Our fifteen-year-old is a porcupine. Not literally, of course—but she does a remarkably good impersonation.
Over the past couple of years, she has become quieter, more solitary, and increasingly spiky. At dinner, when we ask how her day went, we often get monosyllabic grunts. If she fails to follow through on something, or acts unkindly or thoughtlessly, almost any comment from us is heard as judgment or criticism. After dinner, she disappears into her room, headphones on, doing homework or texting. Her light stays on long after we call goodnight through the closed door, and in the morning she heads off to school with barely a wave.
Our role has changed so much from when she was little. Back then, she assumed that we were on her side. She trusted us to guide her through life, and we did our best to earn that trust.
But what is our role now, when so much of what we say is met with suspicion, annoyance, or disinterest, and whatever is happening inside of her is hidden behind a fearsome array of quills? Is she doing fine in there, or struggling? Is she working things out on her own, or falling down some terrifying rabbit hole? Do our words still penetrate, or do they simply end up impaled on the spikes?
Recently, I came across a study in JAMA Pediatrics that reminded me why it matters to keep trying. Researchers at Columbia University followed more than 7,000 American adolescents into adulthood. Those who reported stronger family connections as teenagers went on to have better social connections as adults.
That may matter more than ever. We are living through what has been called an epidemic of loneliness. Social isolation is associated with poorer health and shorter lives, while strong social connection is among the most consistent predictors of happiness and life satisfaction. Our relationships do more than help us live longer; they help make life worth living. And our earliest relationships—with our families—may help shape our capacity to build others later.
But what can parents do when teenagers seem increasingly sealed inside their own worlds of friends, phones, and kid culture? How do we help protect them from isolation when they seem increasingly isolated even from us?
Years ago, a psychiatry professor told me that many of our deepest personal struggles become entrenched because they are self-reinforcing and progressively isolating. As children and adolescents, we develop ways to protect ourselves from emotional pain. Some are useful; others can become traps. Anxiety leads us to avoid what frightens us, and avoidance makes the world feel more dangerous. Withdrawal protects us from rejection but also deprives us of connection. A hunger for praise can make ordinary disagreement feel like an attack.
Over time, patterns like these can harden. We gravitate toward people and situations that confirm the story we already tell ourselves, while avoiding the ones that challenge it. That is one reason a parent’s voice still matters, even when a teenager appears not to want to hear it. We can offer another perspective before those patterns become deeply rooted.
So how do we do that when everything we say seems to provoke resistance, defensiveness, or irritation?
The answer, I think, is not to shut up and walk away. Nor is it to lecture harder. It is to keep offering whatever connection our children will accept: a ride, a meal, a question asked without interrogation, a joke, a hand briefly placed on a shoulder. And when we need to say something important—especially something they may not want to hear—we can try to say it not as criticism, but as an expression of faith: faith in who they are beneath the defensiveness, and in who they are capable of becoming.
I once heard that our job as parents is not simply to tell our children what to do. It is to know the song of their hearts, and to sing it back to them when they forget how it goes.
You can’t hug a porcupine that doesn’t want to be hugged. But you can sing to one. Even if she pretends not to hear, she will know who is singing. And perhaps, somewhere beneath the quills, she will still recognize the song.
Jeff Lee sings to any creature who’ll listen, in Seattle, WA
