Take youth sports seriously. Not because your kid might go to the Olympics. But because it teaches kids what school can't.
I couldn't agree more.
We can't protect our kids from every hard moment.
And maybe we shouldn't.
I mean, right now Tim is dealing with an elbow injury that is keeping him from doing the sport he loves so much. This isn't the first hard moment he's had to work through in sports, either.
He spent 11 years doing TaeKwonDo sparring. Eleven years of practices, competitions, wins, losses, medals, disappointment, pressure, and learning how to get back up and do it again.
Then, after earning his 3rd-degree black belt, he made the decision to walk away from TaeKwonDo and start something completely different.
He went from being an experienced martial artist who had spent more than half his life doing the sport to being the new kid in Olympic weightlifting.
He had to start over.
And starting over isn't always easy.
There were missed lifts. Frustrating competitions. Days when things didn't go the way he wanted. Days when progress felt slow. And there were moments when I know he would have rather had a different outcome.
But that's one of the things I love about sports.
They give our kids a safe place to learn that not getting what you wanted doesn't mean you quit.
Let them miss.
Then let them try again.
The first missed lift hurts. The second one teaches them to keep getting after it.
I've watched Tim learn that firsthand.
Last year at Junior Nationals, he had a really hard moment on the platform. He actually passed out after a lift.
That wasn't how we wanted Nationals to go.
But he went home.
He rested.
He went back to work.
And he came back the next year.
This year, he returned to that same national stage and had the kind of day athletes dream about. He hit personal records, including a 130-kilogram clean and jerk and a 231-kilogram total, and became a USA Weightlifting Junior National Champion.
But honestly?
The championship wasn't the most important part of that story.
The most important part was coming back.
Because that's what resilience looks like.
Let them lose.
Then watch them shake the hands of the people who won.
Allow sports to teach them to respect someone who just beat them.
There is something powerful about watching two competitors give everything they have on the platform and then, when it's over, shake hands and congratulate each other.
You can teach resilience a thousand times with your words.
Sports gives them somewhere to actually practice it.
Let them sit.
Then let them keep cheering.
Being part of a team doesn't stop when you're not the one competing.
Tim is going to learn that lesson in a very real way this weekend.
He'll be at States, but he won't be lifting. His elbow injury has taken that opportunity away from him.
And I know that's hard.
He's worked hard. He's trained hard. He wanted to compete. He wanted to be on that platform with his teammates.
Instead, he'll be sitting in a chair watching them lift.
And he'll be cheering them on.
That's not exactly where he wants to be.
But there's a lesson in that, too.
Sometimes being part of something bigger than yourself means supporting someone else when you're the one who is disappointed.
Let them have the bad day.
Then let them come back.
Let them experience disappointment without immediately trying to make it disappear.
Let them learn that a bad day isn't a bad life.
Let them learn that a missed lift doesn't define them.
Let them learn that an injury doesn't erase everything they've accomplished.
Let them learn that sometimes the plan changes, and you have to adjust.
And sometimes, as parents, we have to learn to step back and let them do it.
There were certainly times when I wanted to fix things for Tim.
That's what parents do.
We see our kids hurting, frustrated, disappointed or struggling, and our instinct is to make it better.
But I've learned that I can't always—and shouldn't always—take the hard thing away.
Because some of the hard things we want to fix are the very things teaching our kids the most.
Sports have taught Tim things I couldn't teach him sitting at the kitchen table homeschooling him.
They've taught him how to fail in front of people and show up again the next day.
How to lose without quitting.
How to win without thinking he's better than someone else.
How to respect the person standing across from him.
How to be part of a team.
How to cheer for someone else when he's the one who wishes he were competing.
How to keep working when progress is slow.
How to handle disappointment.
How to get back up.
Missed lifts. Still showing up.
Losses. Still shaking hands.
Injuries. Still supporting his team.
Disappointment. Still moving forward.
That counts too.
And that's why I don't believe youth sports are only about winning.
I've said before that my goal was never to raise an athlete who wins everything.
Medals are nice. Championships are exciting. Personal records are worth celebrating.
But they aren't who our kids are.
One day the competitions will stop.
One day the medals will sit in a box.
One day they may not remember exactly how much their competitors lifted or who won a particular meet.
But I hope they remember what sports taught them.
How to lose without falling apart.
How to compete without disrespecting someone.
How to work hard when nobody is handing them a trophy.
How to be part of something bigger than themselves.
How to handle disappointment.
How to get back up after failure.
How to show up when things aren't going their way.
And how to keep going.
Because one day, life is going to hand them things that no coach can prepare them for and no parent can fix.
And when that happens, I want them to already know:
I've been here before.
I know how to get back up.
That's what youth sports can give our kids.
Not just stronger bodies.
Not just medals.
Not just championships.
Success. Failure. Resilience. Grit.
That's what sports teach.
And those lessons have somewhere to go long after the sport ends.
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