Between the Chaos and the Couch

I am a mom and a parent educator. I spend my days teaching families how to raise resilient, independent kids  all while raising my own. I’m grateful for the research‑based tools that help me be a better parent, but nothing truly prepared me for watching my children grow up in this world… a world where technology is everywhere, and its pull is stronger than any of us want to admit.

I have two kids: a wonderful 14‑year‑old son and a spirited 12‑year‑old daughter. My son has always been drawn to screens. He could sit with a tablet for hours, completely absorbed. My daughter, on the other hand, is doing cartwheels across the living room and gets bored with technology in minutes. Two kids, two totally different relationships with screens.

My husband and I worked hard, really hard, to help our son find balance. We encouraged outdoor time, hobbies, and family activities. But technology has a way of creeping in. It’s convenient. It’s entertaining. And honestly, we adults aren’t immune either. Whether it’s me scrolling Facebook or my husband playing video games, we’re all swimming in the same digital waters.

Then came COVID. Like so many families, we started eating dinner in front of the TV “just for fun,” because the world felt heavy and we needed something easy. That “fun treat” slowly became our new normal. Even after life opened back up, we kept doing it because it was comfortable. My daughter begged to go back to the table, but I was tired, and the couch felt easier.

Last year, we finally got the kids’ phones. It felt like the right time they were home alone more, staying after school for activities, and we wanted to stay connected. At first, we were strict. Limited time, clear rules. But slowly, almost without noticing, we loosened up. More minutes turned into more hours. Mornings, after school, weekends… the devices were always there.

And I told myself, This is normal. This is what older kids do.
Legos aren’t fun anymore. Crafts fade out. Drawing gets replaced by scrolling.
Right?

Then something happened that shook me awake.

A few weeks ago, at a family gathering, my brother asked my son if he wanted to join a program to strengthen his faith. My son surprised me by saying yes. The program included daily prayer, regular exercise, no snacking or sweets… and zero technology. Six days a week. No phone. No VR. No Switch. No tablet.

I honestly didn’t know how he would fill his time. I wasn’t sure he could do it.

But he did. And he is a completely different kid.

He dug out Legos that had been untouched since Christmas and built for hours. He prayed. He asked to play board games with us. He and his sister who used to live in separate worlds suddenly became inseparable. They laughed together. Played together. Chose each other.

And I changed too. To support him, I turned off the TV. I put my own phone down. I helped him find meaningful ways to spend his time. I became more present.

The difference in him is undeniable. A perfect example: we went bowling before he started the program, and he didn’t want to go. He said he wasn’t good at it and wouldn’t have fun. He tolerated it, but he wasn’t engaged. Two weeks later, after being off technology, we went again. This time he was chatting with the other kids, laughing, having a blast. He was there fully there.

And that’s when it hit me.

I had been telling myself that all of this was normal. That this is just how kids are now. That growing up means growing out of play, creativity, connection.

But it’s not normal.

I see that now. I feel it. The son I have today is lighter, happier, more connected. And yes  on the seventh day, when he gets unlimited technology, he enjoys it. But he still takes breaks. He still plays. He still seeks us out.

I am so grateful to my brother for opening this door not just for my son, but for me.

As a mom, I want to challenge you:
Try one week. Just one.
See what happens when you open this door for your kids.
See what happens when you open it for yourself.

You might be surprised by what  and who comes back to life.