When Your Teen Asks ‘Do People Really Find Life Worth Living?’: What I Learned As A Mom And Teacher
I was scraping congealed alfredo sauce off dinner plates last Tuesday when my 16-year-old son looked up from his TikTok scroll and asked, “Mom, do people really find life worth living?” I almost dropped the ceramic plate in my hand. A week earlier, one of my 11th grade students, Lila, had pulled me aside after class, leaned against the scuffed cinder block wall by my desk, and asked the exact same question. Two times in one month, from two different kids, and I realized no one was giving them an honest answer.
My first instinct was to reach for the generic pep talk: Of course it is! Think about all the good things, the trips we take, your sister’s silly jokes, your dog. But I stopped myself. I’d almost said that exact thing to Lila, and before I could get the words out, I saw her shoulders curl in, and she started picking at a loose thread on her faded hoodie. I could tell she was already done talking, that my answer would have just proven she couldn’t share what she actually felt. So I put the plate down, pulled a chair out from the table, and sat. Our golden retriever dropped a slobbery tennis ball right on my sneaker, like he knew we needed a minute to breathe.
I said, “Honestly? No. Not every day.”
My son blinked. He’d clearly expected the happy speech. I told him some days I roll out of bed with a stiff neck, grade 27 rough drafts that all need the same correction about thesis statements, forget to buy milk so I can’t make my morning coffee the next day, and by 8 p.m. I’m just sitting on the couch staring at the wall, thinking this whole adult thing is kind of overrated. I told him about Lila: she works 20 hours a week at the downtown coffee shop to help her mom pay rent after her parents split last year, she’s applying to college and has no idea how she’ll cover tuition, and all she sees online is people talking about how purposeful and joyful their lives are. She told me she feels like she’s faking being okay, like everyone else got a memo she missed about why life is supposed to be great.
The first thing I learned from these two conversations is that you have to start with a straight, simple check-in. When a kid asks this question, don’t dance around the hard stuff. I looked my son in the eye and said, “First off: are you feeling like hurting yourself right now?” It takes 10 seconds, it doesn’t put the idea in their head, and it rules out the emergency before you keep talking. Both my son and Lila said no—they weren’t in crisis. They just had a question no adult would answer honestly.
The second thing I learned is that we do more harm than good when we pretend every day is a gift worth celebrating. Most of us put on a happy front for kids, so they grow up thinking their own quiet discontent, their tired days, their moments of wondering what the point is, mean they’re broken. That’s why they ask the question in the first place: they’re trying to figure out if they’re normal.
Instead of giving a speech, I pointed out to my son that the worth of life isn’t something you feel 24/7. It’s not a big grand high you’re supposed to chase. It’s just the tiny bits of good that stick to the bad days. Last week, for example, I had one of those terrible everything-goes-wrong days: I forgot my lunch, the copier broke when I needed to print 30 tests, my daughter forgot her soccer cleats and I had to drive 20 minutes back home to get them, and I was cranky the whole day. But that night, we ordered greasy takeout pizza, and we rewatched that old 90s Ninja Turtles movie, and my son laughed so hard he snort-laughed, and I stood in the doorway for a minute and thought, okay, this is why. It wasn’t the whole day that was worth it. Just that 30 seconds.
I started a tiny, low-effort practice with Lila after that first conversation: we end our 5-minute weekly check-ins with naming one tiny thing that didn’t suck that day. No big gratitude speeches, no “I’m so thankful for my friends” stuff. Just small: “The barista gave me free vanilla syrup” “My math class didn’t have a pop quiz” “The bus was on time for once.” I started doing the same at my dinner table, right after we clear the plates. No journaling, no pressure, just one quick line from anyone who wants to share.
After we talked that Tuesday, my son threw the tennis ball for the dog, then grabbed his backpack and headed to his room to finish his math homework. We didn’t have some big dramatic heart-to-heart that fixed all his stress about AP tests or missing his best friend who moved away last fall. I still don’t have all the answers. Some days I still ask myself the same question, honestly. Some weeks are just a long slog of work and chores and minor inconveniences, and there’s no big grand moment that makes it all click.
Last night at dinner, though, my son was the first one to chime in with his “didn’t suck” line. “My AP Bio review ended 10 minutes early, and the kid who sits next to me brought glazed donuts,” he said, then went back to scrolling his phone under the table. It’s not a perfect fix. It doesn’t answer the big question once and for all. But it’s honest. And that’s what kids need, more than any pep talk: permission to ask the question, and an answer that doesn’t lie about how life actually works.
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