I just threw up in my mouth a bit.

No, not because of that but because I don’t use obvious clickbait to title my work. That said, please forgive the title and suspend your judgment for a moment.

It will all make sense later, promise.

Today, I got to thinking about The Breakfast Club, especially the essay conceptualized as a group and penned by Brian at the film’s conclusion. That’s when the most random yet curious question materialized in my foggy noggin…

What might their letter sound like if they had to write it as kids today, in 2026?

For the hell of it, I took a stab at crafting such a message.

I ran the final product by some Gen Z kids on retainer to ensure it worked for them and didn’t just sound like an old Gen X dude writing what he thinks Gen Z might say because lord knows, I don’t need to sound like Steve Buscemi in a high school hallway.

My kids and I had an interesting conversation about what they thought the core of The Breakfast Club’s message was, but what was the most intriguing insight from all this speculation?

As predictable as it is sad, that letter was timeless. The same core message translates almost flawlessly for today, despite using different terms to appeal to a different generation in a different time.

I threw in some carefully camouflaged easter eggs for communication/linguistics geeks like me, but I’ll leave those hidden for now…

Dear Whomever Reads This,

You see us how you want to see us.
Filtered. Sorted. Reduced to whatever version of us is easiest to manage.

You think you know us because of our grades, our posts, our attendance records, our silence? Because of that one thing we did that stuck? Because of the thing we didn’t do that got noticed? Because of the way we showed up once and got labeled forever?

You tell us to be ourselves . . . but not like that.

To speak up . . . but not too loud.

To care . . . but not so much that it’s inconvenient.

To be patient . . . even though everything feels both urgent and temporary all at once.

You call us distracted like the world isn’t constantly screaming.

You call us soft because we name things you were taught to bury.

You call us dramatic because we don’t pretend things are fine when they’re clearly not.

You want us to have opinions — as long as they’re your opinions.

You want honesty — as long as it doesn’t make you uncomfortable.
You want growth — but only if it’s predictable, quiet, and easy to manage.

In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions, what we figured out today, sitting here together without our feeds, without our captions, and without all the noise, is this…

None of us are easily labeled.

We’re impressive . . . until we’re disappointing.

Relatable . . . until we’re embarrassing.

Responsible . . . until we’re a liability.

We’re trying while being watched 24/7.

Learning while being tested and judged.

Becoming ourselves publicly, with a permanent record and no edit button.

We’re allowed to be both confident and uncertain.

Capable but overwhelmed.

Serious about things you said don’t matter.
Dismissive about the things you say should matter.

And yeah, we mess up.

We say the wrong thing.

We change our minds.

We don’t know who the hell we are yet.

That’s not apathy.

That’s not failure.

That’s growing up in real time, in a world nobody understands.
Not even you.

So, you want a conclusion?

A takeaway?

A neat little note to file away before the bell rings?

Here it is:

Stop deciding who we are before we do.

Stop boxing us up at our worst moments
because it’s simpler and more convenient.

Stop confusing visibility with certainty.

Because the truth is a lot harder to deal with.
And it’s a hell of a lot harder to control.

We’re not finished.

And we’re paying attention.

We are so much more than whatever you assume we are.

Does that answer your question?

Sincerely yours,
The Breakfast Club Reboot