Teaching Our Kids It's Okay to Fail

We all remember our middle school years. Some adults may look back with wide smiles and fond nostalgia, although those people are probably rare. After speaking to a lot of my women friends the past few weeks, I've learned that many of them who are currently successful, empowered, admired and beautiful actually recall those times with distinct horror.


They explicitly describe them as "the worst years of their lives."


These are women who have gone on to become gifted engineers, pilots, computer scientists, teachers, writers, mothers and dedicated friends. They're leaders in their communities, churches and schools. They have surpassed every obstacle that has come their way and ended up in positions of importance and value.


Yet, when they think back to being an awkward early teenager, they cringe. They literally shudder at the mere mention of Middle School. Junior High. Whatever it was called where they lived. It was all the same. Horrible. Dreadful. Humiliating.


My own middle school years were no picnic. Going from the big fish in a small pond into a sea of glittery rainbow fish was something I hadn't expected. Not seeing my two best friends all day was a shock. Half of our elementary school went to a different middle school, so kids I had known for years were never to be seen again until high school.


Then, entered the mean girls. The rotten bullies who were relentless in their taunting. My mom always insisted they acted that way because they were jealous of my grades or my pretty hair (that's what all moms say), but it didn't take away from the fact that they followed me from class to class, unforgiving in their constant hounding.


Until middle school, everything had always gone my way. I was sassy and smart and believed I was a star. The mean girls bothered me and tried to tear me down, but somehow, I survived. When I look back now, I'm surprised at all that I was able to endure.


Maybe it was because my mom didn't let it show that she was worried for me, or that she knew middle school could quite possibly be the worst years of my life. She encouraged me to keep trying new things. She kept on insisting that I was amazing, that I could do anything, that I deserved more. She pushed and pushed and pushed. So, I believed her, and I went for more.


By seventh grade, the bullies must have moved on to someone else. Life was looking up as I had become acclimated to school, and I was finding my niche. Then, I did something kind of nuts. A few of my other friends were trying out for the girls' basketball team. I, on the other hand, didn't know how to play basketball...at all. I had always been a cheerleader, but that year, I decided to give basketball a try, too. I showed up to every preliminary practice, not knowing how to dribble the ball or run down the court or shoot any kind of basket: free throw, lay-up, are there others I'm missing? I still don't know.


Of course, I didn't make the team. I had no chance. Zero. I didn't even make the B team. I would not be allowed to ride any benches. I was just sent packing at the end of the last day. My name wasn't called, and I was left sitting in the bleachers while everyone else was celebrating. The end.


Do you know what happened after I experienced my first-ever real failure?


I survived.


My parents probably took me out for ice cream to console me. Then, they told me that I was just meant for something else. I never looked back on those basketball try-outs with regret. I never wished I hadn't participated because I looked foolish. It helped to build a stronger foundation for my character. To boost my confidence. To teach me that even if I wasn't the best at everything, I was still pretty great at other things. I would still be sassy and smart and a star.

Check me out playing Hedbanz, being my ultra-competitive self.

Is it normal that I can vividly recall this failure? I actually remember almost every time I didn't succeed at something. I can reflect on those experiences in connection to parenting. Learning to handle failure is surely an important tool to instill in our children, to help them build a healthy life.


As parents, naturally, we worry about our kids. We don't want them to have pain. Or trouble. Or sadness. Or rejection. As I listen to so many moms express their own painful memories of middle school, I have these wishes:


-I wish that we don't project our own fears about unchartered territory onto our kids. We can talk to our friends, our spouses or our parents about it.


-I wish that children who start out highly confident continue to grow...that even when they have a misstep, they know they are still loved and have value.


-I wish that kids who don't know that they are stars will find power from somewhere...from parents, from teachers, from friends, from neighbors. This world needs people who see potential in the quiet kids/quirky kids/awkward kids/kids who seem to have it all together, but secretly don't.


-I wish that we have strong, open dialogues with our kids about bullies and try-outs and grades and acne and the ever-changing dynamics of social media.


-I wish that we are able to nurture these big kids just as we did when they were babies...with deliberate, unwavering care, for as long as they'll allow...without hovering, of course.

What kinds of worries have you had about your child starting something new?

How did you handle it?

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