More than just entertainment, young adult books and films tackle deeper themes such as pressure, burnout, and parentification among the youth
Surrounding myself with young adult (YA) books and films have made my childhood magical. From buying wands after binge-watching the “Harry Potter” film series to braiding my hair over the shoulder a la Katniss Everdeen, I found myself drawn to the media I consumed.
But more than just being a form of entertainment for the YA audience of 12 to 18-year-olds, these media products contain far more valuable lessons and deeper themes the youth can resonate with.
“Chosen One” trope: Achievement pressure
Majority of the YA books and film media have overused the “chosen one” trope in one way or another. From the lightning-scarred wizard Harry Potter to the water-wielding demigod Percy Jackson and even the resourceful archer Katniss Everdeen, there are plenty of chosen ones in YA media.
This trope deals with the recurring theme of having a main character be chosen, usually by fate or prophecy, to fulfill dangerous missions to save the world. Most of these characters are depicted to be thrown into this daunting task unexpectedly—being the chosen one isn’t really a responsibility that they can escape from.
Burdened by their duty to save the world, chosen ones have no choice but to persevere, even if it means being the sacrificial lamb that would save millions of other lives. It doesn’t help that the adult figures in these stories (such as Albus Dumbledore to Harry, Chiron to Percy, and Haymitch Abernathy to Katniss) add further pressure to these chosen ones, convincing them to place their mark in the world.
In fact, these stories emphasize that chosen ones who fulfill their savior roles will forever be revered and thanked for—their legacy eternally imprinted in the fantastical worlds of these stories. It’s the reason why Harry Potter is named “The Boy Who Lived,” how Percy Jackson is titled “Hero of Olympus,” or why Katniss Everdeen is “The Girl on Fire.” All these titles signify their status and relevance as the successful chosen ones.
But while this may be an overused theme in YA media, there is a truth in these stories that are closer to reality than one might think.
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Growing up in a competitive environment, I felt like I was a chosen one in my own way. Being the daughter of my former school’s administrator was an additional pressure that my younger self couldn’t comprehend.
No one specifically told me to, but the circumstances I was in influenced me to persevere in every challenge; to be a talented, brilliant academic weapon while being as kind, as polite, and as demure as possible. My mother was a school administrator; surely her daughter had to be just as great as she was.
And so, behave like my mother’s daughter, I did. Eventually, it was through my high grades and interest in reading that earned me praise and validation not just from my parents but from other adults as well.
It didn’t help that I knew I wasn’t deemed pretty enough for society’s standards, so I leaned towards academic validation and being an achiever—because it was the only way I felt seen. I made it my whole personality to the point that friends would call me “goody two-shoes” for strictly following rules and sleeping early.
Underneath my need for academic validation, there was the fear instilled in me: I was afraid of becoming unsuccessful and eventually fade into obscurity. I was afraid of disappointing my parents, which at the time, was the equivalent of me saving the world.
Stories of my older cousins or the older children of my parents’ friends included graduating from their complex degrees with Latin honors or landing successful, high-paying jobs. They echoed throughout my mind like myths and legends of past chosen ones. I wanted to be like them—I wanted to be looked up to with pride by everyone around me.
As Amy March states in both the book and 2019 film adaptation of “Little Women”: “Talent isn’t genius, and no amount of energy can make it so. I want to be great, or nothing.”
Unlike Harry, Percy, and Katniss, I wanted to be a successful chosen one very badly.
“Child prodigy” trope: Gifted, burned-out kids
But not all chosen ones end up being great and revered.
With various external factors putting pressure on the youth, some end up getting burned out from the continuous excellence expected from them.
This is tackled in the popular phrase, “gifted kid burnout” or “gifted, burned out kid,” which refers to how child prodigies ultimately become fatigued from the expectation thrust upon them to incessantly be great.
One example of a character that experiences the gifted kid burnout phenomenon is academic achiever Neil Perry from the coming-of-age drama film “Dead Poets Society.” As a top student, Neil is reprimanded by his father when he forms a love for poetry and theater, wanting to be an actor instead of pursuing medicine as what his father would like him to.
After playing the role of Puck in a local production of Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Neil’s father withdraws him from the academy and instead enrolls him in a military school. This lack of support from his parents and the constant expectations thrust on Neil burned him out and pushed him to take his own life.
Another character that exemplifies this exhaustion and disappointed feeling of not being as gifted as you thought you were is the young witch Kiki from the fantasy Studio Ghibli film, “Kiki’s Delivery Service.” In the film, Kiki loses her ability to fly on her broom, which the majority of its audience interprets as a metaphor for losing one’s talent due to burnout.
There may be a reason why both these films are one of my favorites. Like Neil or Kiki, I have long since been exhausted from being a gifted kid during my basic education. As someone who started university during the COVID-19 pandemic, the academic and creative burnout I underwent in my freshman year of college was so intense that I had to shift from a very demanding, taxing accountancy course, and enroll into a program I loved more: journalism.
The journey in itself produced the worst state of mental health I had ever experienced in my life so far. Studying a demanding program amid the pandemic’s online setup was unlike no other. It was more than hard—it was outrageously arduous. The competition was high. The tests were difficult. And the pressure was off the charts.
It was a period full of vigorous self-hate as I continuously beat myself up for every test score that didn’t pass my expectations as a former honor student. My parents’ dreams of me graduating with the acronym “CPA” at the end of my name was crushed before my very eyes.
It was difficult grieving for my past self and coming to terms that I was not as gifted or as smart as I thought I was.
I remember waking up late at night shaking from panic attacks, doubting my future and dwelling on how much I’ve disappointed everyone in my life who expected me to be successful in my accounting journey.
No longer was I the gifted child. I was stressed, anxious, burned out, that even the thought of leaving the house made me nervous.
I watched, seeing others walk the tightrope path and feel the burning bitterness in the back of my throat; wishing it were that easy for me too. I mourned for the high expectations that had been fizzled by everyone’s disappointment. What a shame, the perfect studious girl was all talk and no game.
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“Incompetent adults” trope: Parentification
But more than just pressure and burnout, YA media tackles another theme that continues to be as relevant as ever for today’s youth.
In most of these books and stories, there is a noticeable pattern where young main characters are either burdened to take up the mental and emotional role of being a parent or adult, or forced to use their talent and wits to make up for the obvious incompetence of the adult figures in these stories—whether it be their parents, teachers, or mentors.
Developmental experts call this “parentification,” which involves the role reversal between children and adults.
YA media hyper-focuses on this phenomenon, highlighting adults’ reliance on the abilities of children, such as leaving important decisions and saving the world in the hands of the youth.
This responsibility of parentification can be seen through Matilda Wormwood, a gifted reader from the titular book and film “Matilda,” who has to deal with her incompetent and dull-witted family.
But one major example of this is tackled in-depth by my all-time favorite book series titled, “A Series of Unfortunate Events” (ASOUE), which focuses on the orphaned Baudelaire siblings who are forced to navigate a dangerous world and solve the mystery of their parents’ death—all on their own.
While some may be well-meaning, almost all adults in ASOUE are depicted to be incompetent, uninformed, and ignorant of the series’ main villain, Count Olaf, who continues to harass the children in the hopes of stealing the fortune their parents left behind. Despite the siblings communicating their concerns to the adults and providing evidence of Count Olaf stalking them, these adults relentlessly dismiss the siblings, forcing the Baudelaires to rely on each other and their own abilities to escape the murderous villain each time.
I admit that while most of my classmates were obsessing over Katniss Everdeen during this period, I was undergoing an ASOUE phase—particularly one that admired Violet Baudelaire, the eldest Baudelaire child.
Out of all my favorite characters in various forms of YA media, I resonate with Violet the most as someone who is also burdened by the role of parentifying my siblings. Like Violet, I too am the eldest child among three children. And like her, I was also dutifully reminded by my parents to look after my two younger siblings.
One particular paragraph that struck me and made me sympathize with Violet as a fellow eldest daughter was in page 117, Chapter 10 of “The Bad Beginning,” the first book in the ASOUE series:
“As she worked, she remembered something her parents had said to her when Klaus was born, and again when they brought Sunny home from the hospital. ‘You are the eldest Baudelaire child,’ they had said, kindly but firmly. ‘And as the eldest, it will always be your responsibility to look after your younger siblings. Promise us that you will always watch out for them and make sure they don’t get into trouble.’”
But more than just looking after my younger brother and sister, being the eldest child also meant walking on eggshells and being attuned to the emotions of each family member. I had to notice the coming signs of when my mother would be in a bad mood or when my father would need assistance.
Being the oldest child meant taking up the third parental role when my parents wouldn’t, such as helping with my siblings’ projects, listening to my mother vent about our financial constraints, or deal with the task of being the peacemaker of my parents when they would argue. It meant having to mature earlier and prioritize the needs of my parents and siblings before me.
Similarly, Luisa Madrigal, the second eldest daughter of the Madrigal siblings from the Disney musical film, “Encanto,” also portrays the struggle of sacrificing oneself to carry the weight and burdens of the rest of the family.
This is extensively discussed in her solo song titled, “Surface Pressure,” where Luisa sings, “Give it to your sister, it doesn’t hurt, and / See if she can handle every family burden / Watch as she buckles and bends but never breaks, no mistakes.”
And though pressure, burnout, and parentification are issues that can’t be easily resolved by just one conversation, having YA media portray these issues of mental health and development can help the youth understand these feelings and experiences at an early age.
After all, representation in the media is critical in influencing the mind of the general public.
In its own little way, YA media can aid the next generation to cut these toxic cycles in the long run, so that lesser children and teenagers may experience the effects of pressure, burnout, and parentification brought by being chosen ones, child prodigies, and having incompetent adults.
