cross the world, education systems and development frameworks are increasingly speaking about “wellbeing” and “thriving.” Yet beneath this shift in language lies a more uncomfortable truth: many of our systems still operate on the belief that young people need to be fixed—that they are the ones who must adapt.
How often do we hear:
Young people need to be resilient to overcome the systemic barriers placed in their way.
Young people need to be committed to jobs and pathways, whether or not they align with who they are.
Young people need to adapt to fit narrow definitions of success, regardless of what they value or aspire to.
But what if young people are not the problem? What if our systems are?
Dhiraj grew up carrying more than most adults do.
Recurring health issues kept him indoors while others played. At school, he was bullied for not conforming to expectations of masculinity, for being too emotional, too different. At home, grief and instability followed the loss of his sister. His father struggled with debt and alcoholism. Still in school, Dhiraj took on multiple jobs to support his family.
There was little space to pause, to be seen, to belong. In his world, vulnerability was a risk. His difference was punished. And silence felt safer than being misunderstood.
Like many young people navigating adversity, Dhiraj learned how to survive and to manage. And we often celebrate stories like his as examples of resilience.
But resilience, while powerful, can also be misleading. It allows systems to remain unquestioned, quietly shifting the burden of adaptation onto young people instead of asking what must change around them.
Young people do not lack potential. What they lack are spaces that recognize the full complexity of their lives.
Spaces where they are not reduced to a problem to be solved.
Spaces where their experiences are held without judgment.
Spaces where they can begin to see themselves differently.
This is where systems change needs to begin. Not with new programs alone, but with a shift in the conditions we create.
Thriving is shaped in the everyday moments of interaction, in whether a young person feels heard or dismissed, seen or labelled, trusted or controlled. These moments are not accidental. They are produced by systems through the norms, beliefs, and behaviors we reinforce as adults.
And this is where the work becomes uncomfortable.
Because the system is not separate from us.
If I believe a young person is incapable, I will limit what I offer them.
If I am uncomfortable with emotion, I will shut it down.
If I carry unexamined biases, I will reproduce them.
No curriculum can compensate for this. No policy can override it.
At its core, this is not just a design challenge. It is a relational and human one.
It asks educators, leaders, and policymakers to do something far less visible and far more difficult: to examine how we show up, listen, and hold power. Because systems are not abstract structures; t they are lived through relationships. When relationships shift, systems begin to shift.
Young people describe thriving spaces with remarkable clarity. They are spaces where they can speak without fear of judgment. Where silence is allowed. Where multiple perspectives can coexist. Where they are not defined by their circumstances.
These are not “soft” ideas. They are the foundation of whether transformation is possible.
When Dhiraj finally entered such a different space, something shifted. Not dramatically, but quietly. For the first time, he experienced what it meant to not be judged but listened to. Where conversations did not seek to correct him, but to understand him. Where stories like his were not isolated, but shared. For the first time, he did not have to perform a version of himself to be accepted. He could simply be.
He began to speak about parts of his life he had never voiced. He began to see that what he carried was not a personal failure, but part of a larger story. And in one moment, he heard something that stayed with him:
“When you share your story, think of yourself as the hero of it. Do not carry shame.”
That shift, from silence to voice, from shame to agency, is where thriving begins.
Today, he is building ways to support the mental wellbeing of other young people like him. But his journey is not just a story of personal change. It is evidence of what becomes possible when the systems around a young person change.
In a world marked by increasing inequality, uncertainty, and disconnection, thriving cannot be engineered through external reforms alone. It must be cultivated through relationships, through shifts in norms, and through the inner work of those who hold space within systems.
If we are serious about enabling young people to thrive at scale, the question is not only what we design, but who we are when we design it.
Because thriving is not an outcome we deliver. It is a condition we create.
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Thriving is not an outcome, it is a condition we design
Image via Unsplash+
April 21, 2026
Systems must stop treating troubled youths as problems to be fixed. Instead, systems should recognize that troubled youth also bear potential—and that realizing that potential requires we rethink how we design for thriving, writes Suchetha Bhat.
A
cross the world, education systems and development frameworks are increasingly speaking about “wellbeing” and “thriving.” Yet beneath this shift in language lies a more uncomfortable truth: many of our systems still operate on the belief that young people need to be fixed—that they are the ones who must adapt.
How often do we hear:
Young people need to be resilient to overcome the systemic barriers placed in their way.
Young people need to be committed to jobs and pathways, whether or not they align with who they are.
Young people need to adapt to fit narrow definitions of success, regardless of what they value or aspire to.
But what if young people are not the problem? What if our systems are?
Dhiraj grew up carrying more than most adults do.
Recurring health issues kept him indoors while others played. At school, he was bullied for not conforming to expectations of masculinity, for being too emotional, too different. At home, grief and instability followed the loss of his sister. His father struggled with debt and alcoholism. Still in school, Dhiraj took on multiple jobs to support his family.
There was little space to pause, to be seen, to belong. In his world, vulnerability was a risk. His difference was punished. And silence felt safer than being misunderstood.
Like many young people navigating adversity, Dhiraj learned how to survive and to manage. And we often celebrate stories like his as examples of resilience.
But resilience, while powerful, can also be misleading. It allows systems to remain unquestioned, quietly shifting the burden of adaptation onto young people instead of asking what must change around them.
Young people do not lack potential. What they lack are spaces that recognize the full complexity of their lives.
Spaces where they are not reduced to a problem to be solved.
Spaces where their experiences are held without judgment.
Spaces where they can begin to see themselves differently.
This is where systems change needs to begin. Not with new programs alone, but with a shift in the conditions we create.
Thriving is shaped in the everyday moments of interaction, in whether a young person feels heard or dismissed, seen or labelled, trusted or controlled. These moments are not accidental. They are produced by systems through the norms, beliefs, and behaviors we reinforce as adults.
And this is where the work becomes uncomfortable.
Because the system is not separate from us.
If I believe a young person is incapable, I will limit what I offer them.
If I am uncomfortable with emotion, I will shut it down.
If I carry unexamined biases, I will reproduce them.
No curriculum can compensate for this. No policy can override it.
At its core, this is not just a design challenge. It is a relational and human one.
It asks educators, leaders, and policymakers to do something far less visible and far more difficult: to examine how we show up, listen, and hold power. Because systems are not abstract structures; t they are lived through relationships. When relationships shift, systems begin to shift.
Young people describe thriving spaces with remarkable clarity. They are spaces where they can speak without fear of judgment. Where silence is allowed. Where multiple perspectives can coexist. Where they are not defined by their circumstances.
These are not “soft” ideas. They are the foundation of whether transformation is possible.
When Dhiraj finally entered such a different space, something shifted. Not dramatically, but quietly. For the first time, he experienced what it meant to not be judged but listened to. Where conversations did not seek to correct him, but to understand him. Where stories like his were not isolated, but shared. For the first time, he did not have to perform a version of himself to be accepted. He could simply be.
He began to speak about parts of his life he had never voiced. He began to see that what he carried was not a personal failure, but part of a larger story. And in one moment, he heard something that stayed with him:
“When you share your story, think of yourself as the hero of it. Do not carry shame.”
That shift, from silence to voice, from shame to agency, is where thriving begins.
Today, he is building ways to support the mental wellbeing of other young people like him. But his journey is not just a story of personal change. It is evidence of what becomes possible when the systems around a young person change.
In a world marked by increasing inequality, uncertainty, and disconnection, thriving cannot be engineered through external reforms alone. It must be cultivated through relationships, through shifts in norms, and through the inner work of those who hold space within systems.
If we are serious about enabling young people to thrive at scale, the question is not only what we design, but who we are when we design it.
Because thriving is not an outcome we deliver. It is a condition we create.
