What To Do When Your Teen Asks “Do People Really Find Life Worth Living?”
Last Tuesday, I was scraping dried Alfredo off dinner plates while the dog chewed a hole in my favorite sweat sock and Great British Bake Off played low in the living room. My 16-year-old Javi leaned against the counter scrolling TikTok, thumb moving faster than I can keep up, when he looked up and asked, plain as anything: “Do people really find life worth living?” I almost dropped the plate I was holding. I’ve worked as a paraeducator at the local high school for eight years, so I’ve heard this question from dozens of kids. But when it comes out of your own kid’s mouth, it still zaps the breath right out of you.
My first instinct, the one I used to follow years ago, was to rush in and fix it. Of course it is! Look at your friends, your art, the tacos we make on Fridays. What brought this on? But I’ve learned that rush to fix just shuts the conversation down. So I wiped my hands on my jeans, leaned against the counter opposite him, and said, “What made you ask that?”
He explained he’d been seeing a string of videos that week, young people talking about how they fake smile through work and school, how they don’t tell anyone they’re just going through the motions. The popular kids at his school post beach trips and concert photos, but he’d heard two of them talking in the hallway about how they can’t wait to graduate just so they can stop pretending everything’s fine. “Everyone acts like their life is so good,” he said, “but what if none of them actually mean it? What if we’re all just lying to each other?”
I thought about the fall after I graduated high school, when I worked the night shift at a gas station on the edge of town. I’d spend my 10-minute breaks sitting on the floor of the walk-in cooler, because it was quiet and no one could see me, and I’d ask myself the exact same question. I never told anyone back then. I thought if I admitted I wasn’t having the time of my life like all the magazines said I should, I was broken. So I told him that. I said, “When I was your age, I used to sit in a cooler at work and think the same thing. I still have days, honestly. Last week I spent 20 minutes sitting in the car after work because I didn’t want to come in and deal with the broken fence and the pile of laundry and making dinner. Some days it all feels like too much.”
That’s the thing no one tells you about this question. Most of the time, it’s not a warning sign of an immediate crisis (though of course, if your kid talks about hurting themselves, you reach out to a professional right away, no questions asked). It’s a kid testing the waters. They’ve been sold this story that life is supposed to be exciting and fulfilling 90% of the time, and when their daily life is mostly homework and chores and waiting for something good to happen, they wonder if they’re the only one who notices the mismatch. When you jump straight to a list of all the great things they have, you’re telling them their feeling is wrong. They shut up, and they don’t ask again.
Instead of that, I’ve started doing three small things that work, both with my kids at home and the kids I work with at school. First, always ask for context first. Don’t assume you know why they’re asking. Just say, “What made you think of that?” It gives them space to say what’s really on their mind, instead of you launching into a speech they don’t want. Second, share a small, ordinary bad moment of your own. You don’t have to dump all your trauma on them. Just something real, like that 20 minutes I sat in the car, or how I hate making small talk at back-to-school night because I get anxious, or how some weeks I leave the dishes in the sink overnight because I can’t be bothered. It normalizes the feeling that it’s okay to not be happy all the time. Third, if you’re going to answer, talk about small stuff, not big stuff. The generic “you have your whole life ahead of you” just sounds hollow to a kid who’s unhappy right now. Talk about the tiny, messy, neutral things that make it worth getting up.
That night, after we talked, we walked out onto the porch to feed the stray calico that hangs around our house. She came running when she saw the bowl, rubbing against Javi’s ankle. I said, “For me, right now, that’s enough. That this cat gets excited to see me, even when everything else is messy.” Javi bent down to scratch her ears, and said, “Yeah, she’s pretty cool.” That was it. He didn’t suddenly announce life was great, or run off to hang out with friends laughing. We cleaned up the kitchen, he went to his room to play video games, and that was the end of the conversation for that night.
A week later, I saw him talking to a freshman at school who looked upset by the lockers. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I saw him nod, then jerk his thumb toward the vending machine by the gym, and they walked off together. I don’t think he gave him a big speech. I think he just let him talk.
Last Saturday, we were driving to pick up a new controller for his Xbox, and he brought it up again. “Most people are just faking being happy, aren’t they?” he said. I turned down the radio, and said, “A lot of us fake that we’re happier than we are, yeah. But we don’t fake the small stuff. The cat, the new controller, a cold slushie on a hot day. Those are real.” He looked out the window for a minute, then said, “Yeah, I guess.” We got the controller, got blue raspberry slushies on the way home, and didn’t talk about it again. He still has bad days. I still have bad days. We haven’t found a perfect answer to the question. But we’re okay with asking it, now. That’s enough, for now.
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