I once read an article about an Arkansas mother who sued her son’s high school because he was cut from the basketball team. She wasn’t alleging discrimination or unfairness–she simply claimed that he was deprived of his rights because he wasn’t allowed to take part in school athletics.
I don’t remember all the details of the case, and there may have been extenuating circumstances (as there always are). But I do remember that the story got some national exposure because it struck a nerve. Many people, myself included, wondered how we got to a place where children are being told they have a right to something just because they want it.
Over my thirty plus years as a parent, I’ve noticed a clear shift toward protective parenting. That includes physical protection, which is generally a good thing, though it too can be taken too far. But mainly, I’m referring to emotional protection. Somehow, it’s become part of a parent’s job to protect our children not only from emotional trauma, but from any kind of emotional distress. These days, we try to shield our kids from even the mildest disappointment or failure, and start pointing fingers when that isn’t possible.
I’m guessing this is part of the natural pendulum swing that parenting styles go through. Our own parents probably weren’t the most emotionally supportive or clued-in, and that caused many of us plenty of pain. But when we react to that pain by trying to shield our kids from every conceivable setback, we do them a disservice.
The only way kids learn to overcome failure is by failing. I think that’s why the story about the family in Arkansas irked me–I consider sports one of the last remaining settings where we can expose our kids to constructive failure. In sports, sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. You have to assess your skills honestly, then you have to figure out ways to get better. If we rig the game, then all of those lessons are lost, and it just becomes another exercise in empty affirmation.
As parents, we play a critical role in helping our kids fail well. We can put them in situations where some degree of failure is probable, but where improvement and eventual success are well within their reach. We can help them process and manage their emotions when failure does come. And finally, we can help them find ways to improve, and acquire the skills and strategies to do so.
This last part is tricky. When I coached Little League, I saw a lot of well-meaning parents give their kids feedback in incredibly unhelpful ways. Even now, when I’m working as a leadership development consultant or as an executive coach, I meet many people in positions of power who have no idea how to give skillful feedback. Here are a few quick tips to make it easier:
Pick the right time and place. That’s not in the dugout after they strike out. It’s probably not as you drive home from a piano recital that went off the rails. But in the next day or two, find a time and place that feels calm and private.
Check your ego at the door. We all do it: We live through our kids’ accomplishments, and bask a little in their success. I wouldn’t begrudge any parent a little of that. But when they fail, don’t take it personally. The goal isn’t for them to collect trophies and blue ribbons to hang on your wall. The goal is for them to grow–and failure is a crucial part of that process.
Start by asking your kid what their experience was. How are they feeling? What do they think they did well? Did they give their best effort? What do they wish they’d done differently? You have to start where they are if you hope to go anywhere useful.
Help them adopt a growth mindset. Mistakes or failures aren’t who we are, they’re something we all do–you, me, Shohei Ohtani, and Caitlin Clark included. The point is to get better through focus and practice and determination. Success and failure, in the short term, are not under our control. Work and improvement are.
Use the magic words. You can frame your feedback with one simple sentence that turns it from criticism to faith, and makes it about them, not you: “I’m saying this because I know you have high expectations, and I know you can reach them.”
These are just suggestions–you’ll find your own ways to do this. The most important thing is to get started. Children are not hothouse orchids. We don’t want their thriving to depend on a pristine, climate-controlled environment. We want them to be dandelions: tough, resilient, and ready to grow like crazy, even after they get mowed down.
