What Will My Son’s Rebellion Look Like?

A parent’s reflection on courage, freedom, and change

I was seventeen when I first threw a Molotov cocktail.

The bottle trembled in my hand. My fingers were cold, not from the weather, but from adrenaline. Around me, the chaos of chants and marching boots filled the narrow Polish street. Russian tanks loomed in the distance. My heart pounded in sync with the footsteps of a teenagers who, like me, believed we were fighting for freedom.

But if you had asked me then what freedom really meant, I couldn’t have told you.

Back then, freedom was a slogan. A word scrawled in red ink across underground newsletters we printed in basements. It was a banner flying above the crowd, something we chanted to feel less afraid. It was rebellion for the sake of identity, expression, voice. And I craved all of it.

Now, from the grounded vantage point of 50 and parenting a teenager of my own, I see that moment with new eyes. Eyes softened by time and sharpened by science. And most of all, by empathy for my mother.

The Neuroscience of Rebellion

During adolescence, the brain undergoes a massive renovation project. The prefrontal cortex, the part responsible for logic, decision-making, and impulse control; is still under construction. Meanwhile, the limbic system, home to emotions and reward, is in overdrive. This combination creates the perfect storm for risky behavior and emotional intensity.

Throw in a few tanks, censorship, and a hunger for autonomy, and you get the kind of teenage cocktail that doesn’t need fire to explode.

We now know from neuroscience that teenagers aren’t being dramatic for the sake of it. Their brains are literally wired to push boundaries and seek novelty. It’s how they learn who they are. It’s how I learned who I was or at least who I thought I needed to be.

My Mother’s Quiet Courage

I can still remember my mother’s face the morning I came home covered in smoke. She didn’t shout. She didn’t cry. She didn’t beg me to stop. She handed me a wet towel and said, “Breakfast is on the table.”

She knew where I’d been. Every mother in Poland did. And somehow, she understood that telling me to stay home would only sharpen the fire inside me.

As a parent now, I marvel at her restraint. It’s one thing to stand up to tanks. It’s another to let your child stand there while you watch from the window.

That’s the kind of courage that doesn’t make headlines. It doesn’t get medals or chants in the street. But it’s the kind that keeps generations from breaking.

Generational Rebellion: A Pattern, Not a Problem

Each generation pushes against the one before it. That’s not failure. That’s evolution.

We often frame rebellion as a problem to be managed. But what if it’s something to be honored? Psychologists call this individuation: the process by which a child separates from their parents to become their own person. And it’s essential for growth.

From Reaction to Reflection

If I could go back and speak to my seventeen-year-old self, I’d say this:

You are brave. Not just because you’re holding that bottle, but because you’re holding a vision. One that you don’t fully understand yet. And that’s okay. Because rebellion doesn’t require a perfect manifesto. It just needs a spark.

And to my mother, I’d say:

You were brave too. Brave in your stillness. Brave in your silence. Brave in your belief that I would find my own way; even if it scared you. Especially because it scared you.

What Will My Son’s Rebellion Look Like?

This question haunts me in the best way.

Will it be climate marches instead of tank lines? A refusal to chase productivity for productivity’s sake? A full embrace of slowness, softness, and sustainability?

Will he rage against the machine I helped build: the one with to-do lists and five-year plans and Instagrammable perfection?

Maybe. Probably.

And I hope I have the courage to let him.

Because the point of rebellion isn’t destruction. It’s reinvention.

Rebellion as a Mirror

I used to think rebellion was about fire. Now I think it’s about reflection. About looking into the eyes of the generation before you and saying, “I love you enough to not become you.”

It’s a strange kind of love. But it’s love nonetheless.

My teenage rebellion was a cry for freedom I couldn’t define. My mother’s response was a kind of freedom I didn’t yet recognize; the freedom to become, without being controlled.

And now, I try to pass that down. Not the Molotov cocktails, but the space to question. The space to burn down what no longer serves. The space to build something truer in its place.

Rebellion isn’t a phase. It’s a practice.

And sometimes, it’s the most sacred kind of love we know.

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