11/09/2024
Never Stop Trying
There was a moment when I looked at my teenage son, Chike, and felt a fear I couldn’t quite explain. It wasn’t just the typical worry of a parent; it was deeper. I wondered if I was losing him forever. Conversations that used to flow easily now turned into silence or, worse, arguments that left both of us frustrated. Every day, it felt like the gap between us grew wider.
My husband, Uche, and I tried everything—football games, father-son outings, one-on-one talks—but nothing worked. Chike was slipping away, and no matter how hard we tried to reach him, it felt like he was locking us out more and more. Each failed attempt left us questioning: What are we doing wrong?
Day after day, I’d knock on his door, and each time I asked, How was your day? I’d only get a mumbled, It’s fine, or worse, a cold silence.
In the quiet of the night, Uche and I would sit together, utterly exhausted, wondering if we were losing our son. The tension in the house was almost unbearable. At one point, I remember thinking, What if this is how it’s going to be forever? But then, one evening after another heated argument, something clicked. It wasn’t sudden, but it was clear. We had been doing all the talking, all the problem-solving, but maybe we hadn’t really been listening. Maybe Chike didn’t need us to have the answers; maybe he just needed us to be there, in his silence, in his struggle.
The next night, Uche and I decided to try something different. Instead of our usual approach—knocking and asking, Can we talk?—we just knocked and waited. We didn’t say a word. We just sat outside his door, letting him know we were there, without any pressure. Minutes passed. The silence was thick. I could feel Uche’s frustration next to me, and I was starting to doubt whether this would work. But then, to my surprise, the door slowly creaked open. Chike stood there, looking confused and cautious.
What are you guys doing? he asked, his voice softer than it had been in weeks.
We’re here, I said gently. Whenever you’re ready, we’re here.
He hesitated, and for a second, I thought he might shut the door again. But instead, he sat down beside us. I held my breath, waiting, hoping this moment would open a door we’d been struggling to find.
After what felt like an eternity, Chike spoke—barely above a whisper. I don’t know who I am anymore… everything feels overwhelming… and it’s like no one gets me.
I exchanged a glance with Uche, who nodded silently. We didn’t rush to give advice or try to solve the problem. Instead, we just listened. And that was all he needed.
It wasn’t an overnight fix. But little by little, things started to change. We found new ways to connect, small moments where we could just be there for him without pushing too hard. Chike began to open up, and slowly, the gap between us began to close.
Months later, while we were having dinner, out of nowhere, Chike looked at us and said, Thanks for not giving up on me.
That simple sentence made every sleepless night, every argument, and every moment of doubt worth it. Parenting, I realized, wasn’t about having all the answers—it was about showing up, even when it feels impossible.
