In my first months studying natural law, I became fascinated by the simple truths it expresses and the power they carry. Life is better than death. Beauty is better than ugliness. Knowledge is better than ignorance. Friendship is better than isolation. These truths seem obvious, but they are also profound. It is powerful to state and live by these first principles—to see that we can base decisions on them, both mundane and consequential.

One phrase stayed with me: engagement is better than disengagement.

At the time, I had a child prone to disengaging, and I struggled to think clearly about it. When we prepared for a family outing, this child wanted to stay home. When someone began telling a lively story, and others gathered around, this child slipped away to read in another room. When a fun opportunity appeared, the child declined to participate.

Children, like all of us, have different tendencies and proclivities. Some are introverts and need time to recharge. Some hesitate and need time to warm up. Some prefer reading to other activities. As parents, we try to recognize each child’s temperament and meet them where they are.

But the truth remains: engagement is better than disengagement.

What do I mean by “engagement”? An active posture toward life. Rolling up one’s sleeves and getting out there. I described it this way in A Road Trip, and Dodging the Great Tragedy of Our Time:

We don’t flourish when we choose and act against the good. And we don’t flourish when we bypass the goods, when we just abstain.

Disengagement is sidestepping the goods, failing to act. It’s letting that blue sky light up the day while you laze for hours on the couch. Staring at your phone when your friend’s sitting on the next stool, hankering for a conversation. Thumbing the video game controller in the basement while there’s a music festival happening down the street. Flourishing is never passive but necessarily active. The goods don’t rush up to us like an enthusiastic little dog and jump into our lap.

We can engage—or not—in every realm of life. Schooling has drawn particular attention over the past decade. In his article “AI Can’t Fix Student Engagement,” Jon Haidt argues that students increasingly sit on the sidelines of learning. He writes, “The majority of American students are disengaged at school... Only one in three students are highly engaged in school, a number that has been stubbornly consistent over the last decade.” He continues:

AI chatbots promise to reduce the ‘friction’ of learning by teaming up with the student 24/7. But this friction isn’t a flaw that needs to be engineered away, it’s the whole point. The effort of working something out, of sitting with a challenge and finding a way through, is an essential part of the learning process.

Friction resists motion when two things make contact. When friction appears, movement becomes harder. When we talk about people encountering friction, we mean the effort required to overcome obstacles on the path forward. Haidt is right: friction lies at the heart of learning. It is not a bug; it is a feature.

We mothers often discuss this as we compare notes about our children’s classroom experiences. The kids need friction. Learning happens when they apply themselves. Understanding takes hard work. Wrestling with a concept until it clicks—that’s where the magic happens. They cannot give up halfway through. The exclamation points matter because these things often fail to happen in education today.

Evidence of the problem is everywhere. Professors report that many of today’s “students are functionally illiterate. This is not a joke.” Some elite college students graduate from high school without reading a single book. Many struggle to write well. “AI has rendered traditional writing skills obsolete,” some claim, and many schools no longer teach grammar comprehensively—or at all. Students struggle to pay attention to new material even when they want to. As Cal Newport writes, “Once your brain has become accustomed to on-demand distraction…, it’s hard to shake the addiction even when you want to concentrate.” Teachers and institutions have contributed to this slide toward poorer education and weaker outcomes. Today’s children may become the first generation “dumber than their parents.”

The issue comes down to friction. Where friction disappears, engagement disappears with it. Friction pushes students to learn. We remove friction to make life easier and more pleasant, but comfort and ease undermine engagement. Without friction, we follow the path of least resistance—the path of appetite and pleasure. That road leads not to flourishing but to stagnation and sloth.

Students must overcome obstacles: teachers who demand high standards, repeated attempts after poor work, slow wrestling with difficult texts, and failed tests when they have not mastered the material. Adults must ensure the friction remains long enough for growth. Think of a parent waving goodbye to a teary child on the first day of sleepaway camp. The departure feels painful in the moment, but the child needs it to grow. Or consider a parent who insists that a tween attend the party he promised to attend, even when screens tempt him to stay home. The pleasure of the screen must give way to honoring a commitment. That feels like friction.

We must not erase friction and shortchange engagement. Adults must resist the temptation to let ease, convenience, comfort, and idleness deprive us of active, flourishing lives.

Engagement is better than disengagement. Activity is better than passivity. “It’s the friction, stupid.” Hold onto it—or become stupid, and less whole overall.