College is supposed to be your first taste of adulthood: freedom, late-night study sessions (or parties), and making big decisions about your life. For me, that decision was dating my first boyfriend, Passenger Prince—a guy my parents absolutely hated. And honestly? They had their reasons.
Let me paint you a picture: I’m 18, living at home, trying to balance the newfound independence of college with the I’m-still-a-child-under-my-parents’-roof reality. He’s 19, doesn’t drive, and has all the ambition of a houseplant. But to me? He was dreamy, misunderstood, and the star of my personal coming-of-age movie. My parents, however, saw him as the guy who was about to turn their living room into a therapy office.
I met him in the most mundane college way possible: outside of class, where he was leaning against a wall, looking like he was too cool to care about being late. He complimented my shoes; I laughed at a joke he made that wasn’t even funny. By the end of the day, I was already crafting a playlist in my head titled, “Our Love Story.”
The problem? He didn’t drive. At first, I thought it was kind of endearing—he biked everywhere, which felt eco-friendly and whimsical. But when the weather got bad, guess who became his personal Uber? Yep, me. I tried to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal.
Mom: “So, you’re driving him again?”
Me: “It’s no problem. He’s got this whole ‘minimalist’ vibe.”
Mom: “Minimalist, or just unmotivated?”
Ouch.
Their distaste for him grew with every car ride I gave and every meal he conveniently timed to “stop by” when my mom was cooking. My dad, a man who could spot laziness from a mile away, asked point-blank, “What’s his plan for the future?”
“He’s figuring things out,” I said defensively.
“What, like a GPS? Because he’s clearly lost.”
My mom’s critiques were subtler but just as cutting. “Emily, relationships are about give and take. Right now, it seems like you’re doing all the giving.”
“He’s really sweet!” I’d argue.
The more my parents hated Passenger Prince, the more determined I became to prove them wrong. Suddenly, I was the protagonist of a tragic love story, where every eye-roll and passive-aggressive comment from my parents was an obstacle for our undying love.
“Why do you hate him so much?” I’d yell after another tense family dinner.
“We don’t hate him, Emily. We hate what he’s doing to you.”
Cue dramatic storming upstairs, complete with me blasting sad indie music through my headphones.
In hindsight, I was exhausted.
The reality of dating someone who didn’t drive and had no real ambition eventually started to catch up to me. I’d spend hours planning our dates, making sure I could pick him up, drop him off, and somehow still get my own stuff done. It wasn’t romantic—it was logistics.
The breakup was messy. He cried, I cried, and my mom silently handed me a box of tissues without saying, “I told you so,” which might be her greatest act of restraint ever. My dad, on the other hand, couldn’t resist one last jab.
“So, do we get a refund for all the gas money you spent on him?”
Thanks, Dad.
In the aftermath, I started to see the situation more clearly. My parents weren’t completely right—yes, he was a red flag, but I needed to figure that out for myself. Still, they weren’t entirely wrong, either. Relationships shouldn’t feel like a full-time job when you’re already juggling school, family, and life.
And him? He wasn’t a terrible person. He was just a guy who didn’t have his act together yet. But I wasn’t his mom or his life coach. I was his girlfriend, and that role should’ve been a partnership, not a one-woman show.
If I could go back, I’d tell myself this: love isn’t about proving people wrong. It’s about finding someone who makes your life easier, not harder. And while my parents’ delivery might have been rough, they only wanted to protect me from the inevitable heartbreak they saw coming.
But I’d also tell my parents this: sometimes, you have to let your kids make mistakes. It’s part of growing up, even if it means spending way too much on gas for a Passenger Prince who never learned to drive..
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Confessions of a Hot Mess is the personal work of Emily Hess. The opinions expressed in this column, as well as those published in The Nevada Sagebrush, are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Sagebrush or its staff. Hess is a student at the University of Nevada studying journalism. She can be reached at em*******@***********nr.edu and on Twitter @emilyghess3.
