Why Is It So Hard to Talk to Teens? (A Mom’s Real Talk)

Let me paint you a picture: I tiptoe into my teenage daughter’s room—maybe to check in, maybe just to remember what color her carpet is under that mountain of laundry. Before I can even get a word out, she hits me with-

“Why are you here?” in that classic, half-whiny, half-defensive tone only teens have mastered. You know the one: “I’m trying not to be rude, but please, Mom, get out of my space!”

I just smile. I do a little slow spin, scanning the room (and, yes, maybe mentally noting the snack wrappers under her desk). Silence. She tries again, this time with a little more edge:

“Why are you here? There’s nothing in my room you need or want!” Oh, the drama.

Finally, I give her my best “I’m not here to interrogate you” voice: “I just came to see what you’re up to.” Simple, honest, and—let’s be real—barely scratching the surface of what’s really going on.

Why Is Talking to Teens So Tricky?If you’re a mom, dad, or anyone who’s ever tried to have a real conversation with a teenager, you know it can feel like trying to hug a porcupine. But why is it so hard? Let me break it down, mom-to-mom:

1. The Hormone Hurricane: Teenagers are basically emotional rollercoasters with Wi-Fi. Their bodies and brains are changing at warp speed, and sometimes, even they don’t know why they’re suddenly annoyed by the sound of your breathing. It’s not personal—it’s puberty.

2. Mission: Independence: Remember when they wanted you to hold their hand everywhere? Now, they’re desperate to prove they can do it all themselves. Pushing you away is part of the job description. It’s not about you—it’s about them figuring out who they are (even if that means slamming a few doors along the way).

3. Lost in Translation: Let’s be honest, sometimes our “helpful advice” sounds a lot like criticism to them. And their “I’m fine” can mean anything from “I had a great day” to “I’m plotting a dramatic exit to my best friend’s house.” Communication is a two-way street, and sometimes we’re driving in different directions.

4. The Tech Barrier: Between TikTok, group chats, and whatever new app just dropped, teens are living in a digital universe. It’s hard to compete with the constant buzz of notifications. Sometimes, you have to fight for their attention—and sometimes, you have to meet them where they are (yes, even if that means texting them from the next room).

​5. Culture Clashes: Whether it’s generational, cultural, or just the difference between “back in my day” and “nowadays,” misunderstandings are bound to happen. What seems normal to us can feel like a foreign language to them.

So, What’s a Mom to Do? Here’s the good news: Communication isn’t a lost cause. It’s a skill, just like riding a bike (except the bike is on fire and you’re in a tornado). With a little patience and a lot of humor, you can build bridges—even if they’re shaky at first.

• Practice active listening: Sometimes, they just want you to hear them, not fix them.
• Be patient: The walls will come down—eventually.
• Find common ground: Whether it’s a shared love of bad reality TV or midnight snacks, small connections matter.
• Keep showing up: Even when they act like they don’t want you around, deep down, they do.

Motherhood isn’t for the faint of heart, especially in the teen years. But trust me, you’re not alone—and one day, they’ll thank you for caring enough to walk into their messy room (even if they never admit it out loud).

I pass through darkness with every fretful step,
Horrid sounds surround—the beat of life’s regret.
I grope and stumble, hands flailing in the night,
Memories of unfeigned love refuse to leave my sight.
Oh, how I wish for another life, a time of my own design,
Yet I’m caught in a maze of doubt and hatred, never truly mine.
Still, I press onward, my path never seeming quite clear,
Over death, over fear, persecution always near.
Confusion swirls in this place where no soul I meet,
My wayward journey bound by prisoned shodden feet.
I drag these weary soles, heavy with defeat,
Longing to escape the echo of my shodden feet.
I tug and pull as my spirit strains to be free,
Shackled by shadows of the mirrored, broken me.
Yet deep inside, a stubborn ember starts to glow,
A whisper of hope rising, refusing to let go.
Though the way is tangled and the night is long,
I’ll forge ahead, determined, fierce and strong.
No matter how lost, I will not accept retreat--
I will find my dawn, even on these broken shodden feet.

It’s been six months since the papers made it final,
But it’s been two years since he truly left.
Still, I wake with the ache--
My heart splintered, my life in pieces on the floor.
I carry the weight of failure,
As if every crack in my family was my doing,
As if I was the one who let it all slip away.
Love stories sting--
Even a stray commercial or a silly romcom
Can unravel me,
Tears burning,
Hands pressed to my mouth to catch the cries
That threaten to escape--
Cries of shame, of pain, of a sadness so deep
It echoes.
I mourn what I lost--
Not just a husband,
But the dream, the warmth, the sense of home.
The wound is raw,
Tender to every memory,
Still bleeding beneath the surface.
I feel abandoned,
Cast aside,
Left to wonder if I was ever worthy--
Worthy of love, of being cherished,
Of being seen and chosen.
I look back and see only shadows--
A life of quiet heartbreak,
A love that was never truly mine.
I look ahead and the future feels empty,
A long road without a hand to hold,
No promise of being loved
With the kind of devotion I once prayed for.
Sometimes I wish I could silence the longing,
Shrink the ache for a love that lifts and fills--
But I am who I am,
A woman who yearns for passion, for laughter,
For a love that feels like coming home.
Freedom was supposed to be a gift,
But some days it feels like a cage--
A wide, echoing space
Where loneliness sits beside me.
I search for hope in the emptiness,
Asking the night,
Where is my future?
Will I always walk alone?
But somewhere, beneath the ache,
A whisper stirs--
I must have faith.
I am trying,
Even when my heart is bleeding,
Even when it feels like no one sees.
Maybe healing is slow,
Maybe hope is quiet--
But I am still here,
Still breathing,
Still believing that I am worthy,
That love—some kind of love--
Will find me again.
And until then,
I hold my own hand,
And let the light in,
One small, brave moment at a time.