Screens, Shrugs, and the Search for Worth

Sometimes, I worry about the young people these days. Not in a scolding way, mind you. I taught for thirty-five years; I’ve seen generations come and go. But this feels…different. It's not about their work ethic, or their respect for others. Those things, thankfully, haven’t changed *that* much. It’s a quiet restlessness, a dissatisfaction that seems to simmer just beneath the surface. And I can't help but wonder if these little screens they’re all glued to have something to do with it.

I watched Eli start first grade just last week. A sweet boy, Eli. He’s got his father’s dimples and his grandmother’s stubborn streak. But even seeing him, so excited for his big day, I noticed something. He was documenting it all, of course. Pictures, videos – everything carefully curated for his online audience. Marcus, his father, got a bit exasperated, gently reminding him that maybe he should just *be* in the moment, instead of performing it. And Eli just shrugged. A little shrug that spoke volumes.

It’s not the sharing itself that troubles me. My grandchildren all share pictures. We even post some on Facebook, Jerry and I. It’s the *need* for that validation, that constant stream of “likes” and “hearts.” It’s as if their worth is tied to how many people approve of their every move. When I was a girl, if you wanted to be noticed, you had to *do* something. Bake a prize-winning pie, win a spelling bee, build a treehouse that everyone wanted to play in. Now? You just post a picture.

I remember when Lily arrived. She flew in from overseas, a whole new life unfolding before her. Kevin and Adrienne were simply exhausted - they looked permanently weary, which is understandable. I cooked for them for a week, tried to make things easier. Jerry just sat on the couch with Lily, holding her. He looked so peaceful, so content, just being present with her. No filters, no angles, no need to broadcast it to the world. Just a grandfather and his granddaughter, sharing a quiet moment. And that, to me, felt more meaningful than anything that could be captured in a photograph.

I’ve noticed it even in the adults, this expectation. A colleague of Kevin’s recently mentioned a project he’d spearheaded, talking about it with a subtle defensiveness. He seemed more concerned with how it *looked* than with the actual accomplishment itself. I wondered if he felt he needed to prove something, to earn a round of online applause. It’s a strange thing, to feel the need to justify your existence to strangers.

It breaks my heart a little, to think that these young people, these sweet children, are growing up believing that their value is determined by something as fleeting and superficial as a social media post. It’s as if they're chasing a phantom, a reflection of something that isn't real. And when that reflection fails to live up to their expectations – and it *always* will – they’re left feeling disappointed, frustrated, even angry.

When I was a child, summers were long and lazy. We spent hours building forts in the woods, catching fireflies in jars, just…being. There was a quiet joy in those simple moments, a sense of contentment that wasn’t dependent on external validation. I worry that these children are missing out on that. I worry that they’re growing up in a world where everything is performative, where nothing feels real.

Jerry and I were driving back from Ponte Vedra last November. The leaves were ablaze with color, a riot of reds and golds against the clear blue sky. It was a breathtaking drive, one of those moments you just want to soak in. I said to Jerry, “I think retirement is going to be good.” And he just smiled, that knowing smile of his, and said, “I’ve been waiting for you to notice.” I hope that these young people, too, will one day realize the beauty of a life lived offline, a life grounded in genuine connection, a life free from the relentless pursuit of online approval.