My son is struggling. I can’t sugarcoat it. He’s back at college now, beginning his second semester of his freshman year — and every day feels heavy for him. But behind “I’m okay” texts and brief check-ins is a story of loneliness, confusion, and longing for something more.
The Quiet Alarm Bells
When he first went off to college, I feared he might feel lost or homesick. I worried he’d be overwhelmed by the transition. But nothing prepared me for how much deeper the struggle would run.
He’s in art school — he’s a creative soul. Yet lately, he tells me he can’t summon inspiration. He’s wrestling with a roommate situation he never expected, which leaves him anxious and restless at night. Sleep — once a refuge — has become elusive. In the mornings he wakes tired, the day ahead long and heavy. The joy that once colored his sketches has faded; ideas no longer flow.
He’s unhappy. That word — simple, direct — haunts me. Because it’s real.
The Unraveling Threads
It started in small ways:
- Texts that arrive late, awkward, stilted — “I’m fine,” “Busy,” “Don’t worry.”
- He misses calls. Sometimes he replies hours later.
- His voice over the phone is flat, tired. A few inflections tell me more than words ever could.
And then came the midnight call.
At 1:31 a.m., he rang. He knew I’d answer. He knew I’d come downstairs if necessary. He said almost nothing, and everything — the silence, the pauses, the quiet tears I imagined — told me how much he needed someone to just be there.
We talked for 37 minutes. He didn’t have to explain every detail. He didn’t have to ask for advice. He didn’t even have to say he was hurting. He just needed to be heard. I listened as he spoke, and as he didn’t speak. He told me he loved me — twice. He thanked me for just letting him unload. In that moment, the distance that separation sometimes builds between parent and child melted away.
A Plan, But Not a Fix
He has a plan. He’s arranging a transfer — trying to find a place where he can breathe more easily, do better, belong more fully. That gives me hope. But hope doesn’t erase the pain of watching him struggle now.
We all want our children to flourish. We visualize them thriving in new places, making friends, blooming into who they’re meant to be. But what we don’t always imagine is the darkness they’ll have to walk through on the way there.
The Weight on a Parent’s Heart
Maybe the hardest part is feeling powerless. I wish I could take away his hurt. I want to fix everything — the roommate conflict, the insomnia, the creative block. But I can’t. What I can do is stay ready: to listen, to encourage, to let him know he never has to carry this alone.
He knows I will always be there. He knows if he calls at 1:31 a.m., I’ll answer. I’ll be his sounding board, his safe space, his refuge. And if the night is especially dark, I’ll sit through it with him until dawn.
Not Alone, Not Invisible
To any parent or student reading this — if your heart aches the way mine does — know this: you are not alone.
Sometimes the hardest part is letting the pain be real, letting the tears come, letting others know we’re not okay. But there is healing in being known, in telling the story, in admitting what we fear might look weak.
My son is struggling. But he is not defeated. And we will walk this path together, one sleepless night, one small step, one call at a time.
If you or someone you love feels this way — unheard, unseen, stuck — may you find someone who will listen. May your heart be held. May your darkness someday lift.