When a Kid Asks If Life Is Worth It: A Teacher’s Honest Take
The rain had cleared the playground, so I was running a day of silent reading to keep the class in one place. Eighth graders had their books open, but most were just moving their eyes across the pages, waiting for the bell. Maya stayed behind when everyone else lined up at the door. She stood next to my desk, backpack still zipped, and asked, “Mr. Herrera, do you think life is actually worth it?”
Not “worth living.” Just “worth it.” Like a pair of shoes or a streaming subscription she felt obligated to use.
I’ve been teaching long enough to know when a question is real. It caught me at the end of a Thursday, though, when my brain was already thinking about grading and dinner. I told her the truth: “Sometimes yes. Not always.”
She nodded like she expected that, then slung her bag over one shoulder and left. No tears, no dramatic exit. No counselor referral, no call home. And that’s the thing that got me afterward. I almost missed it entirely.
That conversation stayed with me for days. Not because I was worried about Maya, but because I couldn’t believe how little I had to offer her. She asked an honest question and I gave her a shrug with better grammar. I knew, because I was fourteen once, that she was going to replay my answer in her head. “Sometimes yes. Not always.” Is that even okay?
I think it is. But I’ve thought a lot about what I wish I’d added.
It’s easy to look at a kid who asks this and assume the issue is emotional wellness, too much screen time, or the news cycle. Sometimes it is. But mostly, the kids I teach are asking this the same way they ask why the Chiefs keep winning—like it’s a factual mystery that no adult has bothered to solve properly. Life is a lot of things. They’re just trying to find out, specifically, whether it’s worth the effort.
Because that’s the calculation they’re running. Maya wasn’t depressed. She was doing a cost-benefit analysis. Every morning, she makes her bed because her mom insists, eats eggs she’s tired of, sits through seven hours of school, goes to the winter musical rehearsal, comes home, and does it again. And somewhere along the way, no adult gave her a reason why. We told her to get good grades, choose her friends wisely, drink water. We forgot to mention that the middle part—the feeling part—is the actual product.
I’m thinking of another conversation, last year, at parent-teacher conferences. A mom was sitting across from me, her son Leo had been getting Ds in my class. She said, “He tells me school is pointless. That college won’t even get him a job. What am I supposed to say to that?” She was afraid he was right. And here’s the uncomfortable thing for a teacher to admit: I can’t guarantee a good job. Nobody can.
But I can tell you what I’ve started doing when a kid asks a question like this.
First, I stop explaining. When Maya asked me if life was worth it, my instinct was to answer with everything I “should” say. “Of course it’s worth it! Look at the good things!” But that’s a lie, and she would have known it. So instead, I’ve started with a simple, uncreative question: “Why do you ask?” I’m not a therapist, and I’m not pretending to be. But most of the time, the question is smaller than it sounds. One kid asked because his parents were fighting. Another asked because he got cut from the soccer team. Another said everything felt like homework. The question is never the full story—it’s just the headline.
Second, I give them permission to dislike the answer. A few weeks ago, I sat next to a seventh grader who told me life was “mostly boring.” I said, “That’s a reasonable position.” He actually blinked, surprised. No adult had ever agreed with a statement like that. Then I asked him what he’d do if boring was guaranteed—how would he arrange his day around it? He was quiet for a long time. But he left thinking, which is more than I can say for most conversations I have with seventh graders.
Third, I try to separate the feeling from the wiring. There are mornings when I wake up and can’t remember why anyone bothers. The stack of papers is high, the coffee is weak, and my knee hurts. That’s not despair. That’s a low-blood-sugar, sleep-deprived, run-of-the-mill rough start. Kids don’t know that you can have a bad three-hour stretch and still have a good life. They think the present fog is the permanent forecast.
So when a kid says life sucks, I ask, “Since when? This morning, or all week?” It’s a tiny trick, but it helps them see that a feeling is not the whole truth.
I wish I’d told Maya that I don’t have a grand answer. I’ve been doing this for twelve years, and I’ve never met a person who had one that wasn’t secretly a sales pitch. But I could have told her what I’ve noticed: the kids who turn out okay are not the ones who got a perfect reason for living. They’re the ones who had an adult sit next to them in the rain and say, “Yeah, sometimes it feels like a lot. But you get to figure out which parts matter, and you can change your mind whenever you want.”
That’s not inspirational. It’s just practical.
Maya’s mom called me a week later. “I don’t know what you said,” she told me, “but Maya mentioned that you talked. Will you keep an eye on her?” I said I would. The truth is, I’m not sure what answer Maya was looking for. I’m not sure she remembers the conversation very well. But I do know that when the room was empty that Thursday afternoon, she chose to ask me. She didn’t let the question dissolve in her head.
Maybe it’s not my job to settle whether life is worth living. Maybe it’s just my job to show up the next day, and the one after that, and let her watch an ordinary grown-up keep teaching, even when the coffee is weak and the grading is endless. Not because I’m certain—but because the question doesn’t have to be answered to be lived.
The bell rang Friday, and Maya waved on her way out, same as she always does. It wasn’t a big moment. But there isn’t much more than that.
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