My teenage daughter is practically inseparable from her phone. So I set a new rule—just one hour of screen time per day. She was furious.
“You’re going to regret this,” she warned.
I brushed it off—until I got a call from her school last week. Her teacher’s voice was urgent: “Please come in. Your daughter needs you.”
Panic surged. My mind jumped to worst-case scenarios—was she hurt? In trouble? Was it something even worse?
When I arrived, her teacher, Ms. Bernal, met me outside the counselor’s office. She looked serious, but composed.
“Mrs. Alston, come in. Let’s talk.”
Inside, my daughter Iris sat across from me. She looked physically okay—no injuries, no tears—but she wouldn’t look at me.
“What’s going on?” I asked, heart racing.
Ms. Bernal took a breath. “Iris hasn’t been eating lunch. She’s been crying in the bathroom. Today, someone found her alone behind the gym—clearly very upset.”
I was stunned. “Iris… why didn’t you say anything?”
She didn’t answer. Just stared at the floor.
Then Ms. Bernal added softly, “She’s been experiencing cyberbullying. Once her phone time was limited, she couldn’t respond. The other girls started targeting her even more when she stopped engaging.”
My chest tightened. I thought restricting her phone would help her unplug and feel better. I didn’t realize it would leave her defenseless. Without access, she couldn’t see the harassment or stand up for herself.
After a moment, Iris finally spoke, voice low: “They thought I was ignoring them. Said I was stuck-up. They started group chats without me… edited photos… it just kept getting worse.”
I reached for her hand, my heart aching. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
Tears shimmered in her eyes. “You already thought I was obsessed with my phone. I didn’t want you to think I was weak too.”
That broke me. I’d been so focused on controlling her screen time, I hadn’t stopped to hear what she was really going through.
That evening, we sat together on the couch—no devices, no distractions. Just the two of us.
“I only made things harder for you, didn’t I?” I asked quietly.
She shook her head. “You were trying to help. You just didn’t know everything.”
We talked for hours—really talked—for the first time in a long time. She opened up about how her friend group had turned against her. How the phone wasn’t the issue—it was her only lifeline.
That night, I understood: the problem wasn’t her screen. It was what the screen exposed. And what I needed to do wasn’t limit her access—but protect her, listen, and walk with her through it.