The Third Space

I recently read an article in The Guardian about a 21-year-old woman named Aimee who died by suicide. Her sister, a journalist, investigated the death and discovered that Aimee had been groomed by an online pro-suicide community. She had been nudged into believing that her life wasn’t worth saving.

My eyes welled up. I had a sudden realisation that what’s playing out on the Internet is far more dangerous and insidious than we know. I fear more for my growing child.

So many times during the day, I see my toddler peeking into someone’s phone. We live in a joint family setup, and despite my attempts to create clear screen-time rules, the loopholes are everywhere. A tantrum during my absence might lead someone to switch on the TV. A distracted grandparent may scroll through their phone while my son leans innocently on their shoulder, soaking in flashing images and unfamiliar sounds. Sometimes, I cave myself. The whining is too much. YouTube comes on. It happens, despite my best intentions.

At 2.5 years old, my child knows Netflix and YouTube. He names the shows he wants, understands the remote. And that terrifies me.

The article—and my son’s increasingly intuitive grasp of the digital world—got me thinking: in a world practically run by the internet and AI, how do you limit your child’s access to technology? How do you protect them from its influence? And for how long?

I already struggle to hold the line now. How will I monitor his usage when he’s 10 or 14? How will I keep him safe from the darker corners of the online world—the ones that lured in Aimee?

The truth is, I can’t—and won’t—monitor his every move. I refuse to parent with hypervigilance. I remember being a teenager myself: secretive, independent, convinced of my invincibility. All I can hope is that my child grows up with slightly better judgment than mine (mine wasn’t bad, but he could do better), with a solid value system and the unshakeable knowledge that he is loved, deeply and unconditionally. Will that be enough?

Gabor Maté offers one possible compass. He writes, “Children need to attach to adults in order to become fully human. If they don’t, they will attach to their peers, and that is developmentally disastrous.” His words hit home. In our modern world, children are often being shaped not by parents but by peers—or worse, by algorithms. And this peer orientation begins early, especially when screen time replaces shared moments with adults.

But even before adolescence, the foundation for digital habits is being laid. The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends that children aged 2–5 get no more than one hour of screen time per day, and none for infants under 18 months, except for video calls. Yet a 2023 study found that most toddlers regularly exceed these guidelines. Even in a multi-generational household like mine, where there are always people around to engage the child, maintaining a screen-free environment is a constant struggle.

So what do we do?

Maybe the better question isn’t how to control their screen time—but how to deepen our connection with them in an age of distraction.

In her 2023 book The Emotional Lives of Teenagers, clinical psychologist Dr. Lisa Damour argues that when children feel emotionally supported and connected at home, they become more resilient to the pressures and dangers of digital life. Similarly, psychologist Jean Twenge points out that something as simple as regular family meals can significantly reduce the risks associated with screen use. In other words, what matters most isn’t perfect control over technology, but a strong, steady presence in a child’s life.

So I circle back to my own question: Will love and connection be enough?

Maybe not always. But maybe it’s the only thing that’s truly within my control.

I don’t have all the answers. But I do know this: I want to be the adult my child turns to when the internet gets too dark or too strange. I want to build a home that values conversation and curiosity over control. A home where mistakes are met with compassion and where digital literacy is taught—not through fear, but through trust.