This weekend we watched my daughter do what she loves to do. She spends eight hours a week at the gym, working hard on pointing her toes, staying steady on the balance beam and rotating her body around an impossibly tiny bar, so she can compete against other girls who do the exact same thing. I know that eight hours might not seem like a lot, but please remember that she’s nine. And for a nine year old, it is a lot. It’s a tremendous amount of dedication, missing playdates, homework in the crannies of the late evening, and rushing right from school. For both her and me.
But she loves it. And watching her is a joy. It also so happens that she’s pretty good at what she does. Recognizing that I’m biased because I’m her mom, I can still say that she’s found that cool place where talent and passion align. She’s fun to watch (and remember I hate sports, y’all, so that’s saying something). She’s graceful, incredibly powerful for a little thing, and has great control over her body. And before I sound just like a ridiculous bragging parent, I’ll tell you that she’s also done extremely well this season. She’s just on the baby team so they don’t technically give placements, but if they did, she would have racked up a pretty impressive medal shelf.
And we’re really proud of her.
But this weekend she wasn’t her best. She went into the meet with a headache (which turned out to be a wicked tummy bug that made a dreadful appearance later), she had a rough week at school and practice and was just, well, a bit off. She wasn’t her best. She managed to pull out some amazing work on three of the apparatuses, but the last one, vault, nearly broke her. Literally. She got flustered, had to repeat a vault and was about 1 millimeter away from breaking her foot. It was a disaster.
As her parents, it was torturous to watch from the bleachers. Firstly because she was a hairs breath from a trip to the hospital and when it’s your kid that causes the crowd to collectively gasp in fear it’s not a ton of fun, let me tell you. But also, once we realized that she was physically ok, watching her little shoulders slump, seeing the tears glisten in her eyes and knowing the way only a parent can know, that she is dying inside and just needs your hug was really tough. But (and this is a BIG BUT) I’m glad it happened.
Yes, let me say that again, I am GLAD she lost.
It stings to lose, right. Even if it’s your kid, it stings. When they’re good at something or on a winning team or the “best,” it feels good. And that’s okay and totally normal. It’s completely fine to be proud (yes, that feeling is pride) of your child for his or her accomplishments. That uncomfortable feeling, it’s a wrist slap on pride. It stings and that’s okay. If they’re serious about whatever sport or endeavor they’re in, it’s going to hurt. But they have to WALK through the sting to get to the other side.
This, my friends, is a low-cost lesson. I’m not raising my daughter to be an Olympian. I’m not raising her to be the next Simone Biles. I’m not even really in this for the full-ride college scholarship (though, hey, if you’re paying I’m in). I’m raising her to be a HUMAN BEING. A real-life human being who can function in this real world, where s*** happens. Yes, I happen to have her in a very competitive sport, totally her choice and self-guided by the way, but NO, I’m not trying to raise a competitor. I’m trying to raise a child.
And losing right now, when she’s just nine years old and incredibly resilient and moldable, is a low-cost lesson I’m grateful for. Because this won’t be the first time she will fail. This won’t be the first time in her life that she doesn’t hit something perfectly, where she miscalculates, where she falls short. She’s human. This will happen, both on and off the mat. And she’s got to learn how to walk through it and I’d much prefer she learn to walk through it now, where the stakes are extremely low (or arguably non-existent) then struggle when the consequences are big. 
She has to learn that there is always someone better and there’s always someone worse. That’s the way it is. This is life, it’s just what you do with what you’ve got that matters.
She’s got to learn to be humble. She’s got to learn to stand on the podium and fight back the tears, congratulate the winner, give hugs and be gracious. No matter how disappointed she is in her own performance, she can still celebrate someone else.
She’s got to learn that it’s not the judge’s fault. Or the ref’s. Or the coaches. Yes, all of them are humans and therefore might make mistakes, but we aren’t in the blame game. We own our mistakes and our failures just as much as we own our wins. It’s the only way to roll. And she’s got to learn this.
And she’s got to learn, most of all, that none of it matters. What matters in the end is that she’s still standing. She’s still loved. A first or last place finish no more makes her her than the color of her eyes or the clothes she wears. She’s not defined by any of those things. She’s defined by her heart and her soul, and most of all she’s defined by the love of God, who calls her his own. It doesn’t matter. She will try again next time and learn from her mistakes, but this little blip, it does not matter.
I REPEAT: IT DOES NOT MATTER.
Guys, these low-cost lessons of life hands us are little hand-delivered gifts from God, I swear. No amount of parental lectures could teach her these things because, let’s face it, evidenced by how few vegetables she actually eats and how messy her room is, she doesn’t really listen anyway. No amount of coaching could get her there, either. This is all her, walking through it and learning by experience.
This is big picture living, people. The little picture is the gymnastics meet. The little picture is the baseball game or the volleyball match. Big picture is her LIFE. The rest of her life. And I’d much rather raise a girl who can be kind, gracious, responsible and resilient than someone who wins all the freaking time and makes excuses or blames the coaches when she doesn’t. I’d so much rather prepare her for the hard stuff when she’s an adult and the stakes are high by walking beside her through these low-cost lessons now.
Low-cost lessons are what make strong adults, people. So the next time you’re yelling at a ref or tempted to blame the coach in front of your child, think about what you’re teaching them. Think about the long term effects of raising a kid who thinks that winning is everything and who can’t handle losing. “Winners” are like those cool kids who wear letterman jackets in every 1980’s teen movie who eventually, after a gigantic amount of dramatic build-up and usually some slapstick comedy, loses to the underdog. Does that winner ever lose graciously? No. We hate that character. Always. They’re the antagonist of the movie for a reason. They always look like a chump, pouting and fighting and complaining. You know this scene, right? And while this is no 1980’s movie, mostly because it doesn’t have a wicked cool soundtrack, this is life and it looks kind of the same sometimes.
Champions win and lose with graciousness. Champions have heart first and talent second. Champions can live a full life off the mat or the course or the court. Champions learn from these low-cost lessons and grow. 
And I’d rather raise a champion in life than a winner on the court any day. Wouldn’t you?
In case you were wondering about our own story, Kenzie handled it like a champion. She cried, yes. But she was proud of her teammates who did well. She knows where she messed up. She knows how she can do better. She is coached by a tremendous team from an amazing gym who values character above winning any day. And, maybe most importantly, she learned that she doesn’t have to win all of the time to be good or talented or strong or, more importantly, loved.
She learned a lot and we can only hope that she can take this low-cost lesson and apply it next time something doesn’t go her way. Our hope and prayer for our kids is not that they will never hurt or never lose, because we know they will. Our hope and prayer is that they find their way back to hope even when they do and that they remember, always remember, that they’re loved deeply and profoundly because of who they are, not what they do.
Peace, love and lessons,
Meg
Welcome to BurntToast! My name is Meaghan, and this is my safe space, a place where we can share stories, share recipes and share life. It’s my dream that you can come here, kick your shoes off and pour yourself a glass of wine while you read, laugh, and maybe even hop into the kitchen. This is my heart, for all of you to see. And ALL are welcome here.