(Apparently)
aka the woman who ruins teenage lives by saying “no”
Let me set the scene: I’m standing in my kitchen, sipping lukewarm coffee that’s been microwaved twice and still somehow tastes like regret. My 14-year-old daughter is in the other room, moping. Why? Because I committed a crime against humanity—I said “no.”
No, you can’t sleep over at someone’s house I’ve never met.
No, you can’t go to the beach at 10 p.m. with “just some people from school.”
No, I’m not Apple-Paying you for a $13 lemonade.
No, you cannot DoorDash Starbucks to school. What is this, Succession?
Apparently, that makes me the mean mom. Not a mom who cares. Not a mom who wants her kid to grow into a strong, kind, smart woman with an ounce of common sense. Just a certified killjoy. The Fun Police. Ruiner of Vibes. My daughter’s literal words were, “You always say no. Everyone else’s mom says yes.”
Oh, do they now?
Because either I’m raising a child in a town full of 14-year-old independent contractors with unlimited AmEx cards and absentee landlords for parents—or something else is going on here.
Look, I’m not trying to be her best friend. She has friends. Too many, actually. But which friend is coming or going? Friendships seem so fickle, so conditional. What she DOES have is a parent, and I’m saying, “Hey babe, this is the boundary. Not because I want to ruin your life, but because I want you to have one.”
Being a teenager today is a psychological escape room wrapped in a social media fever dream. There are no clear exits, just ring lights, group chats, and the illusion of freedom. Saying “yes” all the time doesn’t make us the cool parent—it just makes the consequences of our kid’s problem later. I love my daughter too much to be lazy about her safety, her sanity, and her sense of self.
Am I a little intense sometimes? Sure. But I’m not a helicopter mom. I’m not tracking her with a drone and scanning her texts for code words. I am the mom who will absolutely scroll your Instagram likes and know who is following you, making sure I know THEM. I’m not playing.
Because here’s the truth no one wants to say out loud: Teenagers don’t need more friends. They need parents who are willing to be temporarily unpopular. They need guidance, even when they pretend they don’t. They need expectations, rules, structure, and someone who’s brave enough to be the “mean mom” when necessary.
So yeah. I’ll keep saying no.
I’ll keep ruining her weekend plans with little things like common sense and a bedtime.
I’ll keep asking annoying questions and holding the line.
Because one day—when she’s grown, and safe, and knows her worth—she’ll thank me.
Probably not today. But one day.
Until then, I’ll be in the kitchen, re-microwaving this coffee for the third time.
And just to really crank up the emotional thermostat:
High school starts in less than one month.
One. Month.
You ever try to prepare a 14-year-old for high school when they think they already know everything about life because they took a Buzzfeed quiz about what kind of friend they are in the group chat?
We’re not ready.
I’m not ready.
She’s convinced she’s stepping into some glamorous reboot of her own life. I’m over here quietly losing my mind trying to figure out how to keep her grounded when the next four years will be full of fake friends, fast feelings, bad cafeteria pizza, and questionable fashion choices.
She’s got her whole “first day look” thought of down to the shoes. Hair appointment booked. Nails scheduled. She has a plan in mind for her aesthetic and somehow believes it’s my job to fund the transformation.
Meanwhile, I’m asking things like:
“Do you know when you get your schedule?”
“Do you know what electives you got?”
“Are there any certain supplies we need for the first day that I don’t know about?”
I want her to walk into that school confident—but not cocky. I want her to know she’s enough without needing to shrink or stretch herself to fit into whatever group says she’s worthy this week. I want her to be brave enough to say “no” when something feels wrong, even if it makes her the odd one out.
And yes, that starts at home.
It starts with hearing “no” here, where the stakes are low and the consequences are manageable. It starts with boundaries she can push against, not because I like the back-and-forth (I don’t), but because I want her to know where she stands in the world before the world tries to convince her otherwise.
I keep reminding myself that being “the mean mom” now is a down payment on her knowing how to make her own decisions later.
And I’ll gladly take the eye rolls, the huffs, the “ugh, you don’t get it” speeches. Because you know what?
She’s right.
I don’t get it. I didn’t have Snapchat growing up. I didn’t have to worry about someone filming my worst moment and sending it to the entire school. I didn’t have group texts with secret side group texts that exclude you by lunch and pretend they didn’t by sixth period. It’s brutal out there.
But I do know this:
She won’t always thank me for saying no.
But she’ll remember that I loved her enough to.
So yeah. Less than thirty days to high school.
Let the countdown begin.
Let the “mean mom” cape billow in the breeze.
Let me restock my caffeine supply and pray for wisdom, patience, and a solid Wi-Fi signal.
She thinks I don’t get it.
But I do—and I refuse to sit back and watch the world parent her for me.
And let’s not even talk about the new friends.
Actually, no—let’s talk about them.
Because apparently, my daughter has friends who are already in high school. Some of them drive. Some of them have jobs. Some of them—brace yourself—have boyfriends who also drive.
And I’m supposed to be cool with that?
Baby girl, you just learned how to make your own bagel without burning it. And now you’re telling me someone with a learner’s permit is coming to pick you up?
I don’t think so.
And no, I don’t care if her mom said yes. I’m not her mom. I don’t know that woman. I don’t know her morals. I don’t know if she reads ingredients or if she lets her kids just “figure it out” at house parties with a 2-liter of soda and no supervision.
You want to hang out with older kids? Cool. But understand this: I am not about to let a 14-year-old live a 17-year-old’s life while I foot the bill and pray to the group chat gods for safety updates. That’s how girls end up in situations they can’t handle with people who absolutely can handle manipulating them.
And the parties? LAWD.
The sheer audacity of asking me if she can go to a “small get-together” at someone’s cousin’s house… where “maybe people will be drinking, but I won’t” made my soul momentarily leave my body. I had to close my eyes and count to ten like a woman in a meditation app. Then I had to ask what I already knew:
“Will there be parents there?”
“I think so?”
“Do you know the cousin’s name?”
“Umm…”
“Do you think I was born yesterday?”
“No… but like, you never let me do anything!”
BINGO. That’s the phrase. The national anthem of the teenage daughter with a mother who loves her too much to be chill.
Listen, if saying “no” makes me the mean mom, then fine. Stamp it on my forehead. Print it on a t-shirt. I’ll wear it to the PTA meeting with my gold hoops and my iced coffee. Because this stage right here—the one where they think they’re invincible but still forget to pack deodorant for gym—is when parenting gets real.
This is when the world starts to open up just enough to be dangerous.
This is when they start looking to their peers for answers instead of their parents.
This is when “boundaries” stop being rules and start being lifelines.
No, you can’t go to the party.
No, your boyfriend can’t come over when I’m not home. (not that she has one YET, but its coming)
No, I don’t care if you’re the “only one” who isn’t allowed to go.
You’ll survive.
I’m not raising a follower. I’m not raising a pick-me. I’m not raising a child who thinks love means “do whatever you want.” I’m raising a woman.
And women need to know how to say “no,” because they’ve heard it at home from someone who meant it with love, not malice.
You can hate me now.
You can cry in your room.
You can call me annoying, unfair, extra, dramatic.
But when you’re grown?
When you’re the one making the call to leave the sketchy party early?
When you’re the one not getting in that car?
When you’re the one who says “nah, I’m good” and means it?
You’ll know why I was “mean.”
And I’ll still be here.
In the kitchen. Re-microwaving coffee. Again.
And honestly? I wish more parents were like this.
Because lately, I’ve noticed something else: a lot of the “yes” kids in her life?
They’ve got money.
And I don’t mean allowance money. I mean money money.
They’ve got the kind of parents who say “yes” to designer sneakers, who casually drop $300 on last-minute concert tickets, and who drop their 14-year-old daughter to the mall or maybe Broadway, with their bank accounts linked to the teens ApplePay, and say “see ya in a few hours!”
Broadway with friends? Sure. I’ll be people watching around the corner. Mall on a Saturday afternoon? Okay, I’ll be playing Candy Crush in the Food Court. I’m not trying to be attached to you, but I’m still gonna be around, cuz ya know, you’re 14.
Let me make one thing crystal clear:
We’re not broke—but we’re not living the high life, either.
And even if we were, money doesn’t buy maturity.
It doesn’t buy common sense.
And it sure as hell doesn’t buy me off when it comes to parenting.
Just because they can afford to say yes, doesn’t mean I should feel pressured to do the same.
Our life is filled with MUCH bigger priorities than material things. Love, health and our faith are the most valuable things in our family. Do her friends care about that? Not particularly. Do her social media platforms care about that? Nope. It’s all about appearances. Outfits. Vacations.
My daughter doesn’t need me to try and “keep up” with her rich friends’ moms.
She needs me to keep her safe.
And guess what? Safety doesn’t always come wrapped in glitter and privilege. Sometimes it shows up in sweatpants, saying, “Nope, not happening,” with a mom bun and a grocery list.
We’re not here to flex.
We’re here to raise kids who know how to function when the credit card isn’t available and the answer isn’t always yes.
So yeah. I might be the mean mom.
But I’m also the mom who makes her daughter feel secure enough to be told no.
The one who won’t say yes just to avoid an eye roll or a teenage meltdown.
The one who’s not impressed by parents buying their way out of boundaries.
Because the truth is—these kids don’t need more besties. They don’t need another adult who shrugs and says, “Teens will be teens.”
They need parents.
Present ones. Inconvenient ones. Watchful, annoying, boundary-setting ones.
They need people like me.
And if that makes me the mean mom, so be it.
I’ll be the mean mom with a kid who knows her worth, knows how to think, and knows she can always call me—no matter what.
Also—can we talk about the mental gymnastics these teens do to make me feel bad for being financially responsible?
Like somehow I’m the problem because I won’t let her get a full set of nails for $70, just because, as if I don’t need to plan or budget because other kids “just do it.” We can always make it work, sometimes it’s just “when I get paid” or let me pay the bills first and see where I’m at. And a teenager, with no job, no earned income, should be fine with that.
No. They don’t just do it.
Their parents do it. Their parents’ credit cards do it.
And maybe their parents are fine with tossing money at every teenage whim like it’s a TikTok tip jar. I’m not.
We don’t say yes because someone else did.
We don’t buy things because someone else can afford it.
We don’t go places just because “everyone else is going.”
We use discernment.
We use discussion.
We use debit cards with limits.
Because the truth is—there’s a big difference between can and should.
Can you hang out with your older friends? Maybe.
Should you? That’s where I come in.
Can your friend with the new driver’s license take you to the movies? Possibly.
Should you be in a car with a 16-year-old boy who thinks speed limits are optional and turns the volume up when he doesn’t know where he’s going? Hard no. (I’m actively preparing for this one)
But somehow I’m the unreasonable one.
It’s like there’s this unspoken pressure to make her teenage life feel like an episode of a teen drama series. Curated. Carefree. Perfectly lit.
But here’s the plot twist: I’m not writing Euphoria: The Mom Edition.
I’m writing “Real Life, With Consequences and Clean Laundry.”
Not as catchy, but it’ll keep her alive.
And let me just say—parenting in this season feels like being at a sleepover where all the other moms fell asleep and I’m the only one still awake, watching the kids, yelling “Hey! That’s not a good idea!” while everyone else is snoring.
Like…where is the rest of the team?
I wish more parents would say no. I wish more of us would stop trying to look laid back and start acting locked in.
Because we are raising girls who are watching everything. They notice who’s showing up and who’s shrugging off responsibility like it’s just a phase.
And you know what? I’m fine being the parent who makes her mad today if it means she’s safe tomorrow.
Because while she’s off trying to figure out her identity, her place in the world, her “vibe,” I’ll be over here making sure she knows her value.
Even if it costs me a few slammed doors, dramatic sighs, and exaggerated texts to her group chat like, “Ugh. My mom’s being insane again.”
Insane? No.
Intuitive? Yes.
Involved? Absolutely.
Unapologetic? Every damn time.
Now I’ll admit something:
I don’t check her Snapchat the way I probably should.
I keep an eye on her Instagram. I lurk her TikTok. I have conversations, I read the vibes, I watch for the red flags—but I haven’t fully dug into Snap. Not because I don’t care, but because I don’t get it and the last thing I want to look like when I’m trying to be the “know all” mom, is clueless.
And honestly? I’m a little naïve about it.
Not in a “my daughter would never” kind of way—but more in the “I’m already juggling a hundred other things and can barely keep up with how this app works” kind of way.
I tell myself: she’s not the worst.
She’s not reckless. She’s not scandalous. She’s not posting things that would end up on the news.
But I also know that being “not the worst” doesn’t mean she’s immune.
Because some of these kids?
Some of these kids are out here posting skimpy bikini pics with captions that sound like song lyrics but read like a warning sign. Some of these kids are throwing “kickbacks” in their parent-less houses and documenting it like a promo reel. Some of these girls are already trying to live the life of influencers when they haven’t even passed biology yet. My baby isn’t perfect, but I like to think I have a pretty good eye on her, and call her out when something isn’t right.
And their moms?
Their moms are on Facebook posting family vacation pics with captions like “#Blessed” while their daughters are out here hashtagging #idc in dresses that leave little to the imagination and lip gloss covered duck lips.
So yeah—I know I need to be better.
I need to check the phone more.
Ask more questions. Scroll a little deeper.
Because these apps? They’re not social—they’re survival.
And I’m not trying to raise a daughter who navigates that world alone. I want to raise one who knows that attention isn’t affection. That “likes” don’t mean love. That if someone’s “bestie” one day and ignores you the next, that’s not a reflection of your worth—it’s a reflection of theirs.
But here’s the complicated part:
How do I teach all that without constantly spying?
How do I create trust without handing over full independence?
How do I balance being aware with not becoming obsessed?
That’s the tightrope.
And I’m not always graceful on it. I wobble. I mess up. I over-trust. I undercheck.
But I keep showing up. Because what’s worse than being “the mean mom”?
Being the asleep one.
So here’s what I know:
She may not always be making bad choices.
But she is surrounded by kids who are.
And while I don’t want to helicopter her into oblivion, I also refuse to stand by and just hope she turns out okay.
That’s not parenting. That’s gambling.
So I’ll be the mean mom.
The out-of-touch mom. The “ugh she’s soooo strict” mom.
But I’ll also be the mom who starts paying closer attention.
Who learns the apps. Who asks the questions.
Who stays in the loop, even if I have to claw my way in through the group chat and some light digital forensics.
Because when you know better, you do better.
And I’ve got too much riding on her future to sit this one out.
And then comes the part no one really talks about:
The mom guilt.
Because for every firm boundary I lay down, every “no” I give, every decision I make that feels like the right one—even when I know it’s the right one—there’s still that whisper that creeps in later:
Was I too harsh?
Was I dismissive?
Should I have listened longer?
Did I miss something important under all that attitude?
Because underneath the gold hoops and the sass and the “I said what I said,”
I’m still just a mom who wants to get it right.
And some days? I don’t feel like I am.
Some days I yell. I snap. I say “no” before hearing the full story.
Some days I let my exhaustion win.
Some days I scroll while she’s talking.
Some days I forget she’s not just moody—she’s becoming.
Becoming a young woman.
Becoming her own person.
Becoming someone who, despite all the pushback, is still looking to me to show her how.
And when I feel myself getting it wrong?
When I see her shut down, or walk away with her shoulders dropped just a little lower,
The guilt hits hard.
Because I remember what it felt like to be misunderstood.
To be 14 and sensitive and smart and secretly scared.
To feel like no one really heard me, even when I was the loudest one in the room.
And now I’m the grown-up.
I’m the one she looks at when she’s searching for safety—even when she pretends she doesn’t need it.
So yeah, the guilt creeps in.
But here’s what I’ve learned:
Guilt only has power if it keeps you stuck.
But when you let it teach you something? That’s where the good stuff lives.
It teaches me to pause before I pounce.
To ask before I assume.
To apologize when I mess up—because yes, I do.
And to remind her, out loud, that this—the rules, the “no’s,” the uncomfortable conversations—they are all love in action.
I’m not trying to be perfect.
I’m trying to be present.
Even on the days when I’m tired, stretched thin, and deeply questioning every choice I’ve made since she was in a car seat.
Because this is the truth I come back to again and again:
She doesn’t need a perfect mom.
She needs a mom who keeps showing up.
Who gets it wrong, but never gives up.
Who holds the line, even when her voice shakes.
Who chooses the hard path over the popular one.
Who lets the guilt wash in, but doesn’t let it drown her.
I will not parent from guilt.
But I will listen to it when it nudges me to soften—just enough.
Because being “mean” is easy.
Being intentional? That’s the work.
And I’m in it for the long haul.
And then—there’s the part no one sees.
The part behind the slammed doors and heavy sighs.
Behind the eye rolls and TikToks and teenage heat.
The part where my 14-year-old daughter is quietly carrying a grief she doesn’t know how to name yet.
The fear.
The reality.
The heaviness of watching the man she calls stepdad—but loves like a second father—get sick. Stay sick. Grow sicker.
This man who showed up and showed out.
Who never treated her like an add-on or a maybe.
Who listened to her vent, picked her up from school, cheered at every event like it was the Super Bowl.
Who made her feel chosen, cherished, and seen.
And now? She’s watching him slip away.
Not in big, dramatic ways—yet.
But in the quiet ones. The tired ones. The moments when he can’t do what he used to. When she catches me watching him too closely. When the room feels heavier than it should for a Tuesday night.
So yeah. She’s angry sometimes.
Quick-tempered. Defensive. Quiet. Distant.
And I want to scream, “me too!”.
Because I’m grieving too.
Grieving the future I thought we’d all have.
Trying to protect her from the truth while also gently preparing her for it.
Trying to keep her grounded while everything under us shifts.
Trying to be a mother, a partner, a provider, and a human who doesn’t cry in the produce aisle.
So when the “no’s” come down hard…
When I go into lockdown mode over friends and phones and Friday night plans…
I have to remind myself: She’s not just being a teenager.
She’s surviving something.
And if I want her to become the kind of woman who leads with empathy—
Then I have to offer it to her now.
Even when she’s prickly.
Even when she says things that sting.
Even when she pushes me away in the exact moment she needs me the most.
So yes, I’ll keep the boundaries.
But I’ll also lead with grace.
I’ll say no—with softness in my tone and love in my eyes.
I’ll fight for her, not just with her.
I’ll make space for the tears that don’t have words yet.
Because she’s navigating her first real heartbreak—before it’s even happened.
And no amount of “mean mom” toughness will ever make that easy.
So here we are.
One month from high school.
One moment from meltdown.
One breath at a time.
Me, holding the line.
Her, holding everything else.
Too tired to sugarcoat. Still rocking the hoops. Always showing up.
-Deborah