By JAMES WERNICKE
Los Alamos Parent
Since the dawn of humanity, all parents have shared the same experience—watching their children grow into raging balls of hormones as they enter adolescence—and all parents respond the same way—doing the best they can to guide them through it. In the past, there was the village. Generations lived under one roof with extended family biologically hardwired to step in and help.
Today, many of us live far from family in neighborhoods where everyone’s busy, help is a luxury, and community is aspirational. If we’re lucky, we find trusted friends. If not, we rely on institutions and public services designed to offer support, but too often driven by checklists and legal liability, not lived understanding.
Those systems don’t really kick in until something breaks.
A teenager calls a crisis hotline in the middle of the night—scared, overwhelmed, and reaching out. The protocol begins with police knocking at the door at midnight. They try to explain why they’ve woken the entire house, but there’s no soft way to say, “We’re here to check on your child because they might want to die.”
They ask to come in. You can say no, technically—but when it comes to a child’s welfare, your constitutional rights are suddenly optional. Within minutes, paramedics arrive. Now there’s seven strangers in your home, surrounding your child, who’s anxiety has gone through the roof. She looks at you for help, and if you’re fast enough to process what’s happening, maybe you can opt out of the ambulance ride and drive them to the hospital, saving yourself an arm and a leg on transport. Here in Los Alamos, we fund impressive recreational facilities, glorious municipal buildings, and generous public salaries with tax dollars—but emergency services? That’s on you. Something you might want to remind your Councilors about as they go into budget hearings.
At the ER, you’re split up.
You’re intercepted to fill out the same damn insurance forms and liability waivers you fill out every time you come to the hospital because God forbid they keep a record while your child is ushered into a back room for tox screens, psychiatric evaluations, and round-the-clock monitoring by strangers. Hours later, a telepsychiatrist appears—just a face on a screen—who decides, based on a short conversation and a checklist, whether your child should be hospitalized or sent home. They’ve probably had the same conversation with dozens of other youth on their shift. Imagine having that job. In this case, they’re discharged with a prescription for antidepressants and a list of mental health providers who won’t be available for weeks. There’s no follow-up, no plan, and no sleep before the next school day starts.
Everyone involved—the officers, paramedics, nurses, doctors—seemed to genuinely care, but that didn’t change the fact that this process was traumatic. It didn’t feel like care. It felt like being dragged through a cold, impersonal machine.
Everyone followed protocol.
If following protocol produces outcomes like this—a family more traumatized than before, a child no closer to help, and a resolution that guarantees they’ll never call for help again—then what exactly are we defending? We’ve built a system where care is defined by procedures, not results. Where institutions pat themselves on the back for “responding appropriately,” even as the people they serve are left feeling violated and broken. What is it going to take to change that?
It’s time to stop pretending that protocols equal outcomes, checkboxes equal care, and good intentions are enough. The only thing that matters in youth mental health is outcomes. Period.
Did the child get better? Did the family feel supported? Did the system build trust—or destroy it? If this were your child, your home, your midnight knock—would you feel helped? If the answer is no, then demand better from your elected officials, your institutions, and anyone else who claims to care.
If outcomes don’t matter, nothing does.