From Maclean’s November 2025. My kids’ digital lives are rich, exciting and inspiring. Why am I supposed to keep them away from screens again?

In September, I told my 11-year-old son and nine-year-old daughter there would be no more screens during the school week—no iPad, no TV, no Xbox. It had become a nightmare prying the devices from their clutches by 6:30, the deadline we’d established to start homework, so I took control. My reasoning was about more than homework: like many parents, I’ve become agonized about my kids’ relationships with screens of all kinds.

I’ve read Jonathan Haidt’s bestseller, The Anxious Generation, in which he connects an alarming statistical increase in adolescent anxiety, depression and even suicide, from the early 2010s onward, with the growing ubiquity of smartphones and social media. He warns that in some kids, screens can reduce interest in any activity that isn’t screen-based, calling phones an “experience blocker” that prevents kids from making crucial face-to-face social connections.

Haidt has not been a voice in the wilderness. In his book How We Grow Up, released this year, New York Times science reporter Matt Richtel shared many of Haidt’s concerns about teens’ online life. He painted a painstaking, data-rich portrait of the developing adolescent brain, but when it comes to addictive digital media algorithms, he dropped the science and appealed to common sense: “I don’t think you need to be an evolutionary psychologist or biologist to see the basic logic in this: SPENDING TEN HOURS A DAY WITH YOUR FACE BURIED IN A SCREEN IS NOT GOOD FOR THE DEVELOPING BRAIN.”

I had no trouble believing that. Just this month, a study of more than 3,000 Ontario children, led by researchers from Toronto’s SickKids hospital, found that increased screentime was linked to lower scores in reading and math. Many parents I know are in a constant battle to encourage kids to do homework, or play in the park, instead of whiling away their time on screens, sucked into the addictive algorithms of social media. So when I said “no screens” to my kids, I meant it. I used the “hammer” method: an informal parenting term that basically comes down to being firm and not backing down. Unfortunately, my strategy didn’t last long at all.

After I handed down my dictate, I banished the kids to play in the basement. Soon, I heard the sound of a soccer ball being kicked around, and I congratulated myself on a parenting job well done—until my daughter dashed into the room with red suction marks on her cute face, her braces gleaming. “Mommy! We just found the coolest game on the VR,” she shouted, bouncing up and down. “You actually get to be a real goalie and kick the ball. It’s so fun!”

I had forgotten about the VR set we’d bought them for the holidays. Should I march them upstairs for defying my screentime ban, or let this goalie program help them improve their soccer game? I let them play goalie and exercise a little longer. At least this was social and physical. Then, when they came up for homework, my son pulled out the new computer he’d been loaned from school. I sighed—well, that screen was okay, too. He thought my oversight was hilarious.

It became obvious that my thinking about screens had been too binary: screentime bad, offline good. Of course, I knew that not all screen activities are passive, and not all content is mindless. But I’d been feeling overwhelmed by the sheer ubiquity of screens in my children’s lives, and by the alarming portrait of an endangered generation presented by thinkers like Haidt. When I reflected more deeply, however, it seemed to me that many of my kids’ experiences with the digital world had enriched their lives, in ways big and small.

For example, this summer my daughter got obsessed with making smoothie bowls, inspired by a trend on YouTube. She wrote out an adorable grocery list that included “frozen razz berries.” Then she whirled up recipes in our old food processor, patiently pausing to scrape down the sides to achieve a dreamy texture. Like adults who made sourdough during quarantine, my daughter catapulted up the learning curve, rapidly yielding near-professional results. Her interplay between the screen and real life seemed healthy and productive. Her cooking feats seemed far more advanced than the “look at me” gymnastics routines I’d done for my parents as a kid.

I found her wholesome hobby both scrumptious and impressive—but I felt compelled to pump the brakes, since she learned about it from YouTube Shorts, whose short-form videos are scientifically proven to be addictive. “It’s expensive,” I cautioned when she first asked me to buy the frozen fruit. Which was true, though not the main issue. When we didn’t buy her ingredients, she “crashed out” (this is my son’s internet-derived lingo for a tantrum). Were ultra-short, attention-sapping videos impacting her patience levels? Or was this just her being a kid? I didn’t know, but I knew that her smoothie bowls had been delicious and creative.

My son, meanwhile, was inspired by YouTube sensation President Chay, a 26-year-old famous for taking vehicles, like yellow school buses, and transforming them into stylish living spaces. After my son watched Chay’s “Driving My Tiny Camper to Canada” video this summer, he ambitiously plotted out a design for a camper interior of his own, made of recycled items. I was worried he had unrealistic expectations and pointed out that we didn’t have a camper, nor any intention of buying one. Still, with his dad’s help, he built a snappy-looking wood side table with built-in lights for his sister instead. He was so proud. So was I.

If it wasn’t obvious from my own kids’ experiences, research also shows that children and teens don’t all use screens and media in the same ways. In his book, Richtel writes about “differential susceptibility”: the idea that some adolescents are simply more prone to negative media experiences, and others to positive ones.

Emily Weinstein and Carrie James are Harvard researchers who discuss similar findings in their book, Behind Their Screens. The pair went to a hospital and interviewed 30 teens receiving psychiatric inpatient treatment. Some seemed negatively hooked to their devices. Those prone to comparing themselves to others seemed worst-off: imagine seeing social-media posts of all your friends hanging out without you, or being manipulated by social-media apps to stay online, like through a Snapchat streak.

Others teens, however, found positive social connections and soothing content online. Those with more self-confidence weren’t immune to negative experiences, but they fared a lot better. Weinstein and James suggest that “fatalistic tech-blaming” is unhelpful. Instead, they suggest giving kids the agency to navigate their screens: to understand how the apps work, or not worry when a friend hasn’t responded right away. Of course, there’s still space for outright prohibition: three Instagram influencers I spoke to recently said they prohibited their tween or young teenage daughters from using Instagram, which they feel has descended into creepy sludge, with the “explore” function dominated by clickbait bad advice and sexualized images.

I still have worries about addiction and troubling content. But I’ve come to understand that screens aren’t necessarily a horrible vortex that will endlessly pull my kids away from real life. I’ve opened my eyes to how they’ve been inspired by what they’ve come across online, and I can see how their online world is helping them prepare for their future, which will likely have lots of dazzling lights and endless electronics. I also know they need to develop the capacity to pull themselves out of their digital immersion. They won’t listen to me forever.

Until very recently, my kids didn’t have cellphones, mainly because their public elementary school wisely prohibited them long before Quebec’s province-wide ban went into effect this August (we live in Montreal). Though my kids had an iPad, I’m grateful the tablets didn’t follow them to the park, and certainly never to recess. This fall, my son is at a new school, and his friends kept asking for his phone number. We’ve bought him one, since he’s turning 12 soon. In exchange, he wrote out a contract about real-life commitments he promises to keep, like helping to set the dinner table, daily outdoor time, removing the phone from his room after 9 p.m. on school nights and staying on top of his homework.

I’ve come to see that the best way to battle the lure of electronics is to trust that reality is where my kids truly want to be. Yes, the hammer helps to enforce the on and off switch when it’s really needed. But when my daughter borrows my phone to look at old photos, or to search for a new book, or just wants to watch clips of Grogu’s latest adventures, my heart melts in knowing that, like her fantastic smoothies, what she’s really after is making her world even better.