John Singarayar, SVD
We live in an age where our children know how to swipe before they can tie their shoes, where family dinners compete with notifications, and where even our youngest are developing anxiety from screens we hand them to keep the peace. When Lent arrives and we talk about giving up chocolate or scrolling, we are barely scratching the surface of what our families desperately need.
The traditional Lenten fast has its place, but our tables are not drowning in excess food—they are drowning in excess everything. Our kids consume more content before breakfast than previous generations did in a week. We are not battling gluttony of the stomach but gluttony of the mind, and it is stealing our family’s peace.
Scripture shows us that fasting creates space for what matters most. When Ezra fasted before a dangerous journey, he was seeking divine protection for families travelling together. When Esther called her people to fast, she was fighting for the survival of entire households. These were not individual spiritual exercises—they were communal acts of desperation and hope. Our families need that same desperation now, the kind that makes us willing to actually change how we live.
Consider what is actually consuming your household. Is it the news cycle that has parents paralysed with fear about the future? The social media that has teenagers comparing their lives to impossible standards? I watched a mother last week confess through tears that her 12-year-old had stopped eating because an algorithm decided she needed weight-loss content. This child, still in braces, was skipping meals while her phone fed her a steady diet of comparison and inadequacy. We have normalised a pace and a level of distraction that makes peace nearly impossible.
We have normalised a pace and a level of distraction that makes peace nearly impossible
This Lent, what if families fasted from the things that fragment them? What if parents put their phones in a basket during dinner, not as punishment but as a proclamation that these faces around the table matter more than any notification? What if families fasted from organised activities one night a week, creating margin for spontaneous play, for boredom that breeds creativity, and for conversation that meanders instead of rushing?
The Psalms speak of fasting to humble ourselves before God. For families, this might mean fasting from the pride that keeps us overscheduled to prove our worth. We pack our children’s calendars with enrichment activities, terrified they will fall behind, while they are actually falling apart from exhaustion. Humility looks like admitting we cannot do it all, choosing depth over breadth, and saying no to good opportunities so we can say yes to our children’s actual needs.
Our kids are watching how we handle conflict, consume media, and respond to stress. When we fast from the impulse to immediately check our phones when anxious, from the habit of numbing ourselves with screens, and from the pattern of snapping at each other when overwhelmed, we teach them a different way. We show them that discomfort does not require immediate escape, that feelings can be felt without being feared, and that relationships matter more than likes.
Joel’s call to “return with fasting and weeping” is especially relevant for families navigating real crises. Perhaps you are parenting a child struggling with mental health issues, fighting an addiction that has invaded your home, or walking through grief that has shattered your sense of safety. The modern response is to stay busy, to distract, and to pretend everything is fine for the sake of the children. But what if fasting from that pretence and allowing space for honest grief and struggle is actually what brings healing?
What if families fasted from organised activities one night a week, creating margin for spontaneous play, for boredom that breeds creativity, and for conversation that meanders instead of rushing?
When families fast from toxic positivity—the pressure to always be okay—they create room for authentic hope. Hope does not deny reality; it walks through it with eyes open, trusting that God meets us in the mess. This Lent, families might fast from the performative perfection of social media, from comparing their struggles to everyone else’s highlight reels, and from the shame that keeps them isolated in their pain.
Daniel’s fasting strengthened his prayers, and families need that same prayer power now. Wars rage across the world, violence touches our communities, and division tears at the fabric of society. Our children absorb this anxiety like sponges. When families fast together—whether from screens, from busyness, or from fear-driven news consumption—and pray together instead, something shifts. Prayer stops being a rushed bedtime ritual and becomes a lifeline, a way of anchoring to hope when everything feels unmoored.
Esther’s fast was about deliverance, and our families need deliverance too. From the consumerism that tells our children their worth is in their possessions. From the achievement culture that measures their value by their performance. From the isolation that has them physically together but emotionally disconnected. From the cynicism that steals their wonder and replaces it with weary sophistication before they even reach high school.
When families fast from toxic positivity—the pressure to always be okay—they create room for authentic hope. Hope does not deny reality; it walks through it with eyes open, trusting that God meets us in the mess
Jesus fasted 40 days before beginning his mission. This Lent, families might fast from the frenzy long enough to rediscover their mission: to love each other well, to build a home that is a refuge instead of a relay station, and to raise children who know they are cherished not for what they achieve but for who they are. That mission requires preparation. It requires stripping away what clutters. It requires getting quiet enough to hear what actually matters.
Fasting as a family is not about deprivation—it is about reclaiming what has been lost. Less screen time means more eye contact. Less rushing means more presence. Less consumption means more gratitude. Less noise means more space for peace to settle into your home.
This Lent, before you decide what food to give up, look at what is actually feeding your family’s anxiety, division, and exhaustion. The fast your household needs might be the one that finally creates space for the peace and hope you have been too busy to notice were missing all along.
