The Cry of a New Generation: Mentors Wanted. Reparent Us.

Thursday I gave a lecture for Alternativa.

Halfway through, a thunderbolt cracked through the room—unexpected, electric, and deeply confirming.

A successful Mexican media entrepreneur, now in recovery, stood to speak. He did what many do: used the moment to self-promote. Predictable. Glossy redemption narrative.

But then he read aloud a message from his 17-year-old son.

He didn’t hear it.

But I did.

We did—those of us listening with the soul.

His son told him, plainly:

You were never a father.

You left us to chase your narcissism and pleasure.

At 17, I became the man of the house.

I took care of my sisters while you disappeared behind your mask.

And then—this beautiful dagger:

Stop reposting family content like it means something.

It’s fake.

It’s wrong.

Then came the invitation.

Join me in real therapy.

With a real therapist.

Not your bullshit Tony Robbins coaches.

There it was.

The voice of a new generation—clear, brave, unforgiving.

Not hypnotized by gurus, influencers, or flashy retreats.

Hungry for what’s real.

And I am certain of this:

There is a generation now that rejects—and mocks—the bullshit coaching era.

A generation that sees through the glittering fraud of pop psychology and pseudo-spirituality.

They’ve had enough of yoga enlightenment pursued with minds addicted to consumption and bodies addicted to image.

They’re tired of the hypocrisy:

Parents who preach growth but speak only in hashtags and clichés.

Who teach that running a 5K builds character, while modeling weak emotional fortitude, and shallow values. Chasing trends and validation like addicts.

They’ve had to watch their mothers pose on Instagram like wannabe models.

And worse—mothers who behave in public like adolescent girls, and brag about it.

Not the grounded dignity of a woman who knows what it means to be a mother,

but the insecurity of someone who never finished becoming an adult.

They’ve had to cringe as their fathers post gym mirror selfies, flexing their shame in high definition.

Displaying an infantile need for recognition and validation in everything they do.

But the real betrayal goes even deeper:

Parents who abandoned the role of parent to be their child’s best friend.

That made these kids orphans.

Orphans with losers as their best friends.

These kids weren’t simply embarrassed.

They were wounded.

Wounded by the absence of emotional adults.

The adults were physically present—feeding them, chauffeuring them, talking at them—

but they showed up as immature adolescents themselves.

They failed to protect, guide, and love them

as adult, mature models—

not fellow children.

But now they rise.

I hear them.

In the conversations of my 18 son and his friends.

In the therapy room.

And, Thursday, in the message read.

Their message is clear, direct and grounded in reality.

Grounded in the maturity they couldn't find in their parents.

They are Not asking for perfection.

Not demanding gurus.

Just someone real.

Someone human.

Someone with a spine.

That’s me.

I have a spine.

And here, in Soul Architects, we build therapists and mentors with spines.

The kind who offer what this generation is starving for:

The dignified, mature, reality-grounded father.

The woman who takes pride in her adulthood—who doesn’t chase hedonistic yoga or botox or the fantasy of eternal adolescence, but stands tall in her age, her depth, her grace.

The ones who know that maturity is not a flaw—it’s a gift.

I left that lecture ablaze.

My vision sharpened.

My vow renewed.

We are not here to entertain the wounded ego.

We are here to build cathedrals in the soul.

A new generation—hungry for strength of soul, maturity, and real parenting—will be served.

And from what we give them, they will rise—not just healed, but forged—as architects of their own souls.