By Amanda Graham

On the hidden grief of childhoods we never had, relationships that end, children who leave, identities we outgrow, and why unrecognised grief can hurt so deeply.

Perhaps grief is not the price we pay for death. Perhaps it is the price we pay for having loved, belonged, hoped, and imagined that something might last.

The death of actress Hayden Panettiere at just 36 has inevitably prompted sadness, questions and, unfortunately, speculation. Her death is still being investigated, and none of us can or should attempt to construct an explanation for it from the fragments of her life that were visible publicly.

But something about Hayden’s story has made me think about grief. Not simply the grief surrounding her death, or even the grief she herself spoke about following the sudden death of her younger brother Jansen in 2023. I mean the grief that can quietly accumulate across a lifetime.

The grief we don’t necessarily recognise as grief at all.

Hayden began working before she was old enough to understand what work was. She was acting from infancy and recently spoke strikingly about her childhood career, saying that she felt she had been groomed into the industry and that, growing up, saying no had not really been an option. She described the people-pleasing and lack of agency that accompanied those early years.

And it makes me wonder, not diagnose, not conclude, but wonder, whether there can be grief for a childhood we never had. I have often wondered if I had been told I was adopted from early childhood, rather than finding out at eighteen, would my childhood have been so different? That is another story.

Question is, can somebody grieve the ordinary? The days nobody photographed. The mistakes nobody reported. The afternoons spent doing absolutely nothing. The freedom to decide that you no longer want to perform. The experience of being valued and worshipped simply because you are a child, rather than because you can produce something adults find entertaining or profitable.

Perhaps there are losses we cannot grieve at the time because we do not yet know they are losses.

Only later, when life brings another separation, another ending, another disappointment, do those earlier losses begin to stir and, perhaps that is why grief can be so difficult to understand.

Grief does not always arrive after a funeral

We tend to associate grief with death. Somebody dies. We grieve. There are rituals around it. Flowers arrive. People call. We are allowed to cry. Society acknowledges that something important has happened. But there are many other losses for which there is no funeral.

I see this often in my work. The person who has spent thirty years building a career and suddenly retires. Everyone congratulates them. “How wonderful. Now you can relax.”

Yet they wake on Monday morning and nobody needs them to be anywhere. Their diary is empty. Their professional identity has disappeared almost overnight. They may have lost status, routine, colleagues, purpose, intellectual stimulation and a version of themselves that existed for decades.

And nobody calls it grief.

The marriage that ends may have been unhappy for years, and yet divorce can still produce profound mourning. We do not only grieve the person. We grieve the imagined future.

The Christmases we thought we would have. The house we imagined growing old in. The grandchildren we imagined welcoming together. The version of us that existed inside that relationship.

Again: grief.

There is a term in psychology, ambiguous loss, developed through the work of Pauline Boss, which helps us understand losses that are real but lack the clarity and social recognition surrounding death. Divorce, migration and profound changes within relationships can all produce forms of loss that are difficult to resolve precisely because there is no clean ending.

Sometimes the person is still alive. Sometimes the life is still there. But something we loved has gone.

The empty bedroom

Perhaps one of the least acknowledged forms of grief I encounter is among parents.

For twenty or thirty years, parenting can become the organising principle of a person’s life. Meals. School runs. Laundry. Appointments. Homework. Sports fixtures. University applications. Worry. Negotiation. Arguments. Birthdays. Christmas. Sitting awake at two in the morning wondering where they are.

And then one day the bedroom is empty. We call it the empty nest, almost affectionately. But for some parents it is far more profound than that. Particularly for the parent who has unconsciously sacrificed much of themselves to raising their children, the question becomes:

Who am I? now that you don’t need me in the same way?

Of course, we want our children to leave. That is our job, isn’t it? Successful parenting ultimately involves making ourselves less necessary. But knowing that intellectually does not prevent the emotional loss. Is it harder for the parents who find it more difficult to allow their adolescents the independence they so need to make their mistakes and find ways to strengthen their resilience? Yes, I think it probably is.

Love can contain two truths simultaneously: I am enormously proud that you have gone. And I cannot quite work out who I am without you here.

That is grief.

Sometimes we grieve ourselves

There is another kind of grief that perhaps receives even less attention.

The grief for the person we might have been. The childhood we did not have. The parent we needed but never received. The body we once inhabited. The fertility that disappeared. The career abandoned to raise children. The country we left. The relationship that never became what we hoped. The life we imagined at twenty compared with the life we find ourselves living at fifty. Some of these losses are chosen.

That does not make them painless. You can choose motherhood and still grieve a former freedom. You can choose divorce and still grieve your marriage. You can choose retirement and still grieve your profession. You can leave a country willingly and still ache when you smell something that instantly transports you home.

Human beings are wonderfully contradictory. We can be grateful and grieving at the same time.

When one loss wakes another

This is the part of grief I find particularly interesting.

Losses do not always live neatly in separate compartments. Something happening today can reach backwards. A bereavement can reopen abandonment. A divorce can reactivate the childhood experience of somebody leaving. A child moving away can awaken earlier experiences of separation. Retirement can expose questions about identity that have been avoided for decades.

This does not mean every painful experience is secretly caused by childhood trauma. We should be careful about reducing complex human lives to a single psychological explanation.

But our nervous systems do remember patterns.

And when a present experience resembles an earlier emotional experience, helplessness, separation, rejection, uncertainty, loss of control, the emotional response can sometimes feel much larger than the present event appears to warrant.

We say: “Why am I reacting like this?” Perhaps the more useful question is:

What else might this be touching?

Hayden spoke publicly about postpartum depression, addiction and losing daily life with her daughter while trying to recover. She also spoke about the devastating death of her brother. Those are significant human losses. We cannot know how they connected within her private emotional world. But her story raises a broader question worth asking of all of us:

How many people are carrying several layers of grief without recognising them as grief?

The body grieves too

And grief is not something that happens only inside the mind.

People often describe heaviness in the chest, exhaustion, disrupted sleep, changes in appetite, anxiety, digestive disturbance, difficulty concentrating or a strange sense of physical depletion. The somatic experiences of grief.

These experiences are not imagined.

The American Psychological Association describes grief as involving physiological distress alongside yearning, confusion and anxiety. Research into bereavement has also found associations with changes in stress physiology, inflammatory and immune processes, sleep and cardiovascular health.

The body participates in loss. Which perhaps explains why unacknowledged grief can be so difficult. If I know I am grieving, I may soften around myself. I may sleep more. Walk. Talk. Cry. Accept that my concentration is poor. Ask somebody to sit with me. But if I don’t recognise the experience as grief, I may simply conclude: Something is wrong with me.

So, I push harder. Work harder. Drink more. Scroll more. Exercise more. Eat more. Control more and simply numb the pain. Not because I am weak, but because human beings are remarkably inventive when trying not to feel something they do not understand.

And then Buddhism gives us a difficult question

Buddhist philosophy offers a fascinating perspective here.

We often hear the phrase: “Attachment is the root of suffering.” It is a useful shorthand, but it is not quite the full Buddhist teaching.

Within the Four Noble Truths, the origin of dukkha, suffering or unsatisfactoriness, is more precisely associated with craving, tanhā, and the clinging that follows it: our insistence that people, experiences and circumstances remain as we want them to be despite the reality that everything changes.

That distinction matters enormously. Because Buddhism is not telling us: Do not love. It is asking: Can you love without possessing? Can I love you deeply without demanding that you remain exactly as you are so that I can feel safe? Can I love my child while knowing that the very purpose of childhood is that they eventually leave me? Can I love my partner without believing they belong to me? Can I love my body while accepting that it will age? Can I love a life that I know I cannot keep?

That is a much more difficult spiritual practice.

Love and attachment are not quite the same thing

Another Buddhist concept helps here: mettā, usually translated as loving-kindness.

Mettā is not indifference. Nor is it emotional withdrawal.

It is the wish that another human being be well and happy without requiring their happiness to satisfy our own needs. Traditional Buddhist descriptions distinguish mettā from a love that is possessive or “sticky” with attachment.

That difference is fascinating when we think about human relationships. Love might say: I want you to flourish. Attachment may quietly add: …but preferably in a way that keeps me comfortable.

A parent says: “I want my child to be independent.” Until independence involves moving four hundred miles away.

A partner says: “I want you to be happy.” Until happiness requires something different from what they want.

We are human. Of course we attach.

Attachment is fundamental to human development; psychologically, secure attachment is not something we should be trying to eliminate. So perhaps Eastern philosophy and Western attachment psychology are not actually contradicting one another.

One describes the importance of connection. The other warns us about clinging. There is a difference.

Is grief worth it?

And eventually we reach the impossible question.

If loving somebody means that one day we may lose them, is it worth it? If having children means eventually watching them walk away, is it worth it? If creating a career means one day having to leave it, is it worth it? If loving a dog means knowing you will probably outlive it, why do we do it? Because the alternative would be to protect ourselves from grief by protecting ourselves from love.

And I am not sure that is living.

Perhaps grief is not evidence that something has gone wrong. Perhaps sometimes it is evidence that something mattered. The problem is not necessarily grief itself. The problem may be grief that has nowhere to go.

Grief that is hurried.

Grief that is medicated before it is understood.

Grief that is dismissed because nobody died.

Grief that is called weakness.

Grief that is disguised as anger.

Grief that becomes busy-ness.

Grief that becomes alcohol.

Grief that becomes control.

Grief that sits quietly underneath anxiety while we spend years treating only the anxiety.

What happens when nobody says: Of course you are grieving. Look at what you lost.

Sometimes recognition itself is therapeutic.

Perhaps grief needs hospitality

I increasingly think grief needs something very simple. Not fixing. Not explaining. Not a timetable.

Just hospitality.

A chair at the table. Space. Kindness. Someone willing to say: “You don’t have to make this disappear today.” We do not “get over” the significant things in our lives. We integrate them. They become part of the landscape of who we are. The relationship changes from something we physically possessed to something we carry. The child leaves home, but motherhood remains. The career ends, but the knowledge remains. The marriage ends, but the years existed. The person dies, but the relationship has shaped us permanently. Perhaps healthy grief is not about detaching ourselves from what we loved. It is learning to hold that love differently. Less tightly. More gently.

And perhaps we should ask a different question

Instead of asking someone: “What’s wrong?” perhaps occasionally we should ask: “What have you lost?”

Because the answer may surprise us. A person can be grieving while functioning beautifully. They can go to work. Laugh. Cook dinner. Post photographs. Parent children. Go on holiday. Be successful and still carry an ache they have never named.

Sometimes even they do not know it is there. So perhaps that is the invitation. Look at the person who has recently retired. The friend whose child has left for university. The woman whose marriage ended two years ago whom everybody assumes is “fine now.” The person who moved countries. The new mother whose experience of motherhood looks nothing like the one she imagined. The person whose body has changed. The person whose life took an unexpected direction. And perhaps ask that question “what have you lost?”

Not because grief needs to be solved. But because grief needs to be seen. And when it is seen, acknowledged and held with kindness, something often changes. The loss remains. But the suffering around it can soften. Perhaps that is the fine line between love and suffering. We cannot love without becoming vulnerable to loss.

But maybe the answer is not to love less.

Maybe it is to love fully, hold more lightly, and when loss inevitably comes, allow ourselves, and each other, the extraordinary human grace of grieving.

By Amanda Graham

I was adopted in 1967.

That isn’t the surprising part.

What is harder to explain is that I only found out at 18 and it wasn’t because anyone told me.

I didn’t grow up feeling different. There was no moment in childhood where things didn’t quite add up, no obvious sense that something was missing. My parents loved me, my family felt like mine, and the story of who I was seemed complete.

At least, that’s what I believed.

Because in the world I was born into, silence around adoption wasn’t unusual – it was encouraged. People believed that not telling a child was an act of kindness. That it protected them. That it allowed them to grow up without confusion or complication.

I can understand how they may have believed, perhaps somewhat naively, that they were doing the “right thing.” After all, what could first-time adoptive parents really be expected to know? Yet, looking back forty years later, now equipped with extensive therapeutic training, I feel both anger and disappointment toward the social service professionals responsible for placing children in new families. They should have provided far better guidance and support to adoptive parents.

It may have been 1967, what my own children jokingly call ‘the old days’, but it was hardly the dark ages. By then, important psychological insights were already available. Influential thinkers had begun to explore attachment theory and the potential trauma caused by separating infants from their birth mothers. John Bowlby (1907–1991), a leading British child psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, developed attachment theory through his observations of children in British hospitals who were separated from their parents. His work demonstrated how caregivers’ responses to a child’s need for attachment play a crucial role in shaping emotional wellbeing and future relationships.

But understanding it doesn’t mean it had no cost.

When I found out at 18, it didn’t feel like I had been given new information.

It felt like something fundamental had shifted, quietly, but permanently.

Not just about my past.
But about how I understood myself.

What made it harder, looking back, is this:

I didn’t find out late by accident. I found out late because deep down, I believe, I inherently knew that I was different to the family I was growing up in. Not consciously but deep in my psyche I knew. And so, one day, my curiosity simply got the better of me.

In the decades around the 1960s, adoption in the UK was built on secrecy. It was what’s now called a “closed” system, records sealed, identities changed, and in many cases, children simply not told at all.

The idea was simple:
If the child never knew, there would be no confusion.
No divided loyalties.
No questions that couldn’t be answered.

A clean break.

But what we’ve learned since is that there’s no such thing as a clean break, only a hidden one.

Today, the advice is almost the exact opposite.

Adoption guidance in the UK now consistently recommends that children should be told early, openly, and repeatedly about their adoption, not as a single moment, but as something they grow up always knowing.

The reasoning is clear:

In fact, the modern thinking goes even further:

If a child can remember the moment they were ‘told,’ it may already be too late.

That shift didn’t happen by accident. It happened because of people like me.

People who grew up with good intentions wrapped around silence and then had to absorb the truth all at once, at an age where identity is already fragile, already forming, already under pressure.

Because 18 isn’t a neutral moment to find out who you are. It’s the moment you’re supposed to be becoming secure in who you are. That’s the part that’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t experienced it. It wasn’t just learning something new.

It was realising that something fundamental had been withheld for my entire life, not just by a system, but by the people closest to me.

Again, I don’t say that with blame.

But I do say it with honesty. Because there’s a difference between being protected…and being kept in the dark.

And maybe that’s the real lesson that’s emerged over time.

Not that my parents were wrong for loving me the way they did.

But that love, on its own, isn’t enough to carry secrecy.

Because identity isn’t something you can safely reveal all at once.

It’s something that must be lived with, slowly, from the beginning.

I’ve had a lifetime to think about this.

To understand it.
To make peace with it.
To see it not just through my own eyes, but through the context of the time, the system, and the people who believed they were doing the right thing.

And I do believe they meant well. Although it also seems so obviously wrong now.

But meaning well doesn’t erase impact. Our adoption systems should have made this a crucial piece of advice for all adoptive parents, schools, health systems and any carers who had any responsibility for an adopted child should have talked about their development from the ‘adopted perspective’. Sadly, there is still room for improvement today.

What stays with me isn’t anger. It’s the awareness of how something so fundamental, knowing who you are, can be shaped by silence as much as by truth.

How something that happened before I could speak…and something I didn’t uncover until I was an adult…can quietly echo across an entire life.

Today, we know more although there is still room for much more improvement particularly when we look for increases in behavioural diagnoses in our young people.

We understand that identity matters.
That openness matters.
That children don’t need protecting from the truth, they need to grow up with it.

And that’s a good thing.

A necessary change.

But stories like mine sit in between those two worlds. There are many adoptees of my generation who experienced similar upbringings, but who STILL find it hard to know who they are.

Situations like these are not tragic enough to be headline news unless, unlike my secure and uneventful childhood, a child is adopted into a troubled family.

Should the children simply be grateful they were adopted at all? Is that the end of a new beginning? A result. A placement.

So, I’m left with a question, not just for myself, but for anyone reading this:

What would you have wanted?

To be told early, and grow up with the truth, even if it was complicated?

Or to be protected from it… and only discover it later, when everything you thought you knew was already in place?

I don’t think there’s an easy answer.

But I do think it’s a conversation worth having.

Because for a long time, people like me didn’t get to be part of it.

If this speaks to you, whether through adoption or another experience of discovering something significant later in life, I would genuinely value hearing your perspective.

It has taken years of reflection and more recently, open conversations with my adoptive family to come to some kind of peace with what happened to me. I have become sadly aware of a generation (or two) of adoptees that have too often not been treated with the care and understanding they deserve by those in authority.

After all, unless you have lived the experience of adoption, it is difficult to fully grasp the depth of therapeutic support required, not just at the point of placement, but across a lifetime. I understand that now, not only as an adoptee but also as a counselling psychotherapist.

Sign up to my Substack to read more excerpts from my forthcoming memoir and reflections, The Psychology of Adoption.

By Amanda Graham

When did protecting children from discomfort begin to replace preparing them for life?

A recent headline caught my attention: more than a quarter of English primary school children cannot swim 25 metres. BBC analysis of Department for Education data found that only 72% of Year 6 pupils met this benchmark in 2024–25, with just 70% able to demonstrate safe self-rescue. In schools serving disadvantaged communities, those figures fell to around 55% and 50%.

It took me back to my own primary school in 1970s Sunderland, where weekly swimming lessons were simply part of the week. We walked to the municipal baths, endured the overpowering smell of chlorine, and dreaded the infamous purple foot bath meant to ward off verrucas. The thirty-minute lesson wasn’t optional, and whether it was comfortable wasn’t really the question.

Swimming is, in fact, still mandated in England’s National Curriculum — schools must teach competent swimming and water safety by the end of Key Stage 2. But practical obstacles keep getting in the way: finding pool time, transport, staffing, curriculum pressure, and the rising cost of keeping public pools open at all.

This creates a real inequality. Wealthier children often arrive at school already able to swim, having had private lessons beforehand. Children without that advantage depend entirely on what the school can provide. When schools struggle to deliver, it is exactly those children who lose out twice.

What discomfort was for

I think about my father teaching me to swim in a cold Northumberland river — uncomfortable, certainly, but not traumatic. There is an important difference between the two, and it is one I think we have started to lose sight of.

Sir Michael Rutter, one of the founding figures in resilience research, defined resilience as “relatively good outcomes despite risk and adversity.” Ann Masten called it “ordinary magic” — something that grows out of relationships, competence, problem-solving and community, not extraordinary toughness.

Resilience develops through a combination of support and challenge. Research into British Forest School programmes shows that uncertainty, problem-solving, physical challenge and manageable risk all foster psychological resilience and social development. Physical activity is linked to better coping and self-regulation in adolescents. The key ingredient seems to be mastery — attempting something that feels impossible, persisting, and discovering you can actually do it.

It makes me wonder what else schools once quietly provided — PE, cooking, woodwork, walking somewhere independently, managing a forgotten PE kit, sitting with disappointment — that we are gradually removing in the pursuit of measurable academic outcomes.

What I see in the therapy room

After more than thirty years working with adolescents, I do notice a diminished tolerance for ordinary discomfort in many young people I meet today. But I am cautious about declaring any generation less resilient than the last. Today’s adolescents are carrying pressures mine never had to: constant digital comparison, permanent connectivity, intense academic competition, housing insecurity, and the long shadow of the pandemic.

Developmental milestones that used to belong to late adolescence now seem to stretch into the twenties, and sometimes beyond. A 2025 University of Cambridge study mapping brain development across the lifespan identified major transition points at ages 9, 32, 66 and 83 — suggesting neural reorganisation continues until roughly 32. Office for National Statistics figures show the median age for leaving the parental home shifted from 21 in 2011 to 24 in 2021, with 61% of adult children still living at home being male.

The question worth asking

I am not trying to romanticise 1976. Progress does not need to mean discarding everything that came before it. But there was a genuine wisdom in simply assuming children were capable. Contemporary resilience research backs that instinct in a more sophisticated way: resilience grows through the combination of support and challenge, and through trusted adults who are sometimes willing to say “yes, this is difficult” and “try again,” rather than removing every obstacle before a child reaches it.

What education is for matters here. If school exists purely to produce exam results, then everything outside that can be trimmed away without much thought. But if it exists to prepare young people for a life that will, inevitably, be inconvenient, uncertain and difficult at times — then experiences like these deserve to sit closer to the centre, not as hardship for its own sake, but as capability, practised.

By Amanda Graham

Giving Adolescents Independence When the World Feels Unpredictable

Parenting a young adolescent can feel like walking a tightrope. On one side lies a deep instinct to protect them from harm; on the other, the responsibility to help them grow into capable, confident individuals.

In recent years, headlines about violence and safety have understandably made many parents anxious about granting freedom. Yet independence remains essential: it builds problem-solving skills, confidence, resilience, and the ability to cope with the unexpected.

The goal is not to choose between freedom and safety, but to help young people develop both.

How Different Cultures Approach Independence

Across the world, countries vary widely in how adolescents are introduced to independence.

In Zimbabwe, often out of necessity, children as young as six or seven may be seen walking siblings along busy roads to school or selling essentials at intersections. The dangers in these environments are real, yet predictable — and independence arises early because families rely on it.

In contrast, in developed countries such as Great Britain, recent knife attacks and transport-related violence have contributed to a pervasive sense of threat. Families accustomed to public safety now question whether adolescents can travel alone to visit friends, attend activities, or explore their communities. The result is that many young people have less freedom than previous generations — not because they are less capable, but because parents fear the risks more.

This tension has created an increasingly urgent question for parents:

How do we prepare young people for adulthood when the world feels unsafe?

Connection Comes First: Strengthening Attachment

The most important factor enabling adolescents to navigate independence is not surveillance, rules, or technology — it is attachment to a parent or caring adult.

Attachment provides:

• a source of guidance
• emotional regulation
• secure decision-making
• a reference point in uncertainty

Without it, adolescents may attach instead to peers, influencers, or online environments that offer attention but not support. In my Parenting Adolescents workshops, this attachment dynamic is explored in depth as a foundation for adolescent wellbeing.

Practical Ways to Build Independence Safely

Once attachment is strong, parents can introduce independence gradually. Here are five practical strategies:

1. Start With Gradual Freedom

Independence does not have to be immediate. Begin with small, familiar tasks such as walking to a shop, friend’s house, or school.

Encourage check-ins as reassurance rather than control and talk through “what if” scenarios to build problem-solving skills.

2. Teach Awareness, Not Fear

Fear restricts; awareness empowers. Teach your adolescent to:

• notice their surroundings
• avoid distractions such as loud music or constant phone use
• identify exits or staff on public transport
• trust their instincts

A simple emergency plan can make all the difference.

3. Keep Communication Open

When parents tighten control, adolescents may hide their choices. Instead:

• ask open questions
• express concerns without alarmism
• listen more than you speak

Independence and open communication go hand in hand.

4. Build a Network of Safety (Know Your Village)

Community matters. Support your adolescent to:

• travel with friends rather than alone
• coordinate plans with other parents
• benefit from local youth spaces and initiatives

When a community looks out for its young people, everyone gains confidence.

5. Use Technology Thoughtfully

Technology isn’t inherently harmful — it depends on how it’s used.

Temporary location sharing can support independence during new routes or late evenings without becoming surveillance. Phones can be tools for safety, not control.

The message should be: “I trust you, and this is just a backup.”

Leading With Calm Instead of Fear

Young people take cues from the adults around them. When parents speak about safety with calmness and empowerment, adolescents learn to approach the world with confidence rather than anxiety.

Freedom isn’t the absence of danger — it’s the presence of capability.

A Closing Thought for Parents

We cannot remove every risk from our children’s world, but we can prepare them to meet that world with skills, awareness, and resilience. Overprotection may feel safe in the moment, but it deprives young people of the confidence to eventually protect themselves.

Start small. Stay connected. Lead with trust.

About Mindful Coherence

If you enjoyed this article and are a parent or carer of pre-teens or adolescents, we invite you to join our growing community on Instagram @mindfulcoherence or visit www.mindfulcoherence.com to sign up for our upcoming webinars, community groups, eBooks, and newsletters.

At MindCo, we aim to make the latest research and recommendations accessible to parents and carers. With over 30 years of international experience, Amanda Graham is committed to strengthening the village around young people through learning, support, and community.

Original Publication Note:
This article first appeared on Substack on 7 January 2026. Read the original version on Substack. https://amanda482.substack.com/p/balancing-freedom-and-safety

By Amanda Graham

Parenting Adolescents Today: Why Concern Is a Sign of Good Parenting

Parenting adolescents has always required patience, courage, and faith — but doing so today can feel especially overwhelming. If you’re guiding a young person through adolescence right now, one thing matters most: your concern is a sign of good parenting, not a sign of failure. Asking questions, thinking ahead, and seeking support already puts your child on steadier ground.

A Changing Digital Landscape May Offer Unexpected Hope

In recent years, several countries have begun restricting or banning social media access for children and young adolescents. Others are implementing stricter age-verification laws and digital protections.

While disruptive, these shifts are quietly reassuring many parents: the responsibility is no longer yours alone. Society is beginning to recognise that young brains need boundaries and protection online.

What Thought Leaders Like Dr. Jonathan Haidt Are Saying

One of the most influential voices shaping this global conversation is social psychologist Dr. Jonathan Haidt, author of The Anxious Generation. His research links the rise of smartphones and social media with increased rates of anxiety, depression, sleep disruption, and fragmented attention among young people.

His work is helping transform research into action, including:

• Advocating for higher age minimums — such as no smartphones before age 14 and no social media before age 16, influencing emerging policies globally.
• Shifting cultural conversations — encouraging families and schools to prioritise real-world experiences and independence.
• Developing tools for young people — such as The Amazing Generation, a guide for middle-school students encouraging healthier digital habits.
• Engaging policymakers and the public — bringing adolescent wellbeing into mainstream debate and legislation.

Haidt’s approach stands out because he doesn’t just critique technology — he offers alternatives grounded in developmental science.

What Reduced Social Media Exposure Can Support

For many families, reduced exposure to social media is supporting:

• less appearance-related anxiety and comparison
• protection from addictive design features
• more in-person friendships, rest, boredom, and creativity
• restored childhood experiences and slower developmental pacing

These shifts have opened doors to calmer evenings, deeper conversations, and adolescents who feel less overwhelmed by needing to “perform” or “keep up.”

Why Parents Need Support Too

One of the hardest parts of parenting adolescents is the isolation. Many parents quietly wonder:

“Is it just my child?”
“Why does everyone else seem to be coping better?”

In reality, most parents are struggling quietly, and community support can be transformative.

A guided parent group offers:

• a judgment-free space to speak openly
• validation that others face similar challenges
• practical ideas drawn from lived experience
• emotional reassurance and confidence

Expert Guidance Matters

In a professionally led group, these benefits deepen. Under the guidance of family and adolescent psychotherapist Amanda Graham, parents gain:

• an understanding of adolescent brain development
• strategies for emotional regulation and connection
• tools to reduce conflict and strengthen attachment

With over 30 years of international experience, an MSc in Mental Health Psychology, and a postgraduate diploma in Counselling, Amanda brings more than theory — she brings lived clinical wisdom.

A Message of Reassurance to Parents

Adolescence is not a phase to simply “get through.” It is a season of profound neurological, emotional, and social growth. Yes, there will be conflict and confusion — but also surprising tenderness, humour, and connection.

Your presence matters more than your perfection.
Your willingness to listen matters more than having all the answers.
And seeking support for yourself is one of the strongest gifts you can give your child.

You are not behind.
You are not failing.
And you are not alone.

About Mindful Coherence

Amanda writes about parenting in the age of overwhelm — exploring how trauma, culture, and connection shape our teens in an ever-changing world.

At Mindful Coherence, our mission is to make the latest research, tools, and recommendations accessible to parents and carers. In the year ahead, join us for:

• live webinars
• eBooks and resources
• newsletters
• guided parent community groups

To stay connected, follow us on Instagram @mindfulcoherence or visit www.mindfulcoherence.com to join the mailing list and receive upcoming resources.

Original Publication Note:
This article first appeared on Substack on 1 January 2026. Read the original version on Substack.

https://amanda482.substack.com/p/parenting-adolescents-in-2026