our state, he’d need to take a preparation course unless he passed the official practice test with high scores. That course cost money and required class time. There was also an age requirement—he was old enough, but still a minor, so I’d have to sign a withdrawal form from the district. That form, I found out, basically meant he couldn’t go back to the high school for a full year if he changed his mind.
That last part gave me pause. So I told him, “Let’s not decide yet. Let’s do two things first.”
The first was to talk to his school counselor. I called ahead and asked if we could have a meeting without Leo feeling like it was an intervention. The counselor, Ms. Reyes, had known Leo since freshman year. She pulled up his records and pointed out something I hadn’t noticed: his grades were actually better in classes he disliked, like chemistry, than in his electives. She said that usually meant the issue wasn’t the schoolwork itself, but the lack of relevance. She asked Leo one good question: “If you could design your senior year from scratch, what would you keep?”
Leo thought for a while. He’d keep his early-morning shop class, and he’d keep lunch with his friends. He’d drop the rest and add more time at the bike shop. Ms. Reyes didn’t roll her eyes. She said, “That’s not crazy. You might be able to do something like that.”
The second thing I did was take him to visit the local community college’s adult education center one afternoon. I found the GED program coordinator, and we sat in her office for an hour. She was straight with him. She said, “A GED is not a diploma. It won’t feel the same. But it can get you into this college, into a trade program, or into a job that only needs a baseline credential. Here’s the actual pass rate for people your age, and here’s what happens after they pass.”
Then she showed him a list of three students who had gotten their GED at 17 the year before. Two were working in trades and doing fine. The third had gone back to get a high school diploma because she realized she missed the structure and the sports teams. Leo stared at that list for a long time.
We didn’t make a decision that day. But something shifted. Leo started talking about what he’d actually do with a GED, not just what he’d escape. He wanted to work full-time at the bike shop and then take classes in small-engine repair. That requires a specific certificate. He looked up the requirements: a GED or high school diploma, a background check, and a weekend exam. That was it. For the first time, he described a concrete future that didn’t involve sitting through another Shakespeare unit.
That’s when I realized my job wasn’t to change his mind. It was to slow him down enough to make sure he was choosing something real, not just running away.
So we made a plan. It wasn’t my ideal plan, and it wasn’t his either, but it was honest. Leo agreed to finish the fall semester at school—not out of obligation, but as a kind of safety rail. He could still take his GED practice exam in December, but he’d only actually drop out if he scored above the threshold and could start the prep course in January. He also agreed to meet with Ms. Reyes every two weeks, not to talk about grades, but to talk about what he was learning about himself. And I agreed to stop saying “when you change your mind” and start saying “if you go through with this.”
The shift in his mood was noticeable. Not because he got happier, but because he got more practical. He started coming home with questions about financial aid for non-degree programs. He asked his boss about the certification timeline. He even signed up for the community college’s free GED prep night, just to see what it felt like.
As I write this, it’s early December. Leo took his practice test last Saturday. He passed, barely, with a score that means he’d need to take a full prep class. He’s still enrolled in high school, but he’s counting down the days. The other night he said, “I think I can do both—finish the semester and pass the class. Then I’ll be done by March.”
I don’t know if he’ll actually go through with it. Part of me still hopes he’ll walk across the stage in June with his cap and gown. But I’ve learned that hope isn’t a strategy. What’s actually working is that we’re no longer at odds. He’s doing his part, I’m doing mine, and the school is genuinely trying to help him figure out what he wants. That’s not nothing.
If your kid drops that same bomb on you, here’s what I’d say: Don’t say no right away. Say “show me the plan.” Then ask to see the GED requirements together. Call the counselor. Visit the adult ed center. Let your kid talk to someone who doesn’t have a stake in keeping him in school. And most importantly, don’t make him choose between your approval and his own sense of direction. That’s how you get a kid who lies about going to class.
Leo hasn’t dropped out yet. He might. And if he does, I still don’t know if it’s the right call. But we’re talking about it over dinner now, not screaming about it from separate floors. That feels like progress, even if the final chapter is still unwritten.
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