Generation Snowflake


The artificial luminescence of the world has long gone out. Generation Z has not been afforded the mercy of ignorance our parents once had. Growing up, the dark corners of our lives have been bared to us, no lanterns to light our way, forced to stumble through the black since before we could walk, and yet those that never knew such a journey seem to enjoy calling us—the addicts, the depressed, the lonely, the suicidal—snowflakes, delicate and melted at the slightest touch. But when you have seen angry red lines on a stranger’s arm from a sleeve rolled up too far; when you have sat alone in your bedroom, in the middle of the night, shaking and frantically talking your best friend out of the medicine cabinet over the phone, unwilling to let them hang up; when you’ve heard mention of flash passes and IEPs and 504 plans only in jokes, for the story behind them is long and tragic and too much for the lunch table; when you have skipped class to sit wrapped around yourself on the bathroom floor, shivering out of a panic attack; when you have watched classmates smile for the first time in days, all because they finally got their Juul back; when you’ve had a therapist since you were twelve, and so has everyone you’ve ever been close to, because it’s easier connecting to someone when you’re both terrified of doing just that; when the suicide hotline is a contact in your phone because you’ve talked more people down by the age of sixteen than most adults have in their life—then you will understand what the darkness feels like. Too many children have grown up veterans of their own lives. We may not have seen our families off to war, but the epidemic we’ve survived is crueler than we’re given credit for. The battles in our minds have made us strong. If we’re a generation of snowflakes, it’s because the sun melted us so often we came back as ice.