On Parenting in a World of Digital Desire
My daughter came to me and asked about Roblox.
I said, “Yeah, I remember. A lot of kids at the mental hospital were playing it.”
That answer probably sounded more existential than she expected—or than I meant it to.
But it was true. And like some truths, it slipped out before I could dress it up.
I once worked in a psychiatric hospital for children, and nearly all of them were absorbed in video games—retreating, soothing, building digital lives because the real one felt too fragmented, too raw, too out of reach.
Maybe for some kids, Roblox feels safer.
More predictable.
Easier to control than a world where emotions run wild and adults don’t always protect you.
Maybe part of me wasn’t just answering her—I was speaking to a quiet fear: That she might one day drift into the same digital refuge as those kids I once tried to reach.
That I’d see her disappear behind a screen, and recognize the pattern too well.
Maybe that’s why I hesitate..
Then I asked her, “You want to have it?”
She paused. “How did you know?”
I smiled. “What were my previous answers?”
She said, “You always told me no.”
That’s when she added that she didn’t want just any game—she had found a specific one inside Roblox. A fashion game. “Rate My Outfit” or something like that. A place where avatars dress up, walk a digital runway, and get voted on.
I told her, “Why don’t you do that in real life?”
She didn’t dAismiss it. But she held her ground.
“Could you look into it?” she asked.
And I answered, “Could you look into my answer, too?”
It wasn’t a power play. It was a mirror.
I wasn’t shutting her down. I was inviting her up.
Not to obey, but to think.
Because this isn’t about Roblox. It’s about the inner economy of desire.
It’s about where she invests her identity, and where she seeks reflection.
Do you want someone in the cloud to vote on your look, or do you want to stand in front of your real mirror, in your real body, and say: This is me today. I made this.
Do you want feedback? Or do you want presence?
That’s not something I can dictate.
But I can hold the question open long enough for her to find the better answer herself.
Later that day, I found her in front of the mirror.
She was trying on dresses—real ones.
Turning, tilting, posing—not for likes, not for a crowd, but for herself.
And there she was: my daughter, in the flesh, composing herself without feedback loops.
She wasn’t asking to be rated.
She was practicing recognition.
This is why I don’t say yes too quickly—or no too hard.
Because sometimes the soul just needs a little space to remember itself.
And that’s what mirrors are for.
Not to judge.
But to help you see you—when you're ready.