Late adolescence

Late adolescence, that glorious stage that begins roughly between ages 17 and 21 (though it sometimes seems to extend into the 30s, depending on the case), is a time of major changes, life-altering decisions, existential questions, and, of course, an abundance of identity crises. It’s the phase when children begin to experience a sort of independence with a curfew—when they can technically move out, but still come home to do laundry and ask for groceries. They no longer contradict you just for sport; now they study degrees with names you didn’t even know existed, like “Computational neuroscience with a focus on artificial intelligence applied to contemporary dance.”

At this stage, adolescents are not only exploring who they are, but also who they want to be in the world. It’s the moment they face the dreaded and glorious leap to college, work, or that mysterious limbo where you’re not quite sure what you’re doing with your life—but you sign up for everything anyway. Parents shift from superheroes to emotional consultants: always available, but not too involved… unless things get serious.

From Piaget’s perspective, this stage still falls under formal operations. That means adolescents are capable of thinking abstractly, logically, hypothetically, and critically. They can construct theories about the universe, debate politics, question the global economic system… and still forget to take out the trash. Cognitive development advances, yes—but household responsibility maturity remains highly selective.

Vygotsky, of course, also has a say. For him, social interaction remains the heart of learning. And now more than ever, the peer group becomes a crucial influence. Friends are not just party partners or late-night study buddies—they are mirrors for self-reflection, identity references, and sometimes moral compasses (even if those compasses occasionally spin wildly off course).

And let’s not forget the crash course in “real life”: rush-hour public transportation, overpriced lunches that don’t come with juice and soup, and the existential anxiety of having to choose a career that “defines your future” when you’re still unsure what you want for lunch. This is when you hear unforgettable conversations, like: “Mom, I’m thinking about studying philosophy, opening a café in Iceland, or maybe going into performance art. What do you think?”

This stage also brings the risks and temptations of adult life: addictions, poor decisions, impulsivity, and friendships that sometimes cause more harm than good. That’s why the parental role becomes more subtle, but no less important. It’s about being present without invading, guiding without imposing, and learning when to step in and when to let them figure it out—even if that means watching them make painful mistakes with the hope that every fall becomes a lesson.

But it’s not all chaos. This stage is also deeply beautiful. It’s when you see your child begin to shine in their own right, make brave decisions, discover real passions, and form relationships that nourish them. Conversations evolve: no longer just about homework, but about the meaning of life, social justice, love, spirituality, and dreams. Suddenly, that kid who once cried because their cookie broke can now talk with you about systems of power, climate crises, or how to heal a broken heart.

Speaking of cookies… the cookie crisis also evolves. It’s no longer about uneven halves—it’s about questioning whether the cookie represents something more. Was that really the cookie I wanted? Does the kind of cookie I choose define me? Why do I always pick cookies that break? Should I stop eating cookies and start a more mindful diet? And you, as the adult, can only offer a smile, maybe a hug, and remind them that it’s okay not to have all the answers. That sometimes, even a broken cookie still tastes good. And that in life, just like with cookies, what really matters isn’t the shape—but the flavor it leaves behind.

Because growing up isn’t about not breaking cookies anymore—it’s about learning to enjoy them, even when they’re not perfect. And walking beside them through that journey, even from a distance, remains one of the greatest acts of love.