A Love Letter to Gen Z

An empty playground

My dear ones, you’ve been on my mind a lot lately. My newsfeed is filled with articles about your unhappiness. You’re the “loneliest generation” the “quiet quitting generation” the “unhappiest generation.” Why do they say these things? They have data, collected from you, the most digitally connected of us, to back these claims. The other day, I read an article in Psychology Today reporting on an ongoing wellbeing study at Harvard that stated, “…one particularly striking feature of this most recent data is that young adults (especially those aged 18-25 years) are not doing especially well, and they are not doing well across multiple aspects of well-being.”

Of course, this should give me pause. As a mother of two young men, aged 23 and 21, their wellbeing is of the utmost concern for me, and I’ve probably clicked too many of these articles and now my newsfeed algorithm knows how to get to me, but my concern goes much further than that. I care so much about you because I had the absolute honor of playing with those of you born after 1996 for over a decade. I’ve been many things in my lifetime thus far, and when my youngest son started pre-school, I became a movement education teacher—physical education as most adults my age know it—with dance, circus arts, tumbling, and a whole lotta play thrown in. I recall the light in your eyes, your laughter, your bright and fiery dispositions. From dancing and tumbling together to playing capture the flag amidst the great redwoods of California to spending days with you backstage during the annual dance show, I have memory after memory, not of a lonely generation glued to their phones, but humans filled with the joy of play. I worked at three schools total, one in Illinois and two in California, and have played with hundreds of you. Once, I was at a pizza party in my neighborhood and as I danced under the stars with my friends, I realized that between the two schools in California I’d danced with every single one of their children but two. How cool is that?

What happened my dancing friends? Where has your joy gone? I was trained as a Waldorf games teacher, and one of the most important teaching techniques I learned was that of the student meditation. If a particular student is in need of some help in their lives or if the relationship between you could use some improvement, you begin by observing them in real life, catching and storing those moments where they really shine. Maybe they help a younger child climb a tree or carry your equipment back to the shed after class, things like that. Then you meditate on their highest self as you go to sleep. We were taught to keep doing this until either the relationship shifts, or the solution becomes obvious. I can’t tell you how many profound relationships I have with you now that you’re older because I spent hours considering your true self when you were little. This is one of the greatest gifts from my teaching career, and I now wish to do it once more, with the whole lot of you.

I know it’s hard. Things are collapsing all around us. We didn’t raise you the way we were raised. When I was young I lived near a superfund site. The world had already been poisoned and the grownups were trying to hide it from us. I didn’t read the paper, nor watch the news. I just went to school, gymnastics class, or played in the streets. Every summer was a blessed blur of kick the can, bike races, climbing trees, and playing in the mud around the lakes. Yet as we age and feel the health effects from growing up in a toxic world, we’ve told you about them. Nothing has been hidden, not possible when we have our news rolling 24/7, phones in our hands, and a highly educated generation that doesn’t want to hide anything from their children. In some ways, this may have been a mistake. Truly, what can a five-year-old do with such information? I’m not trying to excuse Gen X, your parents, for painting the world as it is too soon for you, it’s just we knew how we didn’t want to raise you—being raised by early Boomers that hid everything from us—but we really didn’t know what the alternative was, other than perhaps treating you like adults when you weren’t.

I knew we were raising you differently after I left my tech career to stay home with my kids. I’m not very resilient when it comes to stress and multitasking, so when I found myself with a second child and a nanny that quit, I decided I too would quit, and become a stay-at-home-mom. I recall the exact moment when it hit me that things were very, very off. We lived in a suburb of Chicago and every day; the garage doors would open at 7:30 am and all the minivans would drive away. When the clock struck 5:30 pm, they’d open again, minivans slipping inside, doors closing behind as if swallowed by a spaceship. I never saw children in the streets. One day, I stood on the corner with my double stroller, toddler and infant inside, and screamed “HELP ME” at the top of my lungs. Not a single house stirred, not even the moving of blind to see what was going on. It was dead silent. Only my toddler, peeking up over the sunshade, his eyes wide, seemed to notice.

This happened because no one lived there. They slept there. The beautiful playgrounds were empty, swings gently moving in the breeze. I had to work extremely hard to find playmates for my kids. I knew this was important, that the absence of play would hurt them in the long run. It’s why I ended up sending them to Waldorf schools—because I wanted a play-based world for them when they were young. It’s also why I became a movement teacher—I wanted to bring that play to more than just my own kids. ALL kids needed it. So, I began to play with you; teach you to spin a plate, walk a beam, go upside down, run like the wind, and throw a ball.

I know life looks grim, but if you can remember to play, you will remember your true self, and trust me, your true self is beyond beautiful. Everything you need is within you, if only you can stop taking life so seriously, so personally, and add play back into your lives. My youngest son told me recently that many of the kids he’s met in college don’t know how to play. They never got to, having been one of those children in the minivans who left their homes each day. While we like to blame the Boomers for everything, and fair enough they did destroy the planet and create an economic system even they’re afraid of letting go of for fear we’d dismantle it, but it’s Gen X, your parents, who didn’t let you play. As my son said to me, that’s on us. I won’t go into the reasons for this, but perhaps you will consider that our misunderstanding of the need for play is the root of our discontent as adults as well.

Play is the work of children, and it is also the balm needed to move forward at this time as a civilization. Nature plays, even in the most serious of times, so why shouldn’t we? Since I’m the one meditating on you, let me share with you the memories I treasure in my heart, memories of your play, your joy, your light. I believe in this part of you, and it hasn’t died. We can play at any moment…

I remember finding you in the trees, above the white line painted by the adults to keep you safe, peeking out at me from under your eyelashes.

I remember you first catching a ball after many weeks of frustration.

I remember you loving dodgeball when you turned 12, wanting nothing more than to explore the boundaries between you.

I remember having to give you detention when you failed to use proper language in front of the kindergarteners, and we would run together after school for 20 minutes. Each one of you hated me and my “punishment”, but I loved hearing you talk while we ran. I swear Gen Z is the funniest of all the generations.

I remember spotting many of you for a handstand for your first time. Some of you were elated, others screamed. For many, you’d never been upside down before and the sensation either thrilled you or jumped you right out of your body.

I remember the strategy sessions you’d have when playing capture the flag. You took it so seriously, but I know you loved it. Even now, when I bump into a former student, those hours spent under the redwoods chasing each other are what you remember most.

I remember the first time you performed a solo dance in dance studies class—so scared and then transforming into a goddess as the music began to play.

I remember you backstage, getting the other dance company members ready for the show, hyping them up as they looked up to you, eyes glowing with appreciation for your enthusiasm.

I remember watching you choreograph a routine for the show, so hesitant at first and finding your voice by the day of the performance. There’s nothing like seeing your imagination come alive in the form of a dance, is there?

I remember you first learning the waltz in 6th grade, all of you a bit awkward about having to touch each other so closely but loving it so much in the end you signed up for my class over and over again.

Of course, there were times when play devolved into the Lord of the Flies. This is probably why my generation tried to keep you from unstructured play—we didn’t want you to hurt the way we hurt. Games can mean physical harm for sure—skinned knees, balls breaking eyeglasses, broken bones. There are also psychological damages as well. No one is nice all the time and my job as a teacher was to try and create the space for you to go to the edges with the least harm possible. Sometimes I failed, and sometimes so did you.

Yet there’s no life without play, even if play is a bit dangerous. Competition can bring out the best and the worst in us. Still, it’s better to experience the hurt, face it, and then continue forward. Life is a big game my friends, one with plenty of rules and regulations, but with some strategy and a realization that nothing is personal, playing the game of life moves from fear to awe. From disdain to wonder. From nihilism to interest. For the future is only as bright as the thoughts in our head. If your head is full of grief and pain, the best remedy is to get out there and play.

Gen Z, I’m not going to tell you it’s your job to save the world from the necessary collapse we are now witnessing together. It never was. When I knew you as kids your job was to play. I still believe that. What the world is on the other side of this tribulation will be determined by the state of our hearts, not our bank accounts. Those joyful hearts still reside within you. Give your heart your attention and your interest and see where it takes you.

Under the chaos, bruises, and skinned knees, is your laughter. Trust me, as a gym teacher, I know.