The toughest generation in American history isn’t the greatest generation — it’s the boomers who grew up in the 1960s, and these 9 childhood experiences explain why no amount of modern parenting can replicate that kind of resilience

It was the summer of 1969. I was out the front door by eight in the morning with nothing but a peanut butter sandwich in my pocket and a vague instruction from my mother to “be home before dark.” No phone. No helmet. No adult supervision whatsoever. Just me, my brothers, and whatever trouble we could find in our working-class Ohio neighborhood.

And you know what? We found plenty.

I look at the way kids are raised today, and I don’t say this to be unkind, but something fundamental has shifted. The world my generation grew up in wasn’t gentler or safer. In many ways, it was rougher. But that roughness built something in us that I’m not sure can be taught in a classroom or downloaded from an app.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Here goes another boomer complaining about kids these days.” But stick with me. Because this isn’t about complaining. It’s about understanding what shaped an entire generation’s backbone, and why those experiences matter more than ever.

1) We were left to our own devices, literally

I don’t mean devices with screens. I mean we were left alone. Truly, genuinely alone, for hours at a time.

My mother had five kids and a household budget that required the planning skills of a military general. She didn’t have time to organize playdates or hover over us at the park. Her parenting philosophy could be summed up in two words: “Go outside.”

So we did. We built forts out of whatever scrap wood we could find. We explored drainage ditches and climbed trees that no reasonable adult would have approved of. We made up games with rules that changed every ten minutes and resolved arguments with a mix of shouting and compromise.

And in the process, without anyone designing the curriculum, we learned how to entertain ourselves, manage risk, and figure things out without an adult stepping in to smooth every rough edge.

2) Boredom was a regular companion

If you told a kid today that you grew up without a television in your bedroom, without a computer, without a phone in your pocket, they’d look at you like you’d survived a natural disaster. But boredom was just part of the deal.

And here’s what nobody talks about: boredom was actually useful.

When you’re bored, you have to create. You have to invent. You have to dig around in your own imagination and come up with something from nothing. I genuinely believe that some of the most resourceful, creative people I know are the ones who spent long childhood afternoons staring at a ceiling, waiting for an idea to show up.

These days, the moment a child looks even slightly understimulated, a screen appears. I’m not judging. But I do think we’ve lost something by eliminating boredom entirely from childhood.

3) We shared everything, including space

I grew up sharing a bedroom with two of my brothers. Not because it was some character-building exercise my parents dreamed up, but because there were five kids and not enough rooms to go around.

You learn things fast when your personal space is about three feet wide. You learn compromise. You learn to negotiate. You learn that sometimes your brother’s elbow is going to end up in your face at two in the morning, and the world doesn’t end because of it.

We shared clothes, too. Hand-me-downs were just how it worked. My older brother would outgrow something, it’d come to me, and eventually make its way down the line. Nobody felt sorry for themselves about it. It was just life.

I think there’s something to be said for growing up without the expectation that everything in your world should be new, personalized, and exclusively yours. It taught us to be grateful for what we had instead of fixated on what we didn’t.

4) Falling down was part of the curriculum

I fell out of a tree when I was nine and knocked the wind clean out of myself. Lay there on the ground, gasping, convinced I was dying. My older brother walked over, looked down at me, and said, “You’re fine. Get up.”

So I got up.

No trip to the emergency room. No parent threatening to sue the tree’s owner. No weeks of gentle processing about the emotional trauma of gravity. I got up, brushed the dirt off, and climbed a different tree.

I’m not saying we should be cavalier about children’s safety. But there’s a difference between protecting kids from genuine danger and protecting them from every scrape, bruise, and disappointment. The scrapes taught us that pain is temporary. The bruises taught us that we’re tougher than we think. And the disappointments? Those taught us that life doesn’t always hand you a trophy just for showing up.

5) Chores weren’t optional

Did you have a choice about doing chores in the 1960s? Absolutely. You could do them now, or you could do them after your mother gave you The Look. Either way, they were getting done.

My father worked double shifts at the factory. My mother ran the household like a tight ship because she had to. Every one of us kids had responsibilities, and they weren’t negotiable. You took out the trash. You set the table. You helped with the dishes. If you were old enough to reach the lawn mower, congratulations, you’d just been promoted.

It wasn’t about building character, though it did that too. It was about necessity. The family needed every member pulling their weight, and we understood that from a young age. We weren’t guests in our own home. We were contributors.

I think that sense of being needed, of having a genuine role in the functioning of a household, gave us something important. It taught us that responsibility isn’t a punishment. It’s proof that you matter.

6) Adults didn’t referee our conflicts

If you got into a disagreement with another kid on the block, you had two options: work it out or avoid each other. There was no parent swooping in to mediate. No teacher pulling you both aside for a conflict resolution session. You either figured out how to get along, or you didn’t.

And most of the time, we figured it out.

Not perfectly. Not always fairly. But we learned, through messy trial and error, how to read other people. How to stand your ground. How to apologize when you’d gone too far. How to forgive when someone else had. These are skills that no amount of structured social-emotional learning can fully replicate, because the stakes were real and the adults weren’t watching.

As I’ve mentioned before, some of the most important interpersonal skills I carry today were forged not in a classroom or a boardroom, but on the streets and backyards of my childhood.

7) We ate what was put in front of us

There was one meal at dinnertime in my house. One. My mother cooked it, my father said grace, and you ate it. If you didn’t like it, that was fine. You could sit there and not like it. But there was no alternative menu. No special requests. No negotiation.

Sunday dinner was sacred in our family. Everyone at the table, no exceptions. And those dinners weren’t just about food. They were about being part of something. About learning to sit still, listen to adults talk, contribute when you had something worth saying, and keep quiet when you didn’t.

I know this sounds rigid by today’s standards. But I think there’s a kind of resilience that comes from not always having your preferences catered to. It teaches you to adapt. To be flexible. To understand that the world doesn’t rearrange itself around your tastes, and that’s okay.

8) Praise was earned, not given

My father wasn’t a man who threw around compliments. When he said, “Good job,” you knew you’d actually done a good job, because you’d heard those words maybe a dozen times in your life.

I’m not saying that was perfect parenting. I’m sure a few more encouraging words wouldn’t have hurt. But there’s something to be said for growing up in an environment where praise meant something because it was rare. Where you didn’t get a ribbon just for participating. Where the standard wasn’t, “You tried your best and that’s all that matters,” but rather, “You can do better. Go do better.”

It created a kind of internal motivation that I see less of today. When every child is told they’re exceptional, the word loses its meaning. When recognition has to be earned, it fuels a drive that lasts a lifetime.

I see this with my own grandchildren sometimes. They’re wonderful kids, all five of them. But I do wonder whether the constant encouragement they receive, well-meaning as it is, might actually be teaching them to look outward for validation instead of inward for satisfaction.

9) We learned that life wasn’t fair, and that was the lesson

My family didn’t have much money. My mother managed the household budget with a level of resourcefulness that still impresses me to this day. Some weeks were tight. Some Christmases were leaner than others. And nobody sat us down to apologize for it or assure us that we deserved more.

Because here’s the thing: life wasn’t fair. We knew it. Our parents knew it. And instead of shielding us from that truth, they let us live it.

There were kids at school with nicer clothes and bigger houses. There were families who went on vacations we could only dream about. And yeah, it stung sometimes. But it also taught us something invaluable. You don’t need ideal circumstances to build a good life. You don’t need everything handed to you to become someone worth being. Some of the strongest, most decent people I’ve ever known came from households where money was scarce but expectations were high.

My immigrant grandparents built a life from nothing in this country. My father followed their example, working himself to the bone without complaint. That wasn’t just a family story. It was a blueprint. And it taught me that grit isn’t something you’re born with. It’s something you build, one hard day at a time.

Parting thoughts

I’m not under any illusions that everything about growing up in the 1960s was wonderful. Plenty of it wasn’t. But the hardships, the lack of supervision, the boredom, the hand-me-downs, the scraped knees and unmediated arguments, they left something behind. A kind of quiet toughness that doesn’t announce itself but shows up when it’s needed.

Can modern parenting replicate it? Maybe not exactly. But I think parents today can learn something from the way our generation was raised, even if they apply it differently.

After all, resilience has never come from comfort. It’s always come from the lack of it. And sometimes, the best thing you can do for a child is let them struggle, let them fail, and trust that they’ll get back up.

Isn’t that how it’s always worked?