Ten consecutive trips to the plate. Ten consecutive outs. For my twelve-year-old son, each time he walked back to the dugout after striking out felt progressively heavier, as though the disappointment of the previous failure compounded with every swing and miss. Baseball, at its core, is a sport fundamentally constructed around the inevitability of failure — even the greatest professionals in the game are successful at the plate less often than they succeed. Yet, for a child still trying to interpret what these experiences mean, enduring such a slump can feel catastrophic, almost as though his entire identity as an athlete is unraveling before his eyes. After several long games with no hits to show for his effort, he sank into his seat in the car afterward, shoulders slumped, his voice tired and tinged with defeat. With quiet resignation, he murmured words that pierced my heart: “I’m just not good at this anymore.”
Most parents, myself included at times, instinctively reach for comfort in response to such heartache. Many of us were raised to expect phrases like, “You’re doing fine. Don’t worry. You’ll get it next time,” as a balm, meant to shield us from discouragement. While those words carry kindness, they often serve more as a dismissal than as guidance. In this particular moment, however, I chose not to follow that well-worn script. Instead of minimizing his frustration or offering platitudes, I told him something far less soothing but far more constructive: the truth. His struggles were not simply the cruel luck of the game. The reality was that his swing mechanics had grown inconsistent, his stance sloppy, and he had not committed serious time to practicing away from the field. I explained that if he wanted tangible improvement, he would need to be willing to alter his habits, to dedicate himself to deliberate, consistent effort.
Admitting this truth to him was not easy, nor was it easy for him to hear. Honesty in these situations risks bruising already tender feelings. Yet my years both as a teacher in the classroom and as a parent around the family dinner table have convinced me of something profound: children do not thrive when we shield them entirely from the sting of failure. Rather, they flourish when we help them confront that failure directly and transform it into a tool for growth. Avoidance only postpones growth; confrontation opens the door to resilience.
The concept of *teachable moments* became foundational in my teaching career. I watched countless students declare with dismay that they were “not math people” or “terrible writers,” convinced by early mistakes that their paths to mastery were permanently blocked. But the individuals who grew the most intellectually were not those who chased flawlessness; they were the ones who examined their errors in earnest, drew lessons from them, and utilized the feedback to refine their skills. Failure, in that context, revealed itself not as a verdict but as a stepping stone. I desire for my son to internalize this same perspective on the baseball diamond — to see striking out ten times not as an indictment of his abilities, but as proof that there is a distance between his current level and his desired goal. And just as in academics, practice and persistence supply the bridge that connects the two.
For many parents, encouragement mistakenly comes to mean cushioning feelings at any cost. I am no stranger to that temptation myself. Yet I have learned, sometimes uncomfortably, that reassurance without substance breeds only temporary comfort. Had I told my son, “You’re fine,” he might have smiled through a fleeting moment of relief, but it would have given him no compelling reason to lace up his cleats the next day or pick up his bat to refine his swing. Children are astute; they recognize when they are struggling, and they sense when adults gloss over the truth. By dismissing their honest feelings, we accidentally teach them that problems are not to be faced but ignored. That lesson, more harmful than failure itself, cultivates avoidance rather than resilience.
In response, I began to redirect my parenting mindset. Instead of focusing solely on results, such as getting hits or scoring runs, I made an intentional effort to celebrate commitment, determination, and the process of learning itself. As a teacher, my greatest admiration often belonged to the students who revised their essays multiple times, doggedly applying feedback until their ideas took shape, rather than to those who effortlessly aced the test on their first attempt. Similarly, as a father, I learned to recognize the value when my son trudged outside after dinner to place the ball on the tee, repeating swing after swing, slowly reworking his technique. In these moments, I told him I was proud — not of what he achieved, but of the courage and persistence he displayed regardless of outcome.
This subtle yet transformative shift — emphasizing the process over the product — reshaped the way he began to interpret failure. A strikeout was no longer an irrefutable declaration that he lacked talent. Instead, it became one data point in a sequence of learning experiences, part of the longer trajectory of becoming stronger, more skilled, and more resilient. Once he was able to view the game through that lens, the weight pressing down on him started to lift.
A few weeks later, his perseverance bore fruit. After countless repetitions in the backyard and renewed focus at practice, his slump finally broke. It was not my reassurances that restored his confidence; it was the hard-earned satisfaction of knowing he had worked his way through adversity. When the ball cracked against his bat and soared into the outfield for a double off the fence, the expression that lit his face was not simple relief but profound pride. He understood, viscerally and irrevocably, that he had earned that moment.
That realization stretches far beyond the walls of the ballpark. It is a lesson with implications for every corner of life: whether grappling with intimidating algebra equations, fumbling through an early attempt at writing, or striking out in front of a crowd, setbacks never need to be permanent marks of inadequacy. What defines a person is not the stumble itself, but the response that follows. As parents, mentors, and guides, our duty is not merely to shield our children from disappointment, but to stand steady beside them — reminding them that their worth is intact and showing them how to transform obstacles into opportunities. In doing so, we prepare them not just to succeed in baseball, school, or childhood endeavors, but to build resilience that will carry them into the countless challenges of adulthood.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/kids-dont-need-protection-from-failure-need-help-facing-it-2025-9
