What To Do When Your Teen Asks: Do People Really Find Life Worth Living?
I’m folding the last of my 16-year-old Javi’s soccer practice jerseys, the fabric still stiff from line-drying, when he looks up from his phone and says it. “Do people really find life worth living?” The half-eaten bowl of cheesy mac sits on the coffee table next to him, congealed at the edges, and the Food Network rerun I put on for background noise hums low enough that I almost think I misheard. I don’t drop the sock I’m holding, but my hands go still. I almost blurt out the automatic “of course they do!” that’s been drilled into me as a parent, but I stop. “What brought that on?” I ask instead.
Javi shrugs, picks at a loose thread on his faded gaming hoodie. He says he’s been scrolling through threads and TikTok videos where people my age and older talk about how most of life is just working to pay for stuff you don’t even have time to enjoy. He hears my coworker friends complain about their mortgages, their kid’s college tuition, and how they can’t afford to retire. He says his AP bio teacher talks about how messed up the climate is and how his generation will be the one stuck fixing it. He can’t imagine dragging himself through 60 more years of that. It’s not a hysterical panic, just this quiet, confused question that’s been rolling around in his head for weeks.
I remember when I was 17, I asked my mom the same thing right after my grandma died. She told me I was being dramatic and ungrateful, sent me to my room, and I never brought it up again. I carried that question around for years, like a heavy rock in my pocket, because I thought there was something wrong with me for asking. As a high school aide for eight years, I hear this question at least once a month from kids, most of them not in immediate crisis, just tired and confused. The number one mistake adults make is jumping straight to gratitude lectures or panic. Either you say “you have a roof over your head, how can you say that?” which shuts the kid down immediately, or you spiral into “do we need to go to the ER right now?” which makes the kid feel like their question is a problem, not a normal thought.
The first thing I did after Javi finished talking was ask one direct question, a step I always tell other parents to do first, no beating around the bush. I said, “That’s such a heavy question to carry alone. Are you feeling like you want to hurt yourself right now?” Javi blinked and shook his head, said no, he just wanted to know the real answer. That clears up any immediate danger, and it doesn’t have to turn the whole conversation into a big dramatic event. It just gives you a clear starting point.
After that, I didn’t give him the polished, Instagram-perfect answer about purpose and adventure. I sat down on the couch next to him, and I told him the truth. “Honestly? Some days I don’t. Last week I spent three hours under the sink trying to fix that leaky faucet, got covered in that sticky plumber’s goop, and when I was done the garbage disposal broke. I stood in the middle of the kitchen crying for 10 minutes because I just wanted to go to bed, and that whole day life felt like too much work to be worth it.” Javi looked up at me, surprised, because I usually brush off bad days to keep things moving. That’s the thing no one tells you: kids can spot fake positivity from a mile away. If you only ever tell them life is amazing, they won’t believe you, because they see you stressed about car repairs or upset after a bad work call. Being honest about the bad parts makes the good parts believable.
Then I told him what I’ve learned over the years. Life isn’t one big thing that’s either worth it or not. It’s a million little 5-minute bits, added up. Some of them are terrible, some are fine, some are so good you want to hold onto them forever. Yesterday I stopped on the way home from work and got that lemon donut you like from the shop on 5th, and I ate it in the car while the sun was setting over the park, and that 5 minutes was so worth it. That’s enough for me most days. I don’t need my whole life to be some grand adventure that means something big. I just need enough of those 5-minute bits to get through the bad ones.
Javi asked, what if you go a long time without any good bits? I told him that’s when we get help. Just like if you break your ankle you go get a cast, if your head feels heavy and nothing feels good for weeks on end, we go talk to someone who can help you find those little bits again. That’s not a failure, that’s just how it works.
We didn’t talk about it much after that. We ordered two more lemon donuts from the shop down the street, ate them while we watched the cooking show, and then he went off to game with his friends online. A week later, I was picking up his notebook from the kitchen counter, and it fell open to a page that said “5 minute good bits” at the top. Only one thing was written so far: “the way the dog smells after he rolls in the grass.”
I still don’t have the perfect answer for him. Some weeks he comes home grumpy and says all the bits suck, and that’s okay. I don’t argue with him anymore. I just order the donut and sit with him for a little while. I know that letting him ask the question without shutting him down is more important than giving him the “right” answer. For now, that’s enough.
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