Day: July 21, 2025

• As a millennial, I’m learning a lot while parenting my Gen Z daughter.
• My daughter is part of a generation redefining mental health and standing up for themselves.
• She has emotional tools and knows how to use them. I’m learning along the way, too.

My 14-year-old daughter looked at me calmly and said, “I don’t like how you talk to me sometimes.” I froze. As a millennial, I never questioned how my parents spoke to me. Emotions weren’t something we talked about, so I usually buried mine deep and kept going.

Her words were not disrespectful. They were clear, intentional, and grounded. They broke me in a good way.

I’ll admit, at first, I wanted to assert my authority. After all, I wasn’t expecting my daughter to teach me an emotional language I had never learned. I tried to remind her I was the parent. In my mind, I thought if I endured this in my childhood and came out okay, why can’t she?

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I was raising someone who belonged to a completely different generation. This generation understands things differently and does things differently. Somewhere in my heart, I was envious of my child. She’s displaying skills that I never had.

At her age, I kept my emotions to myself

Growing up, expressing my emotions was often thought to be a show of weakness or rebellion, and calling out my mother on something certainly wasn’t an option I ever considered. If I had done so, I would have been met with a harsh punishment or a lecture. So I swallowed my feelings, even when they hurt the most.

My daughter, on the other hand, will speak out if her needs aren’t being met.

One night during a conversation, she said, “You don’t have to fix everything, just listen.” I let her words sink in.

Breaking the cycle

I’ve learned that breaking a generational cycle means not yelling when my daughter does things that upset me. But it’s so much more than that. It’s about learning that if I do happen to raise my voice, then explaining why I raised it, and being able to say, “I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

Although this approach to parenting is still unfamiliar to me, I’m committed to it because I know it’s how I’ll raise an empathetic and grounded child. We both deserve that.

I’m healing myself, too

This generation has found its emotional tools and seems to know how to use them. My daughter and her peers are outright honest about their feelings, sometimes to a fault.

I know she doesn’t have it all figured out, but I’m in awe of how she advocates for herself. As her mother, I owe it to her to prioritize my own healing so I can support her emotional needs.

Our kids can teach us a great deal, if we allow it. At times, I see my daughter and wish I had been brave enough at her age to say what she is saying.

• A CEO was spotted getting cozy with his HR chief on the kiss cam at a Coldplay concert.
• The viral moment highlights the decline of concert etiquette and the rise of surveillance culture.
• The internet has normalized using strangers for social media fodder.

What happens at a concert no longer stays at a concert. Just ask Andy Byron.

A week ago, most people likely hadn’t heard of Byron or his tech startup, Astronomer. Now, after Byron, then the CEO, was filmed on TikTok getting cozy with his HR head Kristin Cabot at a Coldplay concert, the company has become “a household name,” as Astronomer’s interim CEO Pete DeJoy recently put it. (Byron has resigned.)

The video, in which Byron and Cabot appear to embrace until they realize they’re on the jumbotron and dodge the camera, was instant viral fodder last week. The internet reacted with characteristic hysteria, rushing to circulate the best parodies and snarkiest memes. Even brands like Netflix and StubHub got in on the fun.

I understand why. This story has a lot of wacky, almost-unbelievable details that make it feel like a sitcom subplot somewhere between “The Office” and “Black Mirror.” To be a CEO caught canoodling with your HR chief is one thing, but on the jumbotron… during a “kiss cam” bit… at a Coldplay concert? Absurd. To top it all off, the couple reacted so suspiciously during their moment in the spotlight that Chris Martin, the “Viva La Vida” singer himself, told the crowd of about 60,000 people, “Either they’re having an affair or they’re just very shy!” Screenwriters everywhere must be seething with envy that they didn’t write this themselves.

The problem is, these are not characters on a TV show. These are real people who were caught in a vulnerable moment, which a stranger filmed and decided to use as TikTok fodder. The original video has accumulated over 122 million views and 10 million likes — and that doesn’t account for the many, many reposts on Instagram and X.

To be fair, the original uploader, 28-year-old Grace Springer, never could have known that her TikTok would attract attention of this magnitude; the algorithm is a fickle beast. But its popularity proves that the internet’s appetite for drama, even at the expense of non-famous people, is all too predictable.

Springer has used the scandal to amplify her own social media presence, sharing a series of follow-up videos that show her celebrating the original TikTok’s high engagement and poking fun at the personal and professional destruction left in its wake. “A part of me feels bad for turning these people’s lives upside down,” Springer told The UK Sun, “but, play stupid games… win stupid prizes.”

The threat of going viral is a byproduct of our smartphone-obsessed lives

Springer’s flippant attitude is exactly why it feels so risky to release your inhibitions in the modern world — even at concerts, where the entire point is to enjoy the raw, cathartic, often visceral power of live music without fear of judgment.

Springer said in a follow-up video that she had her phone out because she was hoping to catch a glimpse of herself on the jumbotron, not to film a scandalous moment between coworkers. But while going viral wasn’t the plan, it wasn’t a fluke, either. Filming at concerts is practically second nature now — some fans even livestream full concerts on TikTok, start to finish, just for the clout. These days, it’s safe to assume every moment of a major event has been preserved on at least one person’s device. God forbid you do anything embarrassing.

I’m not saying that it’s OK for the CEO of a multimillion-dollar company to canoodle with his HR chief in the middle of Gillette Stadium. I am saying the human experience is messy, and it feels like we’re losing our ability to respect that from a healthy distance.

People at concerts have become way too comfortable milking strangers for content, even for the most harmless of perceived indiscretions: dancing. Concertgoers often go viral for dancing too much, dancing too little, or dancing in a way that others deem “inappropriate” for the setting. The irony, of course, is that dancing is only fun if it’s freeing. Dancing that is carefully composed to suit an imaginary standard of behavior is hardly dancing at all.

Live music is meant to be a balm for self-consciousness and shame, not a catalyst for those feelings. Yet the scourge of peer-sanctioned surveillance has made concerts, clubs, and parties feel like minefields.

I’m not the only person who’s noticed this shift — or the only person who’s keen to resist it. On Sunday, rapper Tyler, the Creator previewed his new album, “Don’t Tap the Glass,” at a 300-person listening party where phones and cameras were forbidden.

“I asked some friends why they don’t dance in public and some said because of the fear of being filmed,” he wrote in a social media statement. “I thought damn, a natural form of expression and a certain connection they have with music is now a ghost. It made me wonder how much of our human spirit got killed because of the fear of being a meme.”

Tyler reported that his phone- and camera-less night was a success. “Everyone was dancing, moving, expressing, sweating. It was truly beautiful,” he continued. “There was a freedom that filled the room.”

Tyler could not have chosen a more appropriate time to push that message. Every time someone becomes the internet’s punching bag, our collective “fear of being a meme” grows deeper.

I don’t want to live in a world of derealization, where I have to constantly perform perfection for cameras I can’t see and self-righteous filmmakers I’ve never met. Does that sound fun to you?