At the Threshold: A Mother's View from the Edge of Adolescence
Currently, I have found myself navigating middle school from a new angle—as a parent. My son is wrapping up his first year, and while you might expect anxiety, I felt mostly confident. He’s surrounded by a solid group of friends, and I trust his school to support both his academic journey and his well-being. Still, being on this side of things comes with its own set of surprises: how completely and utterly unprepared I am for my son to go through puberty.
Although I have a younger brother, I grew up with my sisters, so I consider myself fairly well-versed in the female progression through adolescence—or at least I think I am. We’ll see how accurate that assumption is when it’s my daughter’s turn. Working with middle school students has helped me pick up on the subtle cues and behavioral shifts that come with this age group. But when it comes to my own child, it’s a whole different ballgame. I often find myself unsure, second-guessing what I thought I knew.
We’re still in the early stages, and honestly, I don’t love the feeling of being unprepared for what’s ahead—but that’s parenthood, right? We read all the baby books, stocked the nursery, followed the advice—and still found ourselves in moments thinking, WTF just happened? Raising kids isn’t a one-size-fits-all journey. What works for one child might completely miss the mark for another.
As my son begins his transition into young adulthood, I’m hoping I can lean on what I’ve learned from years of observing adolescent body language in the classroom. Maybe those subtle cues—the slouched shoulders, the fidgeting hands, the quick eye rolls—will help me better understand what he’s feeling, especially when words fall short. It’s a different kind of learning curve now, but one I’m determined to face with patience, empathy, and understanding.
Adolescence is scary! It’s an emotional whirlwind—one minute we’re laughing, the next we’re crying, and half the time we don’t even know why. Trying to understand hormones is like trying to read a book in a language you don’t speak—confusing, unpredictable, and sometimes downright exhausting.
As adults, we can look back and recognize the chaos for what it was: growth, discomfort, change. But for kids in the thick of it, it’s all-consuming. And for parents? It’s like being handed a script in the middle of a play we didn’t audition for. We want to help, to offer wisdom and calm, but sometimes we’re just as bewildered as they are.
With that being said, as I begin my motherhood journey into the unknowns of teenage boyhood, I know there will be questions, doubts, and moments where I wonder, What could I have done differently? I can already sense the shift—his body language tells me when he’s not okay. It’s in the way he walks through the door after school, in the shortness of his responses, in the quiet lethargy that settles over him some days.
We’ve had conversations about fluctuating emotions and how it’s okay not to always understand what we’re feeling. I’ve reminded him—just as I remind myself—that emotions don’t always make sense, and that’s normal. My hope is that I can continue to be a steady presence for him, guiding him through this confusing, complicated stage of life. I want him to know he’s not alone, and that even when things feel overwhelming, he’s still growing into the best version of himself.
Still, I worry. I worry that I’ll make too many mistakes, that I’ll miss the signs that he needs us but doesn’t know how to ask for help. That I’ll assume he’s fine when, deep down, he’s struggling. But isn’t that part of growing up—for both of us? This stage isn’t just about his growth; it’s about mine too. I’m learning to let go a little, to listen more carefully, to read between the lines. I’m learning that even with all my experience as a teacher, being a parent is its own kind of education—one filled with trial and error, second guesses, and quiet hope.
As this new chapter of motherhood continues, my hope is simple: to be there for my son in every way he needs—mentally, emotionally, and physically. I want to take what I’ve learned as a middle school teacher and apply it at home, using that insight to better understand and support him as we ride the adolescent rollercoaster together. I know I won’t get everything right, but I’m committed to showing up, paying attention, and growing right alongside him.