Back to school?

Is hindsight affecting your communication?

Sara: “Dad… can I just… can I just say something without you telling me to cheer up?

I know you’re excited for me. I know this is supposed to be my big year — prom, graduation, all that. But I… I can’t stop feeling like… like I don’t want it to start.

It’s not because I’m lazy or because I don’t care. It’s just—” (she swallows hard, eyes darting away) “—my chest already feels tight every morning. Like someone’s pressing down on me. Even when nothing’s happening, I feel like I can’t breathe all the way in.

And my brain… it won’t stop. It’s like… like I’m watching the whole year on fast-forward — tests, grades, people looking at me, the last day of school, saying goodbye, not knowing what’s next — and it all just piles up in my head at once.

I know you think I’ll make memories, but it doesn’t feel like that for me. It feels like walking into this giant storm that everyone else thinks is fun but… I’m just trying not to drown in it.

And—” (her voice cracks, and she looks down at her hands twisting in her lap) “—I feel alone in it. Everyone else is… laughing, making plans, talking about how fun it’ll be. And I’m over here pretending I’m fine so no one thinks I’m weird. But I’m not fine. I feel like something bad is coming. I’ve felt that way all summer.

I… I wish you could feel it, just for one day. Not because I want you to feel bad, but so you’d understand that I’m not just being dramatic. I’m not trying to ruin senior year. I just… don’t know how to make this feeling stop.

It’s like I’m holding my breath, waiting for something… and I don’t even know what it is. But it’s always there.”*

Soooo, how do we handle this without our kids shutting down:

When your daughter comes to you and says she’s dreading school, the instinct as a father is often to fix it. You want to reassure her, tell her it will be fine, remind her of the good parts she has to look forward to. But sometimes, that instinct to solve things quickly can make her feel even more alone, because it tells her—without meaning to—that her feelings don’t make sense.

What she’s telling you is not about school being “hard” in the normal way. She’s describing something constant, something heavy that lives with her all day, even when nothing is happening. It’s in her chest, in her breathing, in her thoughts that loop endlessly. This is not a mood that can be snapped out of; it’s an undercurrent that colors every part of her day.

The most important thing you can do is to listen without rushing in to change the subject or convince her to feel differently. Let her finish every sentence, even the ones that sound irrational to you. If she says she feels like something bad is coming, don’t try to prove it isn’t. Instead, acknowledge that the feeling is real for her. A simple “I can see this is really heavy for you” does more than a speech about how she should feel lucky to be a senior.

She needs you to understand that your presence matters more than your solutions. You can’t erase the dread, but you can stand beside her in it. If she sees that you can hear her without judgment, she will come to you again instead of hiding it. If you push her to focus on prom or football games, she’ll just pretend to be okay to avoid disappointing you, and the conversation will close.

Ask questions that show you want to understand, not interrogate. “What does it feel like for you when you wake up in the morning?” is better than “Why are you worrying about this?” Try to picture her life the way she describes it, even if it’s not your reality.

Most importantly, don’t make her anxiety a problem to solve in one talk. It’s not going to disappear because you had one heart-to-heart. Keep the door open every day. A simple check-in at night, even a short “How was your head today?” lets her know you remember and care. Over time, that steady, quiet presence will help her more than any pep talk could.

If she’s struggling to the point where daily life feels impossible, help her find someone to talk to—a counselor, a therapist, someone outside the family who can teach her ways to manage those feelings. But let her know this doesn’t mean she’s broken or weak. It means she’s human and worth caring for.

Your role isn’t to drag her into excitement about senior year. Your role is to be the safe place she can land when the noise of the world feels too loud. Sometimes, that’s what keeps a kid from getting lost in their own head—they know there’s one person who won’t try to turn their storm into sunshine, but will simply stand with them until the clouds break on their own.