09/01/2025
I walked into my house yesterday and heard nothing. Absolute silence. My teenager was home—his backpack tossed on the chair confirmed it—but there was no sign of life. No hello. No footsteps. No music blaring from behind a closed door.
I remember when that same hallway echoed with "Mom! Mom! MOM!" the moment my key turned in the lock. When small feet would race toward me, stories tumbling out before I could even set down my bags.
Now I have a different reality.
I stood at the bottom of the stairs and felt a wave of loneliness wash over me. I've been physically alone many times in my life, but there's something uniquely isolating about being emotionally alone while sharing space with teens you love more than life itself.
When my son was younger, his bedroom door stood open, a constant invitation. His world was accessible, transparent. I knew his friends, his fears, his dreams. I knew that dinosaurs had given way to space, which had given way to sports. I knew which songs made him dance and which homework made him cry.
Now his door remains firmly closed.
The boundary is clear. His world has walls now, and I'm often on the outside.
I
t's been three days since we've had a conversation that went beyond logistics: "Need a ride tomorrow?" "What time is practice over?" "Did you submit that college application?" Our interactions have become transactional, reduced to the essentials of managing a shared household.
The days of spontaneously shared thoughts and feelings seem like artifacts from another life.
Last night, I made his favorite pasta dish. He emerged from his room long enough to fill a plate, said "Thanks," and disappeared again. He meant it, he is not ungrateful. It's just that his focus, his life, is now largely someplace else.
I sat at our kitchen table alone, scrolling through old photos on my phone—images of a smiling child who once couldn't wait to tell me about his day.
I know this is normal. I know this is healthy. I know this is exactly what should happen as he builds his identity separate from mine. My head understands the developmental necessity of this distance.
But my heart feels the empty space like a physical ache.
The loneliness of parenting teenagers isn't just about their physical absence—it's about watching them process their biggest moments with someone else. It's about being demoted from confidant to bystander. It's about knowing they're struggling but waiting for an invitation to help that may never come.
Yesterday, I drove my son and his friend to practice. I was invisible in the front seat as they talked about a party, relationship drama, college choices—all the significant things happening in his life that he hasn't shared with me. I caught glimpses of my child in that conversation, versions of him I rarely get to see anymore.
It is hard to talk to other parents about this. Parents of teens seem to have retreated. We don't want to talk about their problems or how hard it can be to parent at this stage. Either it feels like an invasion of privacy, or it is just too painful.
Some days, I stand in the grocery store, staring at the boxes of cereal, wondering which one he prefers now. When did I stop knowing? When did the mental inventory of preferences I once maintained become outdated?
Tonight, I knocked on his door with a plate of cookies. He looked up from his computer, surprised. For fifteen precious minutes, he let me sit on the edge of his bed while he talked about a coding project he was excited about. It wasn't the deep heart-to-heart I sometimes crave, but it was connection. A small window opened briefly before closing again.
I'm learning that parenting teenagers means embracing these moments when they come—the unexpected car conversation, the late-night kitchen encounter, the rare request for advice. I'm learning to be ready without being needy, available without hovering.
Tomorrow, his bedroom door will probably remain closed. Our conversations will likely return to their functional minimum.
The loneliness will settle back around my shoulders like a familiar weight.
But I'll remember those fifteen minutes. I'll hold onto the knowledge that behind that closed door, he's still there—my child, becoming himself. And sometimes, when I least expect it, he still lets me in.
This is the paradox of parenting teenagers: they are simultaneously present and absent, ours and not ours. We are more alone with them than we ever were without them.
And yet, I wouldn't trade this lonely season for anything. Because these quiet hallways, these closed doors, these brief glimpses into their evolving worlds—they're signs that we're doing exactly what we're supposed to do: raising children who can exist without us.
Even if that means we sometimes exist without them while they're still under our roof.
