When I was a kid growing up in Corpus Christi, the world didn’t revolve around screen time limits or wellness plans. It revolved around people, and those people were our neighbors. I knew Mrs. Garza across the street like family. The Palacios kids were always around, and down around the corner was Mrs. Brock, who never minded a few rowdy boys and girls walking by. We'd hang out at the locksmith shop on the corner, get a cold soda and a bag of chips, and talk about everything and nothing. That little world of mine—modest, loud, and connected—did more for my mental health than any brochure from the CDC ever could.
Today, we’ve got a serious problem: Kids aren’t alright, and everyone knows it. The NEA recently laid out the grim truth—rising anxiety, depression, emotional disconnection. Schools are trying to help with more counselors, nurses, and social workers. That’s good. But I’m going to say what that article didn’t:
The real reason kids are struggling is that adults are too afraid to let them be kids.
We’ve become a nation terrified of interaction. Parents are scared to knock on a neighbor’s door and say, “Hey, do your kids want to play outside with mine?” Instead, we schedule everything like it’s a business meeting. Playdates are treated like high-level negotiations. And when kids act out or feel alone, we treat it like a policy failure instead of a people failure.
Look, I’m not knocking therapists. Some kids need them. But what a lot of children really need is a front yard full of friends who drink from a water hose, a street they feel safe on, and grown-ups who know their name and care about them. You don’t build resilience in a padded room. You build it in the messy, noisy, chaotic world of friendship and community.
Instead of waiting for signs of crisis, we should be getting ahead of the curve. Be proactive, not reactive. It starts with us. Say hello to the people who live next door. Host a barbecue. Have a homemade snow cone. Invite the neighbor kids to join your own in a game of tag. Let them scrape their knees. Let them laugh until they can’t breathe. Let them be kids without fear of judgment, litigation, or the next 10-point school district protocol.
When I think back to Corpus, I don’t remember therapy sessions or lesson plans. I remember being seen, known, and included by the adults around me. I remember the Palacios family’s loving embrace, Mrs. Garza’s stories, and the joy of getting a soda after walking around with my friends like we owned the block. That’s not nostalgia. That’s the blueprint.
We don’t need another task force. We need a community renaissance. You want strong kids? Give them strong friendships. Give them neighborhoods where names matter and people talk. That’s how you build a mentally healthy nation: one front porch at a time.
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