The 7 Questions Parents Ask Me in Private

And why they're afraid to ask them out loud.

Last week, after a meeting with an executive team, one of the participants asked if we could have a short debrief.

I said sure. We all want that inside edge, the insight that usually takes two or three meetings to uncover.

She looked around to make sure no one else was listening.

Then she asked me if it was normal that her son sleeps sixteen hours a day.

I asked how long it had been happening.

"Three months."

I asked if she'd talked to anyone about it.

"You're the first person I've said it out loud to."

Three months. Zero conversations.

She was afraid of what noticing might mean.

This happens almost every single time I speak to a group.

A parent waits until everyone leaves. Until the room is empty. Until they're sure no one's watching.

Then they ask me the question they've been holding in their chest for weeks.

I'm not a licensed practitioner. I'm not a therapist. I'm a parent who lived through what they're afraid of.

And maybe that's exactly why they feel safe asking me.

Someone with lived experience feels easier to talk to. I don't judge. I commend people for opening up, because it's not easy, especially in a society where everyone instantly arrives at their own conclusions.

They don't ask because they don't know the answer.

They ask because they're terrified they do, and they’re afraid of confirming it. With that comes fear.

Here's what they ask me. And why they have a hard time asking anyone else.

"Is it normal for them to be this tired all the time?"

You hesitate because teens are supposed to be tired. Growth spurts. School stress. Late nights. Everyone says it's normal.

But you're asking because this feels different.

They used to bounce back. Now they don't. They're not just sleeping in. They're sleeping through. Through plans. Through things they used to care about. Through life.

You're wondering if this is fatigue or withdrawal.

Here's what I know: you know your kid's baseline. You know what tired used to look like. If this feels different, it probably is.

Tired kids rest and recharge. Depressed kids rest and stay empty.

You're noticing the difference. To a parent that’s scary as hell.

"Should I be worried about how much time they spend alone?"

You hesitate because you don't want to be a helicopter parent. You've read the articles. You know teens need space. Privacy. Room to figure themselves out.

But you're asking because they're not just alone. It’s like they're gone.

They used to come down for dinner. Used to sit in the living room even if they were on their phone. Used to have friends over, or go out, or at least complain about being bored.

Now they're in their room. Door closed. Headphones on. All the time.

You're wondering when needing space becomes isolation.

Here's what I know: alone time is healthy. But if they're avoiding everyone, including the people they used to want to be around. That’s different.

It's not about the time. It's about the pattern.

"They say they're fine. Should I believe them?"

You hesitate because you don't want to project your own anxiety. You don't want to create a problem that isn't there. You don't want to be the parent who makes everything about feelings.

But you're asking because your gut is screaming and their words are saying the opposite.

They look exhausted. They're skipping meals. Their grades are slipping. They're irritable, distant, checked out.

But when you ask, they say they're fine.

You're wondering if you're allowed to trust your instinct over their words.

Here's what I know: kids tell the truth and protect you at the same time. "Fine" can mean both.

They might believe they're fine. They might not have words for what's happening. They might be trying to shield you from worry. They might be testing whether you'll push past the easy answer.

"Fine" is a deflection.

You're allowed to notice the gap between what they say and what you see.

"How do I bring it up without making it worse?"

You hesitate because you're terrified of saying the wrong thing. Of sounding accusatory. Of pushing them further away. Of making them shut down completely.

You've rehearsed the conversation in your head a hundred times and it always ends badly.

So you say nothing. And hope they'll come to you when they're ready.

But you're asking because the silence is starting to feel worse than the risk.

Here's what I know: there is no perfect script. You will probably say something clumsy. You might stumble. They might get defensive.

Do it anyway. It’s not going to be perfect. Tell them that.

Silence doesn't protect them. It protects your comfort.

Clumsy care is still care.

Start simple. "I've noticed you seem tired lately. I'm worried. Can we talk?"

You don't need to have answers. You need to show up. You don’t need to have answers. You need to listen.

"What if I'm overreacting?"

You hesitate because you don't want to be the anxious parent. The one who panics over nothing. The one who wastes a therapist's time. The one other parents whisper about.

You're worried people will think you're dramatic.

But you're asking because something feels wrong and you can't shake it.

Here's what I know: overreacting looks like getting help you didn't need. Underreacting looks like waiting until you're out of options.

I'll take overreacting every time.

You're not asking because you want to be right. You're asking because you want to be wrong.

That's not paranoia. That's love.

"When do I stop waiting for it to pass?"

You hesitate because you're hopeful it's a phase. A rough patch. Something they'll grow out of. You don't want to overreact. You don't want to overstep.

But you're asking because it's been weeks. Maybe months. And it's not getting better.

You're wondering how long is too long.

Here's what I know: if you're asking this question, you've probably already waited.

Phases shift. They have good days mixed in. You see glimpses of your kid.

This isn't that.

You're not seeing glimpses anymore. You're seeing someone who's learning to live smaller.

Stop waiting.

"What if they hate me for this?"

You hesitate because you're terrified of damaging the relationship. Of becoming the enemy. Of being the reason they stop talking to you altogether.

You're wondering if their anger is worth their safety.

Here's what I know: they might be mad. They might slam doors. They might say things that hurt.

But they'll be alive to be mad.

I've sat with parents who didn't push. Who respected the boundary. Who waited for their kid to be ready.

Their kids never got ready.

I'd rather you deal with anger than regret. I know this deep-seeded pain firsthand.

Why you ask these questions quietly

You ask me in private because these questions feel disloyal. Because you're afraid other parents will judge you. Because you don't want to be dramatic. Because you're hoping I'll tell you you're wrong.

Mostly, you're hoping I'll tell you you're right.

You want permission to trust what you're already noticing.

Here it is: you're not imagining it.

The fact that you're asking means you're paying attention.

That's not paranoia. That's not projection.

That's you doing your job.

Now do the next part.

If you're still not sure what to do next, start here.

Book a parent consultation. Talk to their school counsellor. Call a teen mental health line. Find a therapist who works with adolescents. Join our parent support group.

You don't have to diagnose them. You don't have to fix them.

You just have to start.

You don't have to figure this out alone.