Whenever I mention that my 8-year-old son trains 12 hours a week as part of a competitive gymnastics squad, I’m met with one of two reactions. The first is a gleeful, “Wow, so he’s going to the Olympics, right?” The second is more cautionary: “That sounds intense. When does he get to just have fun?”
It’s fairly easy to predict these responses. The parents at my child’s exceptionally competitive school and my child-free coworkers lean towards the first reaction. Meanwhile, family members and teachers tend to express concern. I often shrug off the Olympic aspirations and reassure those worried that my son genuinely enjoys gymnastics. I also point out that he still has plenty of time for video games. But honestly, it’s an ongoing balancing act for both of us—navigating the line between chasing lofty dreams and simply being a kid. This is just one of the unexpected lessons we’ve learned over the past year.
To be frank, sports were never my strong suit. I dipped my toes into basketball, softball, track, field hockey, dance, and even gymnastics before deciding they weren’t for me. I did manage to stick with gymnastics long enough to pick up a few impressive tricks, which earned me a spot on the cheerleading squads in high school and college, but academics were where I truly excelled.
With that in mind, I had minimal expectations when signing my kids up for various activities: ballet, soccer, swim team, skating, and tae kwon do. Some lasted a few months, others a year, but nothing really clicked—until my son saw a men’s Olympic gymnastics exhibition. He became intrigued and, after some searching, I found a class for boys. Within weeks, he was invited to join the pre-team, and not long after that, he was promoted to the competition team. Suddenly, he went from one hour of gymnastics a week to eight!
It happened so quickly that we were almost taken by surprise. When a coach tells you your child might be exceptional and you see your somewhat introverted son—the one whose athletic interests previously revolved around Wii tennis—glow with happiness like never before, it’s hard to resist.
The gym is a half-hour drive from our home, which made the commute tricky. While my daughter tackled homework in the lobby, I found myself watching practice, growing increasingly frustrated when my son seemed to lag behind in mastering new skills or wasn’t receiving as much attention from the coach. The more I observed, the more anxious I became. If he really was as talented as his coach suggested, why couldn’t he remember to point his toes?
As the first competition approached, my nerves ramped up. I joined an online gymnastics community, bombarding the forums with questions and spending hours searching for previous meet scores to gauge his competition. I memorized every routine and the points associated with each bonus move.
I know, it’s a little embarrassing—I had become what some would call a CGM (crazy gym mom), a title that doesn’t carry a flattering reputation in the gymnastics world. When the coach started reaching out to me for competition updates, I had to admit that I might have lost a bit of perspective.
The first meet ended on a high note. After five solid routines, my son executed an advanced bonus move in his last event, becoming one of the few competitors to do so out of hundreds. He ran to me afterward beaming with joy. Victory!
But then came the awards ceremony. Competing against 67 other boys—many of whom had performed the same routines the previous year—he barely missed the medals and fought back tears.
The two-hour drive home was painful. The coach and I tried everything to uplift him, but he remained quiet and even resisted a stop for ice cream. Once we arrived home, he finally broke down in my lap. I reassured him that he had done his best—and he truly had. But all he could see was that his best hadn’t been enough. I felt horrible. What had I done?
Reflecting on the past few months, I realized I hadn’t intended to put pressure on him. I had repeatedly said that winning didn’t matter, but I had to question whether I truly believed that. I felt disappointed, too. As I hugged him tightly, I managed to coax him off to bed. The coach texted, offering my son the option to skip practice the following day if he needed a break.
The next morning, I was taken aback when he bounded out of bed smiling. When I mentioned skipping practice, he insisted on going. “I’m just going to work harder,” he declared. “Next time, I’ll get a medal.” Maybe my words had resonated, or perhaps he just needed that moment to process everything. Either way, he was back with renewed determination.
And he was right! At the next meet, he returned with a handful of medals. I was the one holding back tears when his name was first called. I glanced over at the coach, who was grinning nearly as widely as my son. The rest of the season went well, culminating in two silver medals and a bronze at the state championship.
I won’t sugarcoat it—watching your child win is much more enjoyable than seeing them lose. But we both gained something far more significant than trophies. My son learned that while medals are great, the real rewards lie in team bonding, the fulfillment of hard work, and the joy of mastering new skills. I discovered that I can’t shield him from disappointment and that he’s far more resilient than I had given him credit for. If I loosen my grip a bit, he can carve his own path.
We’ve made countless sacrifices for this sport. Family dinners have become a rarity, weekend getaways are off the table, and the hefty training costs mean fewer extras. Yet, while we all support him, it’s crucial that this remains his passion, not mine.
Now, as he prepares for the upcoming competitive season, he is working harder than ever. He practices more hours and aims for more challenging skills, but we both feel less anxious. I’ve stopped lingering during his practices. When he excitedly mentions a new skill he’s mastered, I respond, “Wow, you really worked hard for that,” rather than probing for its point value. After all, I can always look it up later. What? Recovery is a process.
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In summary, my journey as a sports mom has taught me invaluable lessons about resilience, support, and the importance of letting my son follow his passion on his own terms, all while navigating the competitive sports landscape together.