There are many things in life that can cause panic—a tax notice, finding a suspicious spot on your skin, or realizing your zipper was down all day. But nothing, and I mean NOTHING, compares to the special kind of stress caused by the school WhatsApp group. It’s like having a tiny monster living in your phone, constantly reminding you that you’re a bad parent while other people’s children are already building rockets in their backyard.

I joined my son’s class WhatsApp group with so much hope. “This will be helpful,” I told myself. “A good way to know about school activities.” What a silly, innocent fool I was. Within the first week, I learned that Sharma ji’s son had not only finished the entire year’s studies but was also learning Chinese, playing the violin, and apparently saving the world in his free time. My son, meanwhile, had lost his geometry box for the third time and was still confused about which subject is which.

The group starts nicely each morning. Someone posts “Good morning” with about forty-seven flower emojis. Then someone else replies with a sunrise picture and an inspirational quote. I scroll past these, thinking, “Okay, this is fine.”

But then it begins.

“Hi everyone! Just wanted to share that Aarav has started preparing for JEE. His coaching sir says it’s never too early! Anyone else’s child enrolled?”

JEE. The child is in Class 8. EIGHTH STANDARD. I look at my phone, then at my son who is currently trying to see if he can fit an entire samosa in his mouth. The difference between Aarav and my child suddenly feels huge.

Before I can think about this, another message pops up. “Oh yes! Priya is also doing JEE foundation plus she’s learning German because foreign engineering colleges prefer it. Has anyone looked into MIT requirements yet?”

MIT. These people are discussing MIT for their thirteen-year-olds while I’m still trying to get mine to remember his water bottle.

The competition in this group is worse than any reality show. It’s like Bigg Boss, but instead of contestants fighting for a trophy, parents are fighting to prove their child is the best. And they do it so sweetly that you almost don’t notice the hidden showing off.

“Not to brag, but Aditya scored 98% in his surprise test. He was upset because he made one silly mistake. Bachcha is such a perfectionist!”

Not to brag. She says “not to brag” and then brags so much it should come with a warning. And the “silly mistake” comment? That’s to show that her child is so smart that 98% is disappointing. Meanwhile, my son thinks 78% is worth celebrating with ice cream.

Then there’s the mother who posts pictures of her daughter’s color-coded notes. COLOR-CODED. With little drawings in the margins. With fancy highlighters from some special Japanese shop that only perfect parents know about. My son’s notebook looks like it survived a war. There are random doodles of stick figures, food stains, and pages that look like they were used as napkins.

The worst part? I muted the notifications after the first week. I told myself I wouldn’t let it bother me. But do I still check the group every thirty minutes? Yes. Do I feel stressed with each check? Also yes. It’s like watching a scary movie through your fingers—you don’t want to look, but you can’t help yourself.

Last week, someone posted about a “fun family activity” where they all sat together and solved difficult math problems. Fun family activity. In my house, a fun family activity is when we all manage to eat dinner without someone spilling something or fighting about who ate the last piece of chicken. We’re simple people with simple joys.

The homework announcements cause constant worry. Someone will post, “Ma’am gave homework on page 47, questions 1-10.” Simple enough. But then the replies begin:

“Thanks for sharing!” “Noted 📝” “Thank you so much! 🙏” “God bless you beta! 🌸”

And I’m sitting there thinking, why are we thanking her like she just saved our lives? She just copied page numbers. But I still feel like I have to reply with a thumbs-up emoji because if I don’t, am I even a good parent?

Then there’s the mother who posts photos of fancy project models at 11 PM with the caption, “Ishaan just finished his science project! He worked so hard!” Ishaan is eight years old. That model has working LED lights and looks like it was made by NASA. Either Ishaan is a genius, or—and I’m guessing here—someone’s father is an engineer who got too excited. But we all pretend that eight-year-old Ishaan made a solar system with rotating planets all by himself, while my son used a thermocol ball and some paint and was done with it.

The questions in the group are also interesting. Someone will ask, “What is the homework for English?” Fourteen people will reply with the same answer. Then someone will ask the exact same question three hours later, proving that nobody actually reads the messages. They just panic and post, hoping for the best.

My favorite is the parent who treats the group like Google. “What is mitochondria?” Really, Deepa aunty? You want us to explain biology to you? Your child is studying it right now. Maybe ask them? But no, forty-three parents will rush to post the answer because we all want to look smart.

And let’s talk about the extra activities competition. Someone mentions their child learned kathak. Suddenly, five other children are learning bharatanatyam, classical music, painting, pottery, and something called “aerial yoga.” My son’s extra activity is watching YouTube videos and sometimes going to the park. Am I raising him wrong? According to this group, absolutely yes.

The Man of the House thinks I’m overreacting. “Just leave the group,” he suggests, with simple logic that completely misses the point. Leave the group? And miss out on the daily reminder that I’m not doing enough? And risk not knowing about the surprise test until the night before? And not see what fancy tiffin other mothers are packing while I’m putting a sandwich in a box?

No, I cannot leave. This group has become like a TV show I hate but can’t stop watching. I know it’s bad for my mental health. I know it makes me question every decision I’ve made as a parent. But I’m addicted to the drama.

Last month, someone posted about their child getting selected for the school debate team. The congratulations messages came flooding in. “So proud! 🎉” “Brilliant news! 👏” “Going places! 🌟”

I stared at the screen, then at my son who was arguing with me about why brushing teeth twice a day is “too much.” Technically, that’s also debating, hai na? Maybe he’s practicing for future competitions. I’m choosing to be positive.

The group also has its share of fights. Once, someone accidentally sent a message complaining about another parent to the group instead of sending it privately. The message was deleted within seconds, but not before fifty people saw it. The next hour was just awkward “Good morning” messages trying to pretend nothing happened. It was beautiful chaos.

Then there are the voice notes. Why do people send voice notes in a group of sixty parents? Now I have to find a quiet corner, put my phone to my ear, and listen to a two-minute long message that could have been typed as “Homework is on page 35.” But no, I must listen to the entire thing, complete with background noise of pressure cooker whistles and someone’s grandmother asking what’s for dinner.

My mother finds this hilarious. “In our time, we just sent our kids to school and hoped for the best,” she says, laughing at my daily WhatsApp stress. “Nobody knew what homework was until the child came home crying.”

She’s right, of course. We’ve created this problem ourselves. This need to know everything, to compare everything, to make sure our child isn’t falling behind in a race that nobody even knows where it’s going.

But here’s what I’ve realized after months of this torture: Every parent in that group is probably feeling the same stress. Even Sharma aunty who posts about her son’s achievements is probably worried about something. Even the mother with the color-coded notes is probably stressed about something. We’re all just trying our best and sometimes showing off to hide our worries.

My way of coping? I’ve created a game. Every time someone posts an achievement, I take a screenshot and send it to my friend who also has a teenager. We rate the showing-off out of ten and create funny backstories. “Rohan won the inter-school quiz” becomes “Rohan’s father clearly hired a quiz coach and the family has been practicing at dinner for six months.” It’s silly. It’s childish. It helps.

And you know what? My son is doing fine. He’s not preparing for IIT in Class 8. He doesn’t have color-coded notes. His project models are basic. But he’s happy, he’s learning at his own speed, and he still talks to me without eye-rolling (most days). That’s what matters to me, not the WhatsApp group.

Though I’ll be honest—last week when my son scored well in English, I was very tempted to post about it in the group. Very tempted. I typed out the message, finger hovering over send. Then I deleted it, made myself a cup of chai, and felt quietly proud instead.

Because maybe, just maybe, the best achievement as a parent is not needing approval from sixty people on a WhatsApp group.

But I’m still not leaving the group. Are you mad? Then how will I know what Sharma ji’s son is up to?

Beta, some addictions are forever.

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