I Felt Like I Was Failing At ‘The Talk’ — And Then Chappell Roan Fixed Everything

As a single parent, I’ve always had a close relationship with my kids, who are now 13 and 14. We’ve spent their entire lives as a trio, and I’ve worked hard to maintain an open line of communication through all of the turbulence of childhood and adolescence. So when they entered their teen years and started establishing more emotional boundaries, I felt unsure of my footing. I wanted to give them space, but not so much that they feel neglected — and not so much that I feel out of the loop.
One of our biggest hurdles has been the talk. (We only call it that when we’re being silly or when they’re trying to avoid the conversation, which is most of the time.)
I know, firsthand, how important it is for kids to have access to accurate, inclusive information around sex and relationships. Growing up, my parents never had those conversations with me, and as a result I lacked the ability to make informed decisions about my body. My lack of understanding led to harmful situations I didn’t know how to navigate, and I wanted to make sure my kids did not share that same experience.
I also didn’t want them getting their sex education from their friends or any facet of the internet. I wanted to be the open, approachable parent who didn’t make a big deal about these topics, and for whom the conversation came naturally. But every time I tried to open the conversation, they shut down. “Oh, God, we heard it all in health class,” they’d say, covering their ears and leaving the room.
There hadn’t ever been anything we hadn’t been able to talk about, and the stonewalling caught me off guard. I was stuck when trying to navigate it. I tried subtle suggestions; I slipped books onto the shelves in their rooms ― “The Every Body Book” and “It’s Perfectly Normal” ― and let them know that information was available should they want it. I wouldn’t even know they were reading it.
Still, I felt like I was failing at one of the most important parts of being their parent. I tried to trust that they’d come to me when they were ready, but as their only parent, I knew it was up to me to make sure those conversations happened at some point.
And then, salvation came in the form of a Spotify shuffle. My daughter likes to pretend she’s not into “Mom’s music,” but she’ll often snoop at what I’m listening to and create playlists. I’d seen Chappell Roan’s album playing on repeat in her account. One afternoon she walked into my room, dropped her backpack onto the floor, pulled one of her AirPods out of her ear, and asked, “Mom, what’s eating out?”
I tried to remain calm — not because I was alarmed at the question, but because I could feel that there was a crack in her veneer. It felt like a way into a conversation I’d been trying to have with her for a year, and it felt encouraging that she had brought this question to me instead of her friends or the internet.
I explained what the lyrics meant, and tried not to feel too ridiculous as I walked her through the dynamics of two people being ‘knee deep in a passenger seat.’
“Well they didn’t talk about that in health class,” she said. I held back a laugh. “Why would she sing about that?”
“She sings about all kinds of relationships because people can have all kinds of relationships,” I told her. “You’re free to be whoever you are, and be with whoever you want to be.”
My daughter stayed at the end of my bed and scrolled through Spotify. She didn’t laugh, and she didn’t leave. I felt bolstered. This was the conversation I’d wanted to have — not just about sex, but about relationships, identity and respect.
The conversation took a natural turn to ‘casual’ relationships. We talked about how to be clear about boundaries, and what she wants as she begins to think about dating and relationships. We also talked about casual sex and how it shouldn’t be a stand-in for emotional intimacy.
Roan’s music became a shared experience for us. Her lyrics are bold, honest, and they center the queer experience. Her songs explore desire in ways that mainstream pop music rarely does. My daughter would play through her album every time we were in the car, and as we listened to more of Roan’s music, new questions arose. At one point my daughter asked about “Pink Pony Club” and why Roan was singing about her mother.
“Other peoples’ expectations of you — including mine — aren’t your burden to bear,” I told her.
Over the course of the next few weeks, our conversations became easier, more fluid, less awkward. Roan’s lyrics gave us a language for things that, at one point, had felt too difficult to articulate. It wasn’t just conversations around sex that became easier, but also consent, the complexities of desire, and the importance of respect in any relationship — including the one you have with yourself.
We blared “Good Luck, Babe!” with the windows down and sang along until our voices were hoarse, and we watched together as Roan performed at the VMAs dressed as Joan of Arc. I watched my daughter watch Roan as she stood onstage dressed in armor, embodying a warrior figure who fought for her beliefs with fierce conviction, and I tried not to cry.
Roan’s recent declaration about setting boundaries and protecting her mental health echoes in my mind. It’s another example I’m glad to see my daughter learn. Roan’s words have also reminded me that strength can mean knowing when to step back — something I’m still learning to do as a mother. I often have to remind myself that I’m doing all of this for the first time.
I won’t always have the right words even when it feels like it’s my responsibility to have all the answers. I often feel that I need to be the person who minimizes my kids’ uncertainty and discomfort, but it’s normal that sometimes I won’t immediately know how.
The conversations I wanted to have with my daughter were never really about sex. They were about the mechanics of relationships and the boundaries of consent. They were about giving her tools to understand herself as she moves into a new phase of her life. I want her to go into her teen years feeling supported and empowered, to be able to embrace who she is, and to know that her identity — the way it evolves throughout her life — is always valid and powerful.