You know the ones. The credits roll and you’re already mouthing the lines. The hair is big, the clothes are so bright they had to wear shades, and the music slaps in that synthy way only the 80s could deliver.
I’ve been on a bit of a run lately. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.Summer School.The Karate Kid.Can’t Buy Me Love.
Not because they’re perfect. But because they’re still alive in me. And now, somehow, in my kids too.
Ferris the Philosopher
We wanted to create some of that Ferris Bueller’s Day Off magic for our kids—a celebration of my son graduating into middle school and my daughter wrapping up 3rd grade. So we planned a trip to Chicago immediately after the last day of school.
Wrigley Field? Check.
The Art Institute? Yep.
Sears Tower? You know it.
No parade, but we hit the spirit of it.
“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”
That line used to sound like a cheeky excuse to ditch school. Now it feels like a spiritual reminder. A warning. The rush years move fast—quicker every season—and you blink and your son’s got acne blooming on his forehead and your daughter would rather play Dress to Impress than hang out with you.
There’s this scene in Ferris—and if you’ve only watched it as a kid, you probably missed it—when they wander into the Art Institute. Ferris, Sloane, and Cameron quietly fall into step with a line of elementary school kids walking through the museum. It’s gentle. Innocent. Absolutely perfect.
And then they reach the Van Gogh room. Each one of them stops in front of a different painting. Arms folded. Alone, but still together. The instrumental version of The Smiths’ “Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want” plays over it—The air in that scene shifts—everything slows down, inviting you to feel something deeper. That moment doesn’t shout—it whispers like a gentle nudge to remember what it meant to see the world with wide eyes and an open heart.
It’s tender. Reflective. Beautiful.
That’s the genius of Ferris Bueller. It’s not just about skipping school—it’s about how joy, beauty, and wonder are all around you, if you’re bold enough to pause and pay attention.
Summer School
Summer School hit especially hard this time. It’s goofy, yeah—chainsaw kids, a teenager stripping at night so he sleeps through class, Denise falling in love with her teacher and trying to move in with him. But when we watched it again to kick off break, my son lit up and said, “Wait—is this the one where they scare the sub with horror makeup?” He remembered. The energy stuck with him.
“Tension breaker. Had to be done.”
What I didn’t get then: how hard it is, as a grown-up, to balance being liked with being responsible. Shoop’s just trying to keep the whole thing from falling apart—taking the kids to the beach as an unsanctioned field trip one minute, going to Lamaze class with a pregnant student the next. And somehow, it works. Because he shows up for them. He’s not perfect, but he gives a damn. That’s the grown-up magic trick: be fun, be firm, and try not to lose yourself in the middle.
Karate Here
The Karate Kid is one of those movies that sneaks up on you. You remember the crane kick. The Cobra Kai bullies. The Halloween skeleton costumes. But when I rewatch it now, I don’t see just an underdog story—I see a philosophy for how to move through the world.
“No, Daniel-san. Karate here.” (Miyagi points to his heart)
“Not here.” (Points to his gut.)
That line stuck with me more this time. And I realized—I’ve said almost the same thing to my son. After one of his baseball games, we were talking like we always do—what went well, what we could improve. And I remember telling him, “You’re a really good ballplayer. But if you want to move to the next level, you’ve got to love the game in your heart. You’ve got to give it everything. That passion is what will push you forward.”
At the time, I didn’t even think of Mr. Miyagi. But it’s the same truth. You can’t fake passion. You can’t shortcut heart. Whether it’s karate, baseball, school, or life—you have to let your spirit fill the thing you’re doing if you want to be great at it. That’s what I didn’t get as a kid. I thought it was about training montages and fighting back. But really, it’s about love. Belief. Inner discipline.
And yeah… some seriously solid headbands.
Renting Popularity
Can’t Buy Me Love has always stuck with me—not because I ever wanted to be Ronald Miller, but because I saw what he gave up and knew I wouldn’t make that trade. He had the telescope money saved. He had his crew, his curiosity, his whole inner geek. And he swapped it out for a ruined leather jacket and a seat at the cool table.
“You can’t buy popularity, but you can rent it.”
What I didn’t see then—but get now—is that the movie isn’t really about a makeover or a social climb. It’s about the quiet ache of not trusting your gut. Ronald forgets who he is. But he also finds his way back.
That’s the part that resonates now: the return. The reminder that you don’t have to sell out to stand out—and even if you do for a while, you can always come back home to yourself.
And yeah, it’s clumsy. Awkward. Completely unhinged (the African anteater ritual!). But like so many 80s movies, it’s built on the belief that people can change—and maybe even learn to like who they were all along.
I didn’t plan for my kids to love these movies.
I wanted them to.
I wanted to share a part of me with them—a part that felt free, and funny, and full of heart. Whether it’s horror makeup in Summer School, the museum scene in Ferris Bueller, Mr. Miyagi’s quiet wisdom, or even the awkward dance moves in Can’t Buy Me Love, something in these stories still lands. Still delights. Still teaches.
They’re not just nostalgic. They’re a bridge.
Between my childhood and theirs.
Between who I was and who I’m still trying to be.
And maybe that’s the real magic of a good 80s movie. Beneath all the neon, the montages, the absurd side plots and endlessly quotable lines—they carry something fragile and important:
Pure Joy.
That unmistakable youth energy. That feeling that life is messy, weird, full of possibility—and you’re in the center of it.
As adults, it’s easy to let that joy fade.
Responsibilities pile up. The days blur. Your to-do list seemingly never gets shorter. You spend more time staring at a screen than playing outside. Your kids grow faster than you can keep up. And little by little, the weight of adulthood starts to settle in—like a blanket of ash over a once-roaring campfire, dulling the glow until only faint embers remain.
But I wonder—how do we keep that spark alive under all that weight?
How do we stop it from going out, like a candle at the end of the night?
Maybe it’s through our kids.
Maybe it’s through a silly movie night.
Maybe it’s just remembering who we were before the world got so heavy.
Whatever it is, I think it’s worth chasing.
Because youth isn’t an age. It’s a spirit.
And if these movies taught me anything—
it’s that my spirit’s still in there, waiting for a reason to dance.
A funny, heartfelt look at what it means to cheer for the White Sox when they’re historically awful. From a lifelong baseball bucket list to a superfan yelling her heart out, this is a tribute to showing up even when your team can’t seem to win.
Two roadside memorials near our home—one for a 13-year-old girl—have become quiet landmarks of love, loss, and the rituals that never stop. This is a reflection on parenting, grief, and what it means to keep showing up when the world has moved on.
On the last day of third grade, my daughter came home heartbroken — and reminded me just how deep a child’s heart can feel. A small story of grief, comfort, and boba tea.
Made with Bullet