I’m going there. I’m opening the can of worms. And a can of worms it truly is.
We spent last weekend at a surf competition for my son. The weather was glorious, and the beach was buzzing. I was sharing a small space with a good friend and her children, and it was such an eye-opener to be up close and immersed in another family’s rhythm. As most of our kids are in the teenage zone, the question of technology was front and centre – not in an academic, theoretical way, but right there in the lived experience of the weekend.
Around the table, we had the conversation. You know the one. Phones, screens, apps, games, restrictions, freedoms. It’s a minefield. But we agreed on one thing – pretty much all of us, no matter where we fall on the parenting spectrum, are concerned. Our kids are addicted to their phones. And so are we.
I was born in the late seventies, so I grew up in the eighties, came of age in the nineties. I remember the first mobile phones – bricks the size of your head – and the days when “going online” meant finding an internet café. I spent six weeks travelling through Ethiopia in my early twenties and found one single café in Addis Ababa where I typed an email to let everyone know I’d be out of contact for over a month. That was normal. It’s unthinkable now. These days, people live-stream their journeys, post real-time updates, share stories from the airport queue.
The world has changed, fast. And it’s still changing. We haven’t caught up yet – especially when it comes to parenting in this new digital reality.
I don’t want to call anyone out – least of all my own kids – but let’s just say I recently checked the phone usage stats after returning from a work trip. No school, no sport, bad weather. The number of screen pickups was so high it made my stomach turn. So high I can’t even bring myself to type it here. I could see it had a hold on him. The blankness behind the eyes. The irritability. The inertia. You know the look.
Since I’m paying for the devices – two phones and an iPad – and since we are well and truly locked into the Apple ecosystem (if you’re not, good for you – we’re far too deep to turn back now), I’ve put restrictions in place. I monitor usage. I limit access. You might agree with that. You might think it’s too controlling. You might not allow any tech in your house at all. Or you might believe in full autonomy for your children. Wherever you fall, I believe we’re all trying to do the same thing – love our kids and do right by them.
If we can begin these conversations by acknowledging that shared intention, maybe we can lower the heat. Because this topic – like so many these days – is incredibly polarised. And we’ve lost the art of disagreeing with kindness. Of being in community with people who see things differently. We need that back.
One of the teens around the table said that violent video games don’t cause violence – that this has been proven. It was an interesting moment. Because yes, there’s always something out there to scare us. Something new and threatening that we don’t yet understand. And maybe it’s not the tech. Maybe it’s what’s behind the tech. Maybe the problem isn’t the platform, but the pain we’re all trying to avoid. The disconnection. The anxiety. The loneliness.
Addiction is addiction. In clinics, it’s treated the same whether it’s gambling, cocaine, porn, food, or your phone. It’s about filling a void. Escaping discomfort. Feeling control. So perhaps our job as parents isn’t to cut off the tech, but to help our kids understand why they need it so badly. And to look honestly at why we do too.
I know people who’ve gone full anti-tech – no phones, no screens, nothing. I know others who’ve gone the other way – full access, no limits. I’m somewhere in the middle, but I still don’t feel confident. It often feels like a social experiment – and our kids are the test subjects.
The truth is, we don’t yet know how all this will land. My middle child was a baby when the first smartphone came out. This has all unfolded in their lifetime. There are no generational guideposts. No well-worn path to follow.
I remember the Adam Sandler movie Men, Women & Children – did anyone else see that? It painted such a vivid picture. The mother who was hyper-controlling had a daughter who found secret workarounds. The permissive dad had a son developing a porn addiction just like his own. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. So what is the right way?
I’m starting to believe that open communication is the best tool we have. Not shouting, not banning, not sneaking into rooms and switching off Wi-Fi (guilty). But listening. Noticing. Bringing compassion. I’ve freaked out many times – stormed in, pulled plugs, roared about wasted sunshine and lost hours. But I’m trying now to soften. To see it from their side. To ask questions. To talk.
Because in all of this, I don’t want to lose the connection. I want them to hear me. And to feel heard. And just maybe, with that, they’ll start to see the world beyond the screen again.
I want them to know the joy of walking barefoot in the grass. Of running wild with their friends. Of boredom – real, glorious boredom – and what can come out of it. But I also want to respect the fact that their world is different. Their friendships are digital. Their social currency is online. And we can’t change that.
What we can do is stay curious. Stay close. And keep the conversations going. That, to me, feels like the most ethical thing of all.