A few weeks ago, I got a letter in the actual mail from one of my twin boys, who’s wrapping up his junior year of high school. Their English teacher assigns this task each year: write four letters—one to a stranger, one to someone outside the family, one to a family member (excluding parents), and one to a parent. I was the lucky recipient. His brother wrote to his dad, so we each got a keepsake to treasure. Most of my letter will stay just for me. But his final paragraph—a request, a warning, a plea—hit me so hard I knew I needed to share it.
Here’s what he wrote by hand: “As you continue to parent [my fourth-grade brother], I want to briefly reflect on my academic career and the challenges I have faced. I didn’t have much trouble academically until I had a device. I think I have a desire to do great things, but often not the drive to overcome the obstacles that stand in my way to achieve them. A great example of an obstacle I continue to face is technology, specifically devices. Due to the lack of regulation by y’all, I became accustomed to the dopamine hit I got from devices. At this point it’s on me to control myself, and your role has ended. But this began when I was a much younger person, especially in the 6th and 7th grades. I know y’all raised us in literally the first generation to face these issues. And the fact is, what we know about how to manage technology and its harmful effects are vastly different than they were seven years ago when we were his age. Even if he hates you for it, all I ask is that you try really hard with my little brother to manage his device time.” Gut punch. Tears. Gratitude. Pride. It wasn’t about blame, it was about grace. It was a hand reaching backward for his little brother. A do-better-with-him-than-you-did-with-me moment of love. And it arrived just in time.
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