When I asked Jessica about the status of her relationship with the father of her unborn baby, she laughed in mock embarrassment. She told me he was 18, four years younger than her 22, and that they’d been together less than six months. Fifteen minutes earlier she’d been in angry tears on the phone, yelling at him for making her walk to work in the cold (bitterly icy winds) and threatening to move back home to Nebraska where she could use her father’s car and get rides whenever she needed them.

After the phone call, her sentences were interspersed with “f**k” to describe her life, her job, her transportation, and her boyfriend in every grammatical sense. Earlier, as I lunched between double shifts at the restaurant, I overheard her speaking with another co-worker about her relationship. She mentioned he had cheated on her and that because of this, of course, she reciprocated by “f***ing everything.”

After the drama, she plopped down in the booth, cradled her slightly swollen, three-months pregnant belly, and sighed. She’d been waiting tables at *****’s for four years, cashing in her tips for rent and frivolous partying, and living the falsely invincible lifestyle of adolescent ignorance. She asked about me. How old was I? Was I married? Did I have kids? Did I have a boyfriend? These are the questions from a 22-year-old girl, already divorced, and also just joking about cocaine for pregnant women. She lamented the long refrain from partying on which she embarked in sacrifice for the life growing inside her. I was glad to hear that, at least. Two years ago, I worked in a similar style restaurant only to be involved in a conversation where the average speaker was a single parent at 19. The topic was—in short--smoking weed during pregnancy.

I was purely and maddeningly sad at Jessica’s story. She’s having a baby because there is nothing better to do. Lacking any real aspirations for life’s under-rated remainder, having kids certainly brings some purpose and fills in at least the next 18 years. Most of the time, these directionless youth barely have a chance to identify concrete possibilities before babies replace dreams. No, I don’t mean having a child eliminates personal hope, but the energy and sacrifice required for mommyhood, especially singular, makes already-difficult objectives that much more so to attain when they finally become clear.

My heartache over this stems from an overwhelming helplessness to end this cycle. I can’t bring Jessica and others like her to a realization of something greater for their lives before settling for--whatever. A child born into these circumstances is already destined for an absent father and rocky foundation for their future relationships and ambitions. That being said, motherhood itself is a sanctified and utterly noble duty. In fact, the most important and critical vocation of them all, which is why it is so sad that such a job isn’t undertaken with more precision, decision, and in the finest conditions possible.

Unmarried parenthood is standard these days, and less than socially taboo. It isn’t PC to question the latter effects an untraditional family might produce. But stepping around these obvious, foundational issues only perpetuates a serious problem. Having a baby has become just another option in life, not the result of a loving commitment between two people. That ideal situation should be the initial pursuit and hope of all. And though life is often un-ideal, simply accepting things laissez-faire is unacceptable.

A disease of futility threatens and corrupts American youth. Lack of passion contributes to the concave spirits of this generation and these attitudes must be restored. Purpose and conviction are necessary vices in the quest to live significantly and honorably. Ronald Reagan embodied these traits and wisely told us, “Don’t be afraid to see what you see.”

And after you see it, do something about it. No one wants to point a finger at the Jessica’s of this world, but you’ve seen it and you know something isn’t right. Let that gnawing sense of passion erupt and see what happens. Maybe futility has a remedy. Maybe I’ll be able to find it. Maybe passion can become unstoppably contagious.