When Your Son Won’t Talk to You

What to Do Monday Morning When He Shuts Down

She was sitting in my office, hands wrapped around a coffee cup she hadn’t touched, and she said the thing I’ve heard a thousand mothers say: “He used to tell me everything. Now I can’t get a single word out of him.” Her son was thirteen. Good kid. No drugs, no fights, no trouble at school—at least not yet. But something had shifted. He’d come home, walk past her without making eye contact, close his bedroom door, and disappear into his phone for the rest of the night. When she asked how his day was, she got one word: “Fine.” When she pushed harder, she got silence. Or a door slam. She thought she was losing him. She wasn’t.

She was watching him do exactly what boys do when they’re carrying something they don’t have language for. In thirty years of working with adolescent boys, I’ve learned that silence is never empty. A boy who won’t talk isn’t a boy with nothing to say. He’s a boy who has decided—consciously or not—that talking is either unsafe, pointless, or both. That decision almost always traces back to a man. Maybe his father criticized him every time he opened up. Maybe his father was never around to listen. Maybe his father modeled a version of masculinity where feelings were weakness and silence was strength. Or maybe his father was fine, but the culture around him—coaches, peers, media—sent the same message a thousand different ways: Real men don’t talk about it.

The wound creates the silence. And then the silence protects the wound. It’s a closed loop, and mothers stand on the outside of it, knocking on a door that won’t open. So what do you do? Not in theory. Not in some future therapy session. What do you do Monday morning when your son is sitting across from you at breakfast, staring at his phone, giving you nothing? Here’s what I tell every mother who sits in that chair in my office.

First: stop asking questions.

I know that sounds counterintuitive. You want connection. Questions feel like the bridge. But to a boy who has shut down, questions feel like interrogation. Every “How was your day?” and “What’s wrong?” and “Why won’t you talk to me?” lands on him as pressure. And pressure makes boys retreat further. Instead, try narration. Say what you see without asking him to respond to it.
“You seem like you’ve got something heavy going on.”
“I noticed you didn’t eat much at dinner.”
“I’m here. You don’t have to talk. But I’m here.”
These aren’t questions. They don’t demand a response. They’re offerings. They communicate: I see you. I’m paying attention. And you’re not in trouble for feeling whatever you’re feeling. Most boys won’t respond immediately. That’s okay. You’re planting seeds, not pulling weeds.

Second: be in the room without being in his face.

Boys don’t do face-to-face communication well. Eye contact feels confrontational. Sitting across a table feels like a performance review. This is neurological, developmental, and cultural all at once. What boys do well is shoulder-to-shoulder. Side by side. Working on something, driving somewhere, shooting baskets, walking the dog. Activity creates a container for conversation that feels less exposed than sitting and staring at each other. Some of the most important breakthroughs I’ve seen in thirty years didn’t happen in a therapy chair. They happened in a car. On a hike. Building something. The shared activity gives the boy something to look at that isn’t your face, and that tiny bit of distance is often the thing that makes the words finally come. Drive him somewhere. Don’t talk. Let the silence sit. Eighty percent of the time, he’ll fill it himself.

Third: name the pattern without blaming the source.

If you suspect your son’s silence is connected to his father—absent, critical, volatile, whatever the wound—resist the urge to name the villain. Boys are ferociously loyal to their fathers, even fathers who’ve hurt them. If you say “Your dad really messed you up,” the boy won’t thank you for the insight. He’ll defend his father and shut you out. Instead, name the pattern without naming the person.
“Sometimes when people have been criticized a lot, they stop talking because it feels safer. I wonder if that’s happening for you.”
“I think you might have learned somewhere that showing feelings isn’t safe. I want you to know it’s safe here.”
You’re giving him a framework for understanding his own behavior without forcing him to indict his father. Let him connect those dots himself, in his own time.

Fourth: don’t take the silence personally.

This is the hardest one. Because it feels personal. It feels like rejection. It feels like your son has decided you’re not worth talking to, and that hurts in a place no parenting book prepares you for. But his silence is almost never about you. It’s about him. It’s about a wound he doesn’t know how to name and a pain he doesn’t know how to carry and a set of feelings he’s been taught to hide. You are the safest person in his world, and paradoxically, that’s exactly why he’s silent with you. He can’t afford to fall apart in front of his peers. He can’t fall apart in front of his father. The only person he can let see the wall is the person he trusts enough to know it’s there. Your son’s silence is not a verdict on your parenting. It’s proof that he trusts you enough to show you the thing he can’t show anyone else—even if what he’s showing you is a closed door.

Fifth: know when it’s more than silence.

There’s a difference between a boy who’s quiet and a boy who’s disappearing. If the silence comes with dropping grades, loss of interest in things he used to love, changes in sleep or eating, withdrawal from all relationships (not just you), or any mention of not wanting to be here—that’s not a phase. That’s a signal. Get professional help. Don’t wait. A good therapist who works with adolescent boys will know how to do what you’re doing, just with different tools and from a different position. They’re not replacing you. They’re reinforcing you.

The mother in my office that day did something brave. She stopped knocking on the door. She sat down outside it instead. She started driving her son to school in silence, letting the quiet be okay. She’d mention things she noticed. “You seemed tired this morning.” “That test must have been stressful”—without asking him to perform a response. Three weeks later, on a drive home from practice, her son said, unprompted: “Mom, do you think Dad ever wanted to be around?” That’s where the real conversation started. It started not because she found the right question, but because she stopped asking and started being present. Because she made the car a place where silence was safe and words could come when they were ready. Your son wants to talk to you. He just doesn’t know how yet. Give him time. Give him space. Give him your presence without your pressure. And when the words finally come—and they will—be ready to listen without fixing, without judging, without making it about you.
Just listen.
That’s enough. In thirty years, I’ve learned it’s more than enough.

Clayton J. Lessor, PhD, LPC, is the author of the upcoming book The Father Wound: Healing the Hidden Injury Behind Your Son’s Struggle and the founder of The Quest Project, a clinical program that has served over 2,000 adolescent boys since 1996. He is a former White House Council appointee on Fatherhood and Mentoring and lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

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