It was the spring of my junior year of high school, May 2000. I was sitting in my guidance counselor’s small, windowless office, the walls plastered with brightly colored inspirational posters and college banners.
I shifted in my hard metal chair as my counselor looked over my grades and SATs.
“So you still have your heart set on the Ivy League?” she asked.
“Yup, that’s my dream,” I said, eyes wide, heart humming with hope. It was the dream I’d had since sixth grade, the dream I’d carefully scrawled in the letter written to my future eighteen-year-old self.
But my guidance counselor didn’t know this, didn’t appreciate that she was holding a piece of my heart.
“It’s good to dream,” she said. “But what other colleges are you considering? We need to add a few realistic options.”
The hot, stuffy air became hard to breathe as my heart sank on the word realistic, the brightly colored college banners mocking me from above. Where was the enthusiasm, the encouragement, that glimmer of hope?
I had the scores. I had the grades. Why didn’t she believe in me?
As I left her office, I remember feeling small and unworthy. And while as an adult I can understand what my guidance counselor had been trying to say – that getting into any college requires a bit of luck – as a sixteen-year-old, all I’d heard was, I don’t think you’re good enough.
It’s a conversation I think of often, how critical phrasing can be to understanding and meaning. How impactful it can be on a child’s entire sense of self.
In the end, I was one of the lucky ones. My parents believed in me, driving me to every Ivy League school I cared to visit. And when I was accepted to Cornell, my first choice, I realized the importance not only of chasing a dream, but of not letting others convince you to strive for less.
I think of this lesson often, especially now that I have a daughter with her own big dream – this time not the Ivy League but the SEC, for gymnastics. My oldest trains over 15 hours a week, is a level 7 out of 10, and dreams of one day being a D1 athlete. She talks about this so freely that sometimes it worries me to see her heart so exposed.
Because with openness comes judgement.
She’s too tall, they say. Isn’t that too much training for such a young kid? Aren’t you worried she’s going to get hurt? You know, her toes don’t point enough. She’s just not that flexible. And she started gymnastics too late to make D1. Most of the girls who will make it are already at level 10 by now. She needs to shoot lower. Has she ever considered switching to another sport? Cheer? Diving? Track?
I know these words are often spoken not with malice, but concern and fear. Yet still they cut deep. Of course, I don’t want my daughter to over-train or suffer injury. And I do try to protect her, forcing days off when I know she needs a break. But I also recognize that the drive that is pushing my daughter comes from within. This dream isn’t about me. It is about her. And while I will always protect and advocate for her well-being, I also will not hold her back from doing what she loves.
Which is why I always brush off the criticism with a smile and say the same thing.
Yes, gymnastics is a demanding sport. And yes, she began a few years later than most. There are tons of girls who are farther along in their journey. But that doesn’t mean there can’t be a spot for her, too. She is strong. She loves the sport. She’s progressing. If this is what makes her happy, why shouldn’t she shoot for the top and see how far she can go?
Believing in a big dream is hard. Especially when you know the odds are stacked against your child. Only around 5% of high-school-aged female gymnasts will have a chance to compete at the D1 level. And yet I believe that supporting my daughter on this journey is one of my most important jobs as a parent.
Because by fighting for this dream, she will learn that with hard work and consistency, she can accomplish what sometimes feels impossible. She will realize that what other people think or say doesn’t matter. And that to achieve great things, you need to tune out the noise. Most importantly, she will know that she has my support. Always.
So I drive her to 7 a.m. weekend practices. I travel with her to out-of-state meets. I video her routines and sit there with her as she goes over them, pointing out what went well and what needs work. And when she has a bad day, I don’t sugarcoat it or tell her it doesn’t matter. Because to her, it does. Greatly. Instead, I say, Yeah, you’re right, you had a bad day. But don’t forget, everyone has bad days. Just keep practicing. Keep working. Don’t let it get you down.
Sometimes this works. Sometimes it requires a trip for ice cream.
And on those quiet nights in between the practices and competitions, we talk about the odds. She understands that her chances are small. There is great competition. And that there are many parts of her journey – injury, timing, luck – that are out of her control.
But as long as she wants to keep going, I will never tell her to set her sights lower. Instead, I will say to her that she is worthy. That, in my eyes, she is always more than good enough.
Because the way I talk to her now will be the way she talks to herself later. The lessons she learns today about confidence, determination, and self-reliance will be the ones she carries with her throughout her lifetime.
And because one day, when she is an adult, and she has yet another big dream – to launch a company, to create an invention, to go to medical school – I want her to know deep within her soul that she has what it takes to chase it.
If I can instill anything in all my children, it would be this knowledge. Along with the assurance that I will always be there, ready to give my time, my heart, and my unwavering support to whatever they value most.
