The Drive to Nowhere: How to Get Your Teenager Talking

Munchkin is in the car seat behind me right now, kicking the back of my seat and yelling "truck" at every truck. She talks the whole ride. I can't get her to stop.

In fourteen years she's going to be in the passenger seat with headphones in, not saying a word. I know this because every dad of a teenager I know has told me the same story. The kid who wouldn't shut up turns into the kid who won't open up, and it happens fast.

I'm already planning for that drive. Because I've learned something from the dads ahead of me and from my own history with my father: teenagers talk in the car. Not at the table. Not in their room. In the car, at night, with the music on, when they don't have to look at you.

This is the drive to nowhere. It's the simplest activity I've got, and it might be the most important one.

How to Run It

No destination. That's the first rule and the whole point. You're not going to the store, you're not picking anything up, you're not headed anywhere. Say it out loud: "Let's go for a drive. Nowhere in particular."

He controls the music. Hand him the aux, the Bluetooth, whatever. He picks, you drive. You make zero comments on the music. Not "what is this," not "turn it down," not a face. If you can't do this part, you can't do the drive. The music is him being in charge of something, and that's what makes the rest possible.

Drive for a while. Pick a direction and go. Back roads are better than highway because the pace is slower and there's more to look at. Fifteen, twenty minutes of nothing. Let the silence sit. Don't fill it.

Somewhere around mile ten, ask one real question. One. Not "how was school." Something with a real answer. "What's the thing you're most stressed about right now?" "Who's the person you'd call if you were in trouble and couldn't call me?" "What do you think I don't get about your life?" Then be quiet and let him answer or not answer.

Stop somewhere for food you both like. A drive-through, a gas station, a diner, doesn't matter. Eat it in the car or on the tailgate. Then head back when it feels like time. Two hours, maybe three. Half a day if it's going well.

Why It Works

Sit a teenager across a table and ask him how he's doing and you'll get one word. He's looking at your face, he's reading your reactions, and every question feels like an interrogation.

Put him in the passenger seat and everything changes. You're both looking at the road. He can say something hard without watching you take it. There's music to fill the gaps. There's a natural end point. And he can't leave, but he also doesn't feel trapped, because you're moving.

It's the same reason big conversations happen on walks, on hikes, side by side at a workbench. Men, and boys becoming men, talk better shoulder to shoulder than face to face. The car is the easiest version of that you've got.

The other reason it works is the no-destination part. When there's nowhere to be, there's no clock. He knows you're not squeezing him in on the way to something else. You cleared an afternoon for a drive to nowhere with him. He'll notice that even if he never says a word about it.

What Goes Wrong

You have an agenda. You've been waiting two weeks to talk about his grades and this is your shot. No. The second he smells that, the drive is over and he'll never get in the car again. If something serious needs to happen, that's a different conversation. This drive is for nothing. That's why it works.

You fill the silence. Twenty minutes of quiet is going to feel like a lot. You're going to want to ask another question, tell a story, comment on something. Hold it. The silence is where he decides whether to say something. If you keep talking, he never has to.

You react to the answer. He says something that scares you. He mentions a friend you don't like, a party, a girl, a grade. Your job in that moment is to keep driving and say "okay." Not "what?" Not "we need to talk about that." Okay. You can come back to it in a day or two. If you react in the car, he'll learn the car isn't safe either.

You comment on the music. I said it already. I'm saying it again because it's the one dads break the most.

You do it once. One drive is a nice afternoon. A drive every few weeks is a thing you two do. The value is in it being a habit he can count on, not an event.

Not Just for Teenagers

The card in the deck says big kids and teens, and that's where it matters most. But the version for a ten-year-old is the same drive with more talking and a sooner stop for food. A big kid who grows up doing drives with his dad is a teenager who doesn't think it's weird when you ask.

And the sit-in-the-car-and-listen part works on daughters exactly the same as sons. Maybe more. The dads I know with teenage girls all say the same thing: she'll tell you stuff in the dark on the way home from somewhere that she'd never say in the kitchen.

The Drive I Didn't Get

I'll be straight with you about why this one matters to me.

Nobody drove me to nowhere at sixteen. My dad wasn't around for those years, and the stuff I was carrying I carried alone or told to people who didn't need to hear it. Later, as a grown man, he and I got right with each other, and I understand him better now than I ever thought I would. But I didn't get that drive.

So Munchkin and Junior are going to get it. I'm going to be the guy who clears a Saturday, hands over the aux, keeps his mouth shut about the music, and drives until one of them says something real. Or doesn't. Either way, they'll know the car was there.

That's what I want for you too. You don't need a plan. You need a half tank of gas and the discipline to not say anything for twenty minutes.

If you want this one on your phone, it's in the activity generator. And if the drive goes well and he's actually talking, the interview is the next step up. More for this age in the father son and father daughter lists.

You know the vibes.

-- Gene, The Dad Post