The quiet disappearance of the free-range childhood

To Mallerie Shirley and Christopher Pleasants, nothing felt “revolutionary” about the way they were raising their two kids. Then a stranger called child protective services.

It started last November in Atlanta. With school closed on Election Day, the couple’s 6-year-old son, Jake (not his real name), wanted to ride his scooter by himself to a nearby playground while Mallerie and Christopher worked their tech jobs from home. They had recently begun allowing Jake to play outside alone, and other kids and a group of parents working a charity drive would be waiting for him at the park. 

Permission granted. Jake strapped on his helmet, got on his scooter, and rode one-third of a mile on a paved recreational path to the playground. On his way back, a woman stopped him. She asked for his name, age, and where he lived. “He felt like the woman was just demanding answers,” Mallerie says. “And then when she started following him, it scared him.”

Two days later, a caseworker from Georgia’s Division of Family and Children Services (DFCS) rang their doorbell.

The caseworker said Jake was too young to be on the path unsupervised. “How old does he need to be?” Christopher asked. “Like, 13,” she replied. He asked where that number came from. “I’ll have to look it up,” Christopher recalls her saying. When he pressed further, she opined that things aren’t like they used to be. “People are weirder now.”

“Then she informed me that she was going to go interview the kids at their schools — that she would come back later to look inside the house, make sure we had food, running water,” Christopher says.

The family didn’t lack basic necessities. But weeks later, they received a letter from the agency stating it had “substantiated” a finding of neglect against Mallerie. It was a letter they had long dreaded.

“My fear has never been that Jake will be unsafe being out there by himself,” Mallerie says. “My fear has always been that the state will intervene.”

The case wasn’t a bureaucratic fluke. It reflects a broader pattern: Vague child-neglect laws, combined with a culture that increasingly believes children need constant supervision, have expanded the government’s reach into once-ordinary parenting decisions, reshaping the boundaries of American childhood in the process.

Redefining neglect

That expanded reach sometimes ends in handcuffs. In 2024, a Georgia mother named Brittany Patterson was arrested after her then-10-year-old son walked a mile into town by himself. A sheriff’s deputy drove him home. Brittany chastised him — not for walking alone, but for not telling anyone where he was going. She thought that was the end of it, but later that night, deputies jailed her for reckless endangerment. 

The case helped persuade Georgia legislators to pass a so-called “reasonable childhood independence” (RCI) law, enacted last summer. These laws are part of a national movement to tighten vague language in states’ neglect laws. Georgia’s old law, for instance, defined neglect as the failure to provide “proper” parental care. The new law replaces that with “necessary” care and sets a higher bar for neglect: Parents must demonstrate “blatant disregard” for their child’s safety — putting them in imminent, obvious danger. The law also explicitly states that allowing a reasonably capable child to walk to school or travel to a nearby park unsupervised does not, by itself, constitute neglect.

Since 2018, 11 states have passed some form of RCI legislation. The movement generally has bipartisan support, though it travels differently depending on the audience. Diane Redleaf, a family defense attorney, notes that in red states, arguments focused on government overreach tend to land best, while in blue states, the more persuasive case centers on equity — who can afford a babysitter, and whether neglect investigations fall disproportionately on families of color.

Mallerie and Christopher say they “felt empowered” by Georgia’s new law, which took effect four months before the scooter incident. The problem: DFCS didn’t seem to know the law existed when they began investigating Mallerie’s family, even though it was designed to prevent reports like the one against them from being investigated in the first place. 

When Mallerie raised the law with a DFCS supervisor, the response felt personal: Regardless of any law, how could you, as a mother, let your “baby” do that?

“Common sense has just gone out the window.”

David DeLugas

Redleaf has spent years trying to fix the underlying system that makes such responses possible. “We’re not saying [concerned citizens shouldn’t] make the call,” says Redleaf, who works as a legal consultant for Let Grow, a nonprofit that supports childhood independence and helped draft Georgia’s law. “We are saying: Don’t go and investigate something that’s not neglect.”

Child welfare agencies field more than 4 million abuse and neglect reports each year — a number that has ballooned since 1974, when the Child Abuse Prevention and Treatment Act made certain federal funding contingent on states establishing reporting systems. The result has been state-run systems that absorb many reports but generally lack a mechanism to separate serious cases from those like Jake’s.

“Common sense has just gone out the window,” says David DeLugas, attorney for Mallerie and Christopher, and executive director of ParentsUSA, which advocates for parents’ rights. DeLugas suggests the screening process for child welfare agencies should function like triage in an emergency room. “Let’s first eliminate the ones that are undeserving of any attention,” he says. “And then for the ones left, let’s prioritize in terms of the imminency of the danger.”

The stakes for getting that triage right are real. About 2,000 children in the U.S. die each year from abuse or neglect. But the dangers that drive many parents to keep their kids indoors, and that prompt strangers to call in reports like Jake’s, are a different story.

Perception meets reality

If you search for statistics on missing children in the U.S., you’ll find the claim that 800,000 kids go missing each year: more than 1% of America’s 72 million children. It’s an old and misleading statistic. The number comes from a 1999 Department of Justice report that used surveys to estimate missing children cases nationwide under broad definitions, including everything from abductions to runaways to brief scares where a kid gets lost for a couple of hours.

Current FBI data shows about 350,000 juvenile missing person reports per year, most of which are resolved quickly and do not involve abduction. Of cases that do involve abduction, the vast majority are committed by someone the child knows — often a parent in a custody dispute — rather than a stranger.

Stranger kidnappings are exceptionally rare. They occur roughly 100 times per year, which works out to a 1-in-720,000 annual risk of a child being kidnapped — less likely than being struck by lightning at some point in their life. Couple these odds with decreasing violent crime rates over the past several decades in the U.S., and you might think today’s parents would be generally comfortable letting kids be outside on their own.

Maybe not. A Pew Research Center survey from 2022 found that about 60% of U.S. parents were “very” or “somewhat” concerned about their children being kidnapped, while a 2025 Harris Poll of kids ages 8 to 12 in the U.S. found that about two-thirds had never walked or biked to a nearby place without their parents. A similar portion said they wanted to spend more time playing with friends outside of adult supervision.

The risks of letting kids do things by themselves are real and easy to imagine. But keeping kids under constant supervision carries its own risks — ones that are subtler but perhaps no less consequential. As Mallerie puts it: “The risks of not trusting my child, not training them to be a responsible, accountable human being, far outweigh the risks of someone abducting them from the playground.” 

Christopher frames it as a question of odds. He notes that driving a child to school carries its own dangers — car accidents kill far more children each year than stranger kidnappings — but nobody questions whether driving is worth it. “Nobody seems to be convinced by that argument because driving is a necessary part of life,” he says. “And I always tell people independence is a necessary part of life.”

The debates often boil down to a simple question: How old is old enough? “Parents probably know their kids better than anybody,” one self-described “helicopter grandparent” told Georgia’s 13WMAZ. “But I don’t believe that there’s a 7-year-old that’s mature enough to make a decision to walk to a store.”

Free-range childhood

As a kid in the early 1990s, Mallerie roamed Chicago with a level of freedom that would be “unthinkable” for children today. At 7, she was riding the train to school without her parents. She and her friends would bike the city streets, making a game out of getting lost in strange neighborhoods and finding their way back home. 

Nobody called this a “free-range childhood” back then. It was just how everyone grew up, say Mallerie and Christopher. At least, it’s how the two of them grew up, and it’s how they’ve decided to raise Jake and their 4-year-old daughter. The aim isn’t to shoo the kids outside until dinnertime, but to raise “resilient, independent, capable children,” Mallerie says. “At the end of the day, we are raising people who are going to grow up, leave the nest, and we won’t be there every day to guide them.”

They started early. When Jake was 12 months old, Mallerie and Christopher taught him to clean up after himself by turning it into a game: dump Legos on the floor, then have him put them back in the box. Today, Jake folds his own laundry. “At six?” other parents sometimes ask. “I’m like, ‘Yes, it’s safe — he has hands,’” Mallerie says. 

“We have been very intentional about, ‘Okay, what can we teach you? How can you show us that you’re ready? And then what independence can we give you that you deserve?’” says Mallerie, who holds a master’s in social work and has worked for child protective services. 

“It feels like we are under more pressure as parents.”

Mallerie Shirley

The couple’s philosophy was shaped in part by two books. One was Free-Range Kids, a sort of manifesto against “helicopter parenting” and for age-appropriate childhood independence, by Lenore Skenazy, president of Let Grow. (Skenazy broke the story of Mallerie’s case for Reason.) If you read the headlines in 2008, you might remember Skenazy being dubbed “America’s worst mom” after she wrote about letting her 9-year-old ride the New York City subway by himself. 

The couple was also “reinvigorated” after reading The Anxious Generation by social psychologist Jonathan Haidt — it claims that the rise of smartphones and social media in the 2010s has driven a “great rewiring of childhood,” fueling record rates of anxiety, depression, and other mental health problems among young people. Mallerie and Christopher already had clear views on that part. “We work in tech,” she says. “Our kids [aren’t] getting any cell phones, no smartphones, no Instagrams. I write the algorithms. I don’t want my kids to touch those algorithms.”

But what really spoke to them were Haidt’s views on the decline of childhood independence. He argues that children born since about 1995 have suffered from “overprotection in the real world and underprotection in the virtual world” as American childhood shifted from unstructured time outside to unstructured time online.

Mallerie likens the cultural pressure modern parents face to a kind of panic. “It feels like we are under more pressure as parents,” she says. “Our kids have to be perfect. They’ve got to be well-spoken, well-dressed, clean, polite. But they can’t do any of the things that they need to do to get those skills. So they can’t be outside. They can’t experience conflicts with kids and kind of fight and figure it out amongst themselves. They can’t walk to school.”

The supervision era

For nearly all of human history, unsupervised childhood was not a parenting philosophy. It was childhood. Peter Gray, a psychologist and researcher on child play, has described this shift bluntly: Children today are “less free” than at any point in human history, except for periods of childhood slavery or sweatshop labor.

In the U.S., the first half of the 20th century was “the golden age of unstructured play,” wrote the historian Howard Chudacoff. Child labor laws gave kids less work and more free time. Schools assigned less homework and didn’t take up as much of the year. And parents were generally more willing to let kids do things by themselves, not only play outside but also help out in the community. 

Those back-in-my-day clichés about growing up in midcentury America — walking a mile to school, working a paper route, playing outside until the streetlights clicked on — paint a fairly accurate picture of a kind of American childhood that’s all but vanished.

 “Every adult is like a little sentinel.”

Mallerie Shirley

What changed? In a 2023 article for Psychology Today, Gray proposed some factors that began reshaping parents’ attitudes and children’s behavior around the middle of the century: “the arrival of television, the rise of adult-directed kids’ sports, the gradual exclusion of kids from public spaces, the declining opportunities for gainful employment or meaningful contributions to the family economy, and, finally, the increased mandate that kids must be constantly monitored and protected.”

This shift may have had major consequences. In a 2023 paper published in the Journal of Pediatrics, Gray and his coauthors argued that the decline of children’s independent activity in recent decades is not only correlated with the concurrent rise of mental health problems among kids — it probably played a causal role, too. The authors wrote that allowing kids to play and do other self-directed activities builds “mental characteristics that provide a foundation for dealing effectively with the stresses of life.”

Mallerie says she can already see the consequences of the opposite approach in the generation coming of age around her. “We’ve got this new group of adults who are coming of age who have never been on a date, still live at home with their parents, [have] high suicide rates, high depression and anxiety rates,” she says. “That worries me more than the chance that my kids can become victims of crime ever could.”

In February, Mallerie and Christopher received a message from DFCS saying it had reversed its finding of neglect. The agency didn’t offer a reason but said it was working to educate its staff on Georgia’s RCI law. Mallerie asked DFCS whether it would expunge her record. In an email, an agency director said “records are not able to be ‘expunged,’” but that Mallerie could challenge the finding through an administrative review process. The case could still surface on certain background checks.

Mallerie described the investigation as one of the worst experiences of her life. Before the finding was reversed, she and Christopher stopped letting Jake play outside for about a month, fearing another report to DFCS could land Mallerie in jail. “Maybe our culture is going to get even more risk-averse,” she says. “I just feel like every adult is like a little sentinel. Like they’re going to spot us, and they’re going to report us if they see anything that they don’t agree with.”

This article is part of Big Think’s monthly issue The Roots of Resilience.

Editor’s note: This article was updated on April 2, 2026, to reflect that Lenore Skenazy broke the story of Mallerie’s case for Reason.