Gen Z and me

Coming of age in a time when having unprotected sex would (surely!) have been a death sentence thanks to HIV, when listening to new CDs at the store was a prime flirting activity and ‘self care’ meant not blowing your cigarette smoke in your only non-smoking friend’s face made me resilient. And empathetic. And also weirdly world-weary: whatever will be, will be. So suck it up and make the best of it.

Now, at the ripe old age of 51, I’m a proud mom to two amazing textbook specimens of Generation Z. My daughters Mia and Lily, born in 2002 and 2004, respectively, show many of the traits people (okay, older people!) love to hate. They were the first generation with (crappy) mobile phones. They learned to regulate their screen time themselves, because we were on our phones, too. They survived a pandemic in their most formative years without becoming TikTokers. They drink matcha lattes with oat milk. They shop for their clothing in vintage stores because we have already destroyed the planet for them by shopping at H&M, and they proactively protect their mental health by saying things like ‘I’m staying in tonight, going to that party won’t be good for me’. And while a part of me would absolutely enjoy riffing on them, too (both Mia and Lily currently declare that they’ll never work full-time jobs), I find myself quietly, but also intensely jealous of their self-assuredness.

I, on the other hand, spent my early twenties in a Bridget Jones-inspired quest to find the perfect boyfriend and husband while simultaneously launching a career in radio, always afraid of being ‘not enough’. Not skinny enough. Not smart enough. Not sexy enough. Not successful enough. What a gift it would have been if I had been able to set boundaries like today’s young adults can! Just imagine telling my parents that I smoked. And even inhaled! How amazing it would have been, telling the creepy older men at work to keep their hands (and their comments) to themselves! And how thrilling the thought of falling in love with yourself first, before seeking everyone and anyone’s approval – or even worse, someone to ‘complete’ you? I’m equally to some extent made speechless by, and quietly envious of my daughters’ freedom to choose when to conform, and when to advocate for themselves, both in their private lives and at work and school.

Sometimes, I ask myself: Was I a helicopter mom who turned her offspring into special snowflakes, despite all my good intentions? We talk about this a lot at our dinner table, by the way: another sign of eye-level parenting that would have never been possible in my own youth. Everything is up for debate, and it’s honestly tiring at times. But in the end, my daughters know what they want, and aren’t afraid to ask for it. And yet, they’re grateful for the boundaries and rules we set for them, and let us know that, too. So for now, I choose to be inspired, rather than exasperated. By them. Dare I even call it belatedly ‘protecting my own peace’?

Words Steffi Hidber