How I Stopped Trying So Hard to Win Over My Teen

Bonding with my 15-year-old daughter Tess can feel like negotiating a hostage situation. Every day, I defuse heightened emotions, de-escalate confrontations, and try to gain her trust. But last month, even my best tactics weren’t working. (For the record, we’re both in a hormonal hellscape. She’s pubescent; I’m menopausal.) We needed a change of scenery. We needed a way to scream and stomp—but not at each other. So I planned a weekend around a concert.

Tess and I have traveled to Dublin to see Lana Del Rey and to Atlanta for a Childish Gambino concert. We saw Halsey in our hometown of L.A. We’re not alone: Mother-daughter selfies dominate my feed whenever Taylor Swift tours. My daughter is not a Swiftie, which saved me a cool grand on tickets. This time, we decided to see the DJ Marshmello in San Diego and spend the weekend in nearby Coronado.

I knew that if we spent two days in a hotel room staring at our respective screens, I would feel as though the trip had failed. So I planned plenty for us to do. In the past few years, Coronado—which dates back to the 1880s—has evolved from a sleepy resort town into a destination with good shops, restaurants, and enough activity to keep a teenager entertained.

Here’s how our two days unfolded:

Day One

I wisely avoid touchy subjects like unbrushed hair and social media’s effect on the brain during our roughly two-hour drive from L.A. We arrive and check into Baby Grand, a maximalist mirage of a boutique hotel with giant seashell headboards, Moroccan tile sinks, and leopard-print furniture. Think visual cacophony that somehow harmonizes.

“Like it shouldn’t work, but it does,” says Tess, who’s not usually impressed by resort décor.

We lounge for an hour by the hotel’s small man-made beach—the sand was imported from Turkey—then jump into a four-passenger golf cart from Go Ranchero, a local company that delivers zippy vehicles with built-in Bluetooth speakers to your door. A giant freshly baked chocolate chip cookie comes with every cart.

We blast Doja Cat, who we’re seeing in October, and explore the thrift stores on the island. Our favorite, hands down, is Coronado Vintage, with its consignment designer dresses, midcentury Lucite bangles, and sunglasses for less than $20. Tess nabs a Reformation lace minidress for $30. I have a hunch she will never wear it because that’s what teens do: buy clothes to make Mom happy, then hide them in a drawer, which makes Mom unhappy.

For a late lunch, we split a caviar éclair with lemon crème fraîche and raclette fondue at Little Frenchie. We even talk over our meal, which means Tess doesn’t post a photo.

That night, we dine at Night Hawk, the hotel’s Mediterranean alfresco restaurant, which feels like a nightclub in full swing.

“I just counted 15 little black dresses—and I mean little,” Tess drily notes.

Over za’atar fries, we play our own version of Love Island, predicting which couples seated around us will fight before the night is over and which ones will stay together for the rest of the summer.

“They are not going to last through dessert,” Tess says about a young woman scrolling on her phone while her date smiles vacantly.

I feel an urge to lecture Tess about why it’s important to engage with her friends, since they sometimes sit around scrolling too. But I stop myself. A “momologue” will kill the mood.

Instead, we dash across the street to the legendary Hotel del Coronado to roast marshmallows for s’mores at a private firepit under a Jackson Pollock–like smattering of stars. Tess is uneasy looking up at the night sky, so she keeps her eyes mostly on the marshmallows. She barely looks up, but she doesn’t lose her shit either.

Photo courtesy of Baby Grand / Ethan Jones

Day Two

I lean heavily into outdoor distractions to curtail screen time—for both of us. In the morning, we visit Grange Garden in nearby Del Mar to sip lattes and commune with a dozen rabbits who hop onto your lap in their little barn.

The experience is bittersweet for us. During the pandemic, we adopted a Holland Lop rabbit the color of lightly browned toast and named him George. He died a few years later. Tess and I talk about how he would dive-bomb us whenever he heard a bag of kettle corn opening.

“I was so depressed during Covid, Mom,” she says. “Thank you for letting me get a rabbit—even if he was grumpy all the time.”

I try not to make too much of this rare expression of teenage gratitude, which of course means I immediately hug her.

Next, we rent paddleboards for two hours at SUP Coronado. I sense that Tess, who goes to an all-girls high school, feels self-conscious around the teen boys working at the surf shop. I refrain from chatting with anyone—a.k.a. “acting all cringe”—and we cruise onto San Diego Bay.

But choppy waves and a mighty current make it hard to paddle or even balance.

“The water is colder than iced coffee, which is kind of what I want right now,” Tess shouts from her board.

We return our gear after being on the water for 12 minutes.

“Wow, that was fast,” a worker comments.

We trade smirks, then laugh hysterically as soon as we’re out the door. I realize my daughter and I haven’t bickered in more than 24 hours. Is it too soon to celebrate?

Yes, it is.

After a preconcert nap, we get dressed and head out to see Marshmello, best known for his earworm hit “Happier.” The crowd is weirdly older than Tess and younger than me. We’re the outliers.

“I’m mortified. Why are we here?” my daughter asks stiffly.

I want to say, “Because you brought it up and I bought the tickets.” I don’t. But she’s right. In my eagerness to bond with my daughter, I sometimes act as desperate as a tween craving an invitation to a sleepover. I know because I was that tween. We’re here because I wanted to get closer to Tess, which I assumed meant getting closer to Marshmello.

Instead of dancing to his frenetic electronic beats, we stare glumly at the stage. Tess processes her embarrassment while I grapple with my disappointment.

On the way back to Coronado, we’re quiet at first. I start to apologize, but Tess cuts me off.

“Look, it’s not your fault. I’m still glad we’re having this weekend together.”

I ask if she has any ideas for our final night. It’s only 10 p.m.

“Golf cart. Ice cream. Sheet masks in bed,” Tess suggests.

I raise my palm for a high five.

“Mom, no,” she says, shaking her head at my lameness.

We zip over to MooTime Creamery to share a hot fudge sundae known as the Islander Split, then head back to Baby Grand to apply kelp masks from May Botanicals in bed. Drowsy but still giddy, we recount some highlights from the weekend.

I mention that we both now have rabbit-pee stains on our Levi’s.

“Mom, that’s a gross souvenir,” Tess says.

I agree. But on a weekend I had spent trying to manufacture closeness, it was the part Tess planned—the golf cart, ice cream, and sheet masks in bed—that neither of us wanted to end.