This Isn’t Forever
The powerful moment teens and parents finally see how quickly life moves
There’s something I do in my office that catches both teens and parents completely off guard. I pull out a tape measure.
Not because I’m trying to be dramatic and not because I’m trying to teach some giant philosophical lesson. Honestly, I do it because perspective is something so many of us lose when we’re struggling. When emotions are high, life starts to feel permanent. Hard seasons begin to feel endless. The moment we are in starts to feel like the moment we will always be in.
With teens, I stretch the tape measure across the room to age 100 and place the beginning in their hands. Then I ask them to locate where they are right now on the timeline of their life. Fourteen. Fifteen. Seventeen. Then I ask them to really look down the tape measure. Not glance at it. Really look at it.
After that, I ask them to move their finger to graduating high school. Then college.
And every single time, something shifts.
Because middle school feels endless when you’re inside it. So does heartbreak. Friend drama. Anxiety. Feeling awkward. Feeling left out. Feeling like everybody else somehow understands life better than you do. Teenagers often walk around feeling like this current version of life is somehow the final version of life.
But when they physically see how little distance exists between where they are now and the next stage of life, their whole body changes. Their shoulders drop. They sigh. Sometimes they laugh a little. Sometimes they get emotional. Because suddenly they realize:
“Oh… this isn’t forever.”
And honestly, parents have almost the exact same reaction.
I do the same exercise with them, but differently. I hand them the tape measure and ask them to place their finger not on their own age, but on their teen’s age. Fourteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Then I ask them to look at how quickly the tape measure moves toward graduation, college, and adulthood.
And suddenly the stage that has felt exhausting and endless becomes heartbreakingly short.
The slammed doors. The messy kitchen. The emotional outbursts. The one-word answers. The driving lessons. The late-night waiting up. The random car rides where they suddenly tell you everything. The moments where they still crawl into your room when life hurts.
All of it starts looking less like a permanent reality and more like a season. A concentrated season.
That’s the thing about perspective. It changes the emotional weight of what we’re carrying.
Memento mori.
Remember you will die.
Not in a dark way. Not in a hopeless way. In a clarifying way. In a wake-up-to-your-life kind of way.
Because when you remember life is finite, you stop treating hard moments like permanent identities. You stop assuming this version of your teen is the final version of who they will become. You stop parenting from panic quite so much. You stop reacting as though every mistake is proof that everything is falling apart.
Instead, you soften.
You notice more.
You become more intentional about the emotional texture of your home while everybody is still living under the same roof.
And maybe most importantly, you begin to understand that someday you may ache for one more ordinary Tuesday with the version of your child sitting across from you right now.
Even this version.
Especially this version.
As cliché as it sounds, you will probably miss moments like these someday. Not because they were perfect, but because they were alive.
So I want to ask you something.
If you really looked honestly at your life… if you really took inventory of the years you’ve already lived and the years you likely still have left with your teen at home… what would change?
What would suddenly matter less?
What would matter more?
Would you keep trying to win every battle?
Would you keep postponing connection until everybody finally behaves perfectly?
Or would you start fighting for the relationship now, while there’s still time to build something beautiful together?
Because there is still time.
And maybe that’s the point of all of this.
Maybe perspective isn’t meant to scare us.
Maybe it’s meant to bring us back to each other.
If you’re realizing you don’t want these last few years with your teen to be defined by constant tension, disconnection, or survival mode, maybe it’s time for support. Maybe it’s time to schedule a call with me so we can make these years matter.
If you want a daily guide to building these skills—for your teen and for you—my new book, Parenting in the Third Stage: From Holding Hands to Holding Space, is for you. It’s a 6-month roadmap filled with practical steps, conversation starters, and mindset shifts to help your teen grow into a capable young adult while strengthening your relationship.