You’d think, as a high school dean, I’d have a crystal-clear picture of youth culture. I mean, I see it all—hallway drama, TikTok choreography in the quad, debates over whose Crocs are cooler. I confiscate phones with the reflexes of a blackjack dealer and mediate arguments that start with, “I only liked the post—I didn’t mean anything by it.”

But lately, something’s been bugging me.

Something bigger than vape pens or the mystery of why students wear hoodies in 110-degree heat.

Despite being more connected than any generation in history, our students are lonelier than ever.

Let me explain.

These kids have more ways to connect, speak out, and be seen than I ever dreamed of at their age. When I was in high school, we had one house phone, a long cord, and a parent listening on the other line. Now? They can broadcast their thoughts to the entire world before second period.

And yet… so many of them feel invisible.

I see it in their eyes when they sit alone at lunch, surrounded by glowing screens.

I see it in bathroom-mirror selfies captioned “LOL with the besties 💕”—even though they ate alone that day.

I hear it in the silence that follows, “How are you really doing?” when we sit down in my office.

They’re connected—but not always known. Loud—but not always heard.

See, the same platforms that give them a voice also pressure them to polish it. To build personas—filtered, strategic, curated for approval. They’re not keeping diaries; they’re producing highlight reels. 

Every post is calculated: how it looks, how it lands, who will see it. Vulnerability? That doesn’t trend. Honesty? Too risky. So they stay surface-level—likes, streaks, filters—while the real stuff, the hard stuff, stays buried. Not because they don’t feel it. But because somewhere along the way, they were taught that being real is too much, too messy, or just… not cool.

It’s not that they don’t want connection. I think they crave it.

But somewhere along the way, we traded messy, real-life friendship for followers and fire emojis.

Take the student who shares a climate change petition in five group chats but won’t show up for the campus cleanup.

Or the kid who speaks up in Discord but freezes in a classroom discussion.

Or the gamer who leads a digital army at night but can’t make eye contact during morning roll call.

Even with all the talk around mental health, many of them are struggling quietly—behind screens.

They’ll text you they’re “fine” with a skull emoji, but you know something’s off.

And it’s not just them.

Let’s not kid ourselves—adults are out here faking it, too. We’ve got our own highlight reels: the vacation pics (not the credit card debt), the spotless kitchen (don’t open the junk drawer), the “blessed” post after a week we barely survived.

We model the exact thing we tell kids not to do. Keep it real, we say—while we ourselves are wrapped in Wi-Fi-enabled perfection. (And coffee. Come on, admit it… the caffeine makes everything easier.)

So here’s where I land:

If we want kids to build real connection, we have to show them what that looks like.

We need to lead with honesty. Admit when we’re struggling. Laugh at ourselves. Eat lunch with the awkward kid. Ask twice when they say they’re “good.”

We’ve got to create spaces—digital and physical—where young people can be fully known, fully present, and fully themselves.

That takes time.

And trust.

And yeah, sometimes an awkward silence or two. (And maybe a box of Little Caesars. Pizza pizza.)

But it’s worth it.

Because in a world obsessed with being seen, we need to remind them—and ourselves—that being real is what truly connects us.

Even if it starts with confiscating a phone and saying, “Let’s talk.”

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at Inkblotz—stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.