Dinner at our house is usually loud, messy, and mildly dangerous.
Someone always spills something.
Someone always complains about the meal.
Someone always has to pee the moment we sit down.

A typical Johnson evening.

But sometimes, dinner goes from chaos to… something else.
Something deeper.
Something philosophical.
Something I was absolutely not mentally prepared for.

It started with chicken and vegetables.
Normal enough.
Then, completely unprompted, Isla looks up mid-bite and asks:

“Dad… what happens when people die?”

I choked on my food like a man who had not expected to discuss mortality between mouthfuls of broccoli.

Before I could even form a sentence, London jumped in with,
“Yeah, and why do adults get stressed every day?”

Every day.
Did you hear that?
Every. Day.
Kids don’t miss a thing.

Then Isla, not waiting for any answers because why would she, followed with:
“If you’re tired every day, why don't you just sleep more?”

Three questions.
Death. Stress. Sleep Patterns.
Back-to-back.
No breathing room.

I looked at Elise like,
“Is this a parenting pop quiz? Did we miss the study guide?”

She shrugged.
Then the kids looked at me as if I should have all the answers, which is hilarious because just last week I Googled “how to fold a fitted sheet.”

I tried to start slow.

“Well… people die because—”

But before I could finish, London interrupted again,
“And if the population keeps getting bigger and bigger, won’t we run out of food? Where would everyone go? Will there be enough houses? Enough farms for food?"

I blinked at her.
I haven’t even sorted out my next week’s schedule and she’s over here asking me about global resource allocation.

Then Isla, still not satisfied, goes:
“Dad, are you old?”
Not “how old.”
Just, are you old.

Kids are savage.

I told her, “No, I’m not old.”
She frowned.
“Are you sure? Aren't you from the olden days?”

Thank you, child.
Truly a poetic compliment.

And I don’t know if it was the exhaustion from work, or the lingering stress of trying to push forward a charity that keeps getting stuck in red tape, or just the mental load of being a parent in December — but somewhere between “What happens when we die?” and “Why don’t adults play anymore?” my brain quietly left the room.

Meanwhile, the interrogation continued.

“Does kindness mean always sharing?”
“What if someone is mean first — should you still be kind?”
“What’s more important: being smart or being good?”
“What’s the point of school if adults forget everything anyway?”
(This one stung, because… fair.)

At one point, Isla asked:
“Why do grown-ups get grumpy?”

Which honestly felt like a personal attack.

I tried my best to answer.
Really, I did.
But the truth is I don’t have perfect answers.
I’ve lived over 30 years and still don’t fully understand death, stress, love, kindness, economics, or why the cat ignores me unless I’m holding food.

But kids?
Kids ask these questions without fear.
Without hesitation.
Without worrying if the answer is uncomfortable or complicated or messy.

Kids don’t avoid life’s big questions — they walk straight into them wearing mismatched socks and asking for dessert.

Adults avoid these questions.
We distract ourselves.
We hide behind routines, work, productivity, noise.
Kids cut through all that with a chicken nugget in one hand and a fuggler in the other.

As the conversation unfolded, I realised something I’ve probably known for years but routinely forget:

Children are philosophers who haven’t been told they’re not allowed to be philosophers yet.

They wonder freely.
They question fearlessly.
They challenge naturally.
They think in straight lines while adults tie ourselves in mental knots.

And here’s the part that stuck with me:

When kids ask about death, they’re not afraid.
When they ask about love, they’re not complicated.
When they ask about kindness, they’re not political.
When they ask about the future, they’re not cynical.
When they ask why adults are stressed, they already know the answer — they just want to hear you say it out loud.

They haven’t unlearned curiosity.
They haven’t unlearned imagination.
They haven’t unlearned simplicity.

Stoicism teaches us to face things honestly, to ask questions that matter, to live with intention, to stay curious, to examine ourselves with courage.

My kids asked more Stoic questions in one dinner than I ask myself in a month.

And the funniest part?
Every time I tried to give them a deep answer, they responded with something like:
“Oh. So… can I have ice cream now?”

Life-changing revelations one second, dessert negotiations the next.

That’s parenting.
That’s childhood.
That’s life.

I walked away from dinner that night feeling something rare: like the smallest people in the house had just reminded me how big life actually is.

I spend so much time trying to be the teacher — the dad, the leader, the adult — that I forget half the time my kids are teaching me.

About simplicity.
About honesty.
About being curious instead of anxious.
About embracing the questions instead of pretending to have answers.
About wonder.
About meaning.
About love.
About the fact that adults take themselves far too seriously.

And maybe that’s the real lesson:

You don’t need to have all the answers.
You just need to stay open.
Stay curious.
Stay honest.
Stay human.

My kids don’t care if I’m right.
They care if I’m present.
They care if I’m listening.
They care if I try.

And that’s enough.

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Until next week,
Broden Johnson