“My Teen’s Phone Battery Is at 19%—Please Respect Our Privacy During This Difficult Time”
By a Mom Who Charges Her Own Phone Constantly Like a Grown-Up
Ah, summer—the glorious season of sunburns, overpriced slushies, and those endlessly long days. Or, as we call it in sunny Myrtle Beach: nine million degrees of pure sweat with 200% humidity, spent outside, from Myrtle Waves, our local water park from open to close or running beach marathons starting at noon that only end when someone gets stung by a jellyfish or we run out of Cheez-Its. (Shoutout to my fellow mamas who always have a bottle of white vinegar on hand—because you never know when jellyfish drama strikes.)
You know what summer is absolutely not built for?
Charging your phone. HARD FACTS.
When the UV index is sitting pretty at a 9 (thank you, teenage meteorologist), and your phone’s been roasting in the sun like it’s auditioning for a heatstroke PSA, that battery doesn’t just drain—it taps out. Full-on overheated, dehydrated, and gasping for Gatorade.
And heaven forbid it actually shuts off—because then we’re not just dealing with a dead phone. We’re dealing with emotional collapse, spiritual unrest, and a full-blown existential crisis at 45th Ave North, our beach access spot.
You’d think the kids would make a mental note of that.
But no. They march into these 9-hour outdoor adventures armed with 37% battery, the same way pioneers used to cross the prairie with half a jug of water and vibes.
Why? Because they’ve already burned through 60% of their charge before noon—texting group chats about who’s bringing the Takis & Dr. Pepper, sending Snapchats of bathing suit options, while taking 173 photos of the same pose with a peace sign and the caption “Hags.”
And don’t forget the Spotify battle that requires internet, Bluetooth, and divine intervention.
So when that battery bar dips below 20%, we’re no longer at the beach—we’re in crisis mode.
And that’s where our story begins…
“MOMMMM! I’M AT 12%!!! WHERE’S MY CHARGER?!”
Ah yes. The modern emergency.
The emotional equivalent of being stranded on a deserted island with nothing but a reusable straw and no Dunkins’ iced coffee.
We are talking about phone battery anxiety.
And if you are the parent of a teen—boy or girl, emotionally attached to their phone like it’s a pacemaker—you know the symptoms:
- Sudden hyperventilation when battery dips below 30%.
- Accusatory finger-pointing when said charger is missing.
- Unwarranted blame placed on family members, pets, or ghosts.
- General inability to function or speak in full sentences until phone is plugged in and metaphorically “stabilized.”
Battery Life = Actual Life (Apparently)
My child has told me—dead serious—that a low phone battery gives them “a physical reaction.”
Like it’s not a device anymore. It’s an organ. And anything below 20% is considered life support.
Meanwhile, I’ve walked around all day with 4% and a cracked screen, just raw-dogging the Walmart run like a true warrior.
But I guess I don’t understand the stakes. But I also know, I have chargers EVERYWHERE. So I will be okay. I will survive.
“What if someone’s trying to reach me?”
What, like your 127 unread Snapchats from people who communicate exclusively in Bitmojis and blurry ceiling photos? Yes. The world must wait on pins and needles to hear how your Panera lemonade was mid, nothing compared to Chick-fil-A’s.
Boys, Girls, and the Shared Delusion of Dying Phones
Boys will not remember to bring a hoodie when it’s 42 degrees, but somehow they’ll carry three chargers like modern-day tech survivalists. One for school, one for home, one “just in case.”
Just in case what, son? You spontaneously get drafted into a Fortnite tournament mid-PE?
Girls? Oh honey. A teen girl with a dying phone is a Shakespearean tragedy.
She’ll start making final statements like:
“Tell my bestie I love her.”
“If I don’t respond to this text in time, she’s going to think I hate her and she’ll sit with someone else at lunch and that’s how friendships die, Mom.”
Right. Because friendships, apparently, have the shelf life of unwrapped gum.
The Search for the Missing Charger: A Family Affair
When the charger disappears—and it always does—it becomes a federal investigation.
Suddenly, I’m CSI: Teen Bedroom.
Checking between mattresses, under piles of laundry, and inside the bathroom like a detective who hates herself.
“Who used my charger?” they demand, like I run a black-market electronics ring in my spare time.
No, babe. I don’t want your off-brand TikTok light-up cable, or the block you swear is Fast-Charging. It’s not. I bought it and I know it’s from 5 Below. I however have a fast charger, and good wires. I have a job. And a purse charger. Because I’m an adult. Or at least that’s what my birth certificate says.
But somehow, the frantic charger hunt turns into a full-on house-wide scavenger hunt every single time.
Newsflash: We all have chargers. I’ve been an Android user for years, rocking USB-C like a pro, while Apple finally phases out their endless tangle of lightning cables. Now? All the chargers just look like a confusing spaghetti mess, and everyone swears their charger is “missing.”
Spoiler alert: They’re all mine. I’ve bought every single one.
The best part? When someone (never me, of course) loses “their” charger or dock and the panic ensues. Cue the classic family chorus:
“Mom! Honey?!? Where’s MY charger?!”
Relax, people. Mom’s got this. (Little do they know we have like six identical chargers stashed somewhere… probably in the junk drawer with the leftover Halloween candy.)
The Car Charger Crisis: Buckle Up, Baby
Then there’s the car charger situation.
Because apparently, the moment the key turns in the ignition, their phone begins to die at 6x speed.
“Do you have a charger in here?? I only have 18%!”
Ma’am. We are driving two miles to Walmart. You will survive.
But no, that charger must be retrieved from the depths of the center console, untangled from the Carplay wire, located in the abyss of hair ties, straw wrappers, and receipts from endless Dunkins’ runs.
And while we’re at it, I must also connect their phone to the car’s Bluetooth IMMEDIATELY.
Because heaven forbid we suffer in silence or, God forbid, listen to my music.
They NEED to play their playlist.
A playlist that has 973 songs they will skip after 19 seconds.
Unless, of course, it’s Megan Moroney, in which case they will belt the lyrics like they’re auditioning for The Voice—despite never knowing what to do with the bridge.
Yes, please scream-cry-sing about tequila and exes you’ve never had.
I’m just trying to merge onto 501 without dying. While bringing you and your crew to Fuse. (our church’s AMAZING youth program, held Wednesday nights)
Rules of Battery Management, According to Teens
Here’s what I’ve learned are the unwritten rules:
- The phone must be at 100% at all times, despite the fact that 70% of their apps are used to repost memes.
- If they’re at 92%, they will still plug in their phone “just in case.”
- You, the parent, are not allowed to borrow their charger even if your phone is actually dead, because “you’re not gonna give it back right.”
(Oh sorry, I didn’t realize chargers now came with custody agreements.)
A Portable Charger Exists. They Will Not Use It.
Don’t even suggest a portable charger.
“Oh my God, those are so bulky and weird, and they take forever to charge!”
Right. Meanwhile, you’re carting around a phone case the size of a small briefcase, covered in those weird suction cups that have left permanent “art” all over my backseat windows—because why not decorate the car with sticky phone prints?—but heaven forbid you carry a battery pack the size of a granola bar. What is that, too much responsibility?Make it make sense.
The Final Countdown: 5% and Meltdown
When it hits single digits, everyone suffers.
“Mom, I’m at 3%.”
Okay. And I’m at the edge of my sanity, sweetie.
They start plugging into wall outlets in public like it’s a hostage negotiation.
Once, my daughter tried to charge her phone at the hospital. She was screaming in pain when the school called. At the hospital? Needs to give minute to minute updates via Snap. We thought maybe appendicitis. Looks like a potential ovarian cyst situation. But we needed to provide updates, over the next 7 hours, to EVERY SINGLE FRIEND.
Ma’am. This is a HOSPITAL. Not a charging station. But I get it. I guess.
And if it actually dies? Oh. My. Lord.
It’s as if they’ve been unplugged from the Matrix.
“I feel weird.”
Yes, that’s called being present in the real world.
Try breathing it in. Try… speaking to someone.
Let’s Talk About My Battery
Meanwhile, my own battery—my emotional battery—is blinking red too.
Because while their phone gets charged three times a day, guess who’s running on fumes and vibes?
Me.
So next time my teen comes wailing down the hall like their iPhone is flatlining, I’m going to hand them a charger with one hand and a mirror with the other and say:
“You are not dying. Your phone is. Now go touch the sand at the beach.”
The Gold Hoop Diaries
Too tired to sugarcoat. But yes, your charger’s in the car. The one you left blasting Megan Moroney at 110 decibels.