Why Knowing Better Isn't Enough
On my way to work, there is a red light camera. I know exactly where it is because I have gotten more than one ticket from it.
You would think I would learn. But when I am rushing and the light turns yellow, I do not slow down. My foot presses harder on the gas, and by the time I realize what I have done, I am already through the intersection. Then comes the flash, bright and out of context, changing my mood in an instant. One moment I am harried and rushing, the next I am frustrated and regretful, reminded that once again I ignored what I already knew.
For the rest of my drive, I am upset with myself. I knew better. I have been here before. And still, I made the same impulsive choice. That is, until the ticket arrives in the mail and I hear the slow rip of the envelope opening, then the quiet weight in my husband's voice. Haven't you learned your lesson yet? The cost, the frustration, the sense that this should not still be happening, it is all there. And I feel the truth of it. But here we are again.
That cycle feels so familiar. Because this is exactly what our kids face.
They know. They know they should not use. They know they should not lie. They know they should not steal. These are not lessons they are missing. Just like me with that red light, they know the risks and the consequences. But until something shifts underneath, until the deeper pattern changes, they keep making the same choices.
And for us as parents, the disappointment runs deep. Not because we do not love them, but because we know they are capable of more. We want to believe that knowing better should be enough. But it is not.
Because it is not about the red light. And it is not about the substance. It is about what drives us to keep pushing forward on autopilot, no matter the cost.
The problem is not the camera. The problem is why I keep running the light in the first place. Why am I rushing? Why do I let myself get so caught up in finishing one more thing that I run late, stressed and distracted?
I think it is the illusion that pushing harder will somehow create more time, or that completing one more task will finally make me feel caught up. But caught up never comes. There is always another email, another project, another thing that feels urgent. The rushing is not really about the schedule. It is about the belief that if I just do enough, fast enough, I will finally have it all together.
For our kids, the underlying drives are different but just as powerful. Maybe it is the belief that using will finally make them feel normal. Or that lying will protect them from disappointment. Or that the pain they are trying to escape will be manageable this time. The surface behavior is what we see, but the deeper pattern is what keeps pulling them back.
That is where the real work begins. Not just knowing the consequences, but understanding what makes the old choice feel necessary in the first place.
For me, it means recognizing that my worth is not measured by how much I finish before walking out the door. It means leaving earlier and using the strategies I already know, even when urgency tells me to push harder.
For our kids, it means learning new ways to cope with anxiety, boredom, anger, or pain. It means rebuilding trust where it has been broken. It means practicing honesty even when it feels risky. It means believing, slowly and sometimes painfully, that life can feel manageable without the substance or behavior they have relied on.
The red light camera is only a reminder of the surface. The real change happens when we address what drives us to keep running the lights in the first place.
If you find yourself asking, Why have they not learned yet? remember this. They know the consequences just like I know about that camera. But knowing better is only the beginning. The real work is changing the patterns that make the old choice feel automatic. And that takes time, patience, and compassion for the journey.
