What I Would Do Differently Starting Grade 9: Lessons Parents Can Share With New High Schoolers
Last Tuesday, I pulled into the gas station off the highway after picking my oldest up from their first week of Grade 9 orientation. They were slouched in the passenger seat, scrolling TikTok, blue slushie syrup slowly dripping onto the brand-new canvas backpack I’d picked up two weeks prior. I asked how it went, got the usual mumbled “fine” in response, then they paused scrolling and said, “I’m never raising my hand in any class. Everyone’s watching everything you do.”
That hit me harder than I expected. I packed my own Grade 9 experience away 22 years ago, but it’s still tucked in there, sharp around the edges. My family moved across the state two weeks before my first day of high school, and I walked in not knowing a single person. I was small for my age, still wore braces, and had a bad habit of talking too fast when I was nervous. I spent the first three days eating lunch in a bathroom stall because I couldn’t work up the nerve to ask a table of girls if I could sit with them. When my course registration came through, I saw I’d been placed in advanced geometry—something I’d tested into back at my old school—but when I found out none of the three girls I’d sort of made friends with were in it, I talked my dad into letting me switch down to regular. I didn’t need the challenge, I lied. It would be too much work.
I got A’s all semester in regular math. I eventually found a group of friends, got through high school, went to college, and ended up here, buying too-expensive backpacks for my own kid. But I still think about that geometry class, every once in a while. When my kid said that thing about not raising their hand, all the things I’d do differently if I got a do-over came flooding out.
The first thing I’d change is I wouldn’t pick my classes based on where my friends are. I was so focused on fitting in that I gave up a spot in a class I would’ve enjoyed, just to sit next to people I barely liked anyway. For parents, that’s not just a generic “follow your own path” speech—most kids won’t listen to that anyway. What works for us is breaking it down into small, solvable problems. When my kid panicked that none of their friends were in the honors English class they wanted to take, we didn’t force them to take it or tell them they were being silly. We pulled up the school schedule together, saw that the class was right before lunch, and confirmed they’d still be in the same lunch block as their best friend. We emailed the guidance counselor to ask if they could switch out after the first 30 days if it was too hard or too lonely. That took all the pressure off, and they ended up signing up for it.
The second thing I’d do differently is stop assuming every small mistake I made was remembered by everyone. I tripped over my own feet in the main hallway my second day, dropped my tray of spaghetti, and stood there covered in sauce while 100 people walked by. I avoided that hallway for the rest of the semester, convinced everyone still thought about the spaghetti girl. Two years ago, I went to my 20-year high school reunion, and I brought it up to a group of people who were there that day. Not a single one remembered it. That’s the thing about Grade 9: every kid is too busy worrying about their own spaghetti spill to fixate on yours. Instead of telling my kid “no one cares” (which feels like a lie when you’re 14 and everyone seems to be looking), we do a small thing: we keep a magneted notepad on our fridge. Any time they’re embarrassed about something that happened at school, they write it down. A week later, we go back and read it. Nine times out of ten, they can’t even remember why it felt like such a big deal.
The third thing I’d change is I’d ask for help way sooner. I got a C on my first algebra test that semester, the first bad grade I’d ever gotten in my life. I hid the test in the back of my textbook, didn’t tell my parents, and didn’t go to the after-school help sessions the teacher offered. I was convinced one bad grade meant I was stupid, and if I asked for help, everyone would find out. By midterm, I was failing. I don’t do the “check your grades every night” thing with my kid, that just breeds more anxiety. But every Friday night after dinner, we pull up the online grade portal together for 10 minutes. We don’t yell about low grades, we just pick one thing that’s lower than they expected it to be, and pick one tiny step to fix it. That might mean emailing the teacher to ask for extra practice, going to one help session after school, or scheduling a one-hour tutoring slot at the community center. It’s low-stakes, no shame, just a small check-in that keeps small problems from turning into big ones.
My kid still hasn’t raised their hand in class this week. They still complain that the lunch line is too long, their locker is too small, and all the good spots by the soccer field are taken by the older kids. We’re still figuring it out, and I don’t have all the answers. I know that even with all these lessons, they’ll still make the same awkward, painful mistakes I did. That’s okay. Grade 9 is supposed to be awkward. It’s just nice to be able to hand them the small stuff I learned the hard way, instead of letting them figure it all out alone.
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