09/20/2025
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I saw him for exactly seven minutes today. Seven minutes that consisted of a grunt, a head nod, and a request for money. Seven minutes where I simultaneously wanted to hug him and shake him, where love and frustration danced their familiar dance.
My son is a good kid. No, scratch that. My son is an exceptional human being. But you'd never know it from our conversations, which have been reduced to monosyllabic exchanges and text messages that feel more like logistical coordination than actual communication.
He's kind. I know this because his basketball coach tells me how he's the first one to help a struggling teammate. Because his younger sister says he stands up for her at school. Because I've seen the way he carefully helps his grandmother with her groceries, his touch gentle and patient.
He's responsible. His grades are solid. He shows up on time. His room might look like a tornado hit it, but his commitments? Those are always met. He's never missed a practice, never forgotten a deadline, never left someone waiting.
But ask him about his day? About his feelings? About anything beneath the surface? And I'm met with a wall of silence so thick I could climb it.
I remember when he was little, how words would tumble out of him like an endless waterfall. How he'd narrate every moment of his day, how he'd cry about the smallest injustice, how his emotions were always, always visible.
Now, nothing.
Some days, I feel like I'm parenting a shadow. A very tall, occasionally hungry shadow who leaves dirty dishes in the strangest places and whose communication primarily happens through head nods and text messages.
Other moms warn me this is normal. "Teenage boys," they say, with a knowing smile. But knowing it's normal doesn't make the silence any easier to navigate.
I've learned to read the subtext. A grunt when he comes home means he's tired but okay. A specific type of head nod indicates he's had a good day. The way he leaves his phone charger in the kitchen is his way of saying "I'm glad to be home."
Last week, I overheard him on the phone with a friend. The conversation was rich, animated, full of jokes and stories. He was articulate, funny, engaged. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of the communicative child I used to know.
I find myself jealous of his friends.
I'm learning that love isn't always about words.
Sometimes it's about showing up.
About having dinner ready.
About making sure his favorite sweatshirt is clean.
About being a consistent, steady presence even when he seems determined to orbit as far from me as possible.
I know he loves me. I know this not through declarations, but through a million tiny actions. The way he'll suddenly ask if I need help carrying groceries. How he'll text me his location without being asked.
The rare moments when he'll sit near me, not talking, but present.
Other parents talk about trying to get their teenagers to open up. My challenge is different. I'm learning the art of being available without being pushy.
Of creating space for communication without demanding it.
Of trusting that the connection is there, even when it's invisible.
A friend once told me that parenting teenagers is like trying to hug a cactus. You know there's softness somewhere underneath all those defensive spines, but getting to it requires patience, strategy, and a willingness to get a few scratches.
So I'll keep showing up. I'll keep making his favorite meals. I'll keep asking about his day, knowing I'll likely get a grunt in response. I'll keep loving him exactly as he is—communicative or not.
Because underneath the silence, I know my son. And he is remarkable.
