This past weekend, we were at yet another dance competition. I mean, where else would we be, right? We’re either at the dance studio or at a competition or convention. I don’t even know why we bother to unpack the Dream Duffel at this point. But I digress.
My daughter was performing her solo on stage Sunday morning. It was great—it’s a routine I’ve seen many times. Then, about halfway through, I saw it. That flicker in her eyes. She looked lost, and I knew instantly—she’d forgotten what came next. In a moment of panic and quick thinking, she did what so many performers do when things go sideways: she repeated the last move and kept going. It wasn’t her best performance, but she finished. She didn’t run offstage. She didn’t freeze. She improvised, kept her composure, and saw it through to the end.
Ironically, I’d been nudging her to practice just the weekend before. “You’ve got a competition coming up,” I reminded her. Her response? “Why do I need to practice? I already know my solo.”
Ah, yes. The timeless overconfidence of youth.
There have been so many moments in my own life when I’ve learned the same lesson the hard way—that “practice makes perfect” isn’t just a cliché. It’s a truth that shows up in high-stakes moments: tests I didn’t study enough for, essays that needed just one more round of editing, meetings where I wished I had rehearsed my talking points.
My Ph.D. advisor used to tell us that every presentation we give should be so well-rehearsed that we could deliver it cold, from memory. For years after my dissertation defense, I could rattle off that talk without glancing at the slides. But I can’t say every presentation I’ve given since has been so polished. I’ve had times—especially in the chaos of balancing work, kids, and life—when I’ve been mid-slide, wondering why on earth I even included it.
But here’s the thing: like my daughter on stage, you just keep going. You take a breath, push through, and do your best. You recover. You respond to hard questions. You pivot when things go wrong. And when it’s over, you reflect—not just on what went wrong, but on what you learned.
Mistakes aren’t the end of the story. They’re the beginning. They remind us that effort matters. That preparation counts. That the path to confidence is paved with repetition, missteps, and the resilience to try again.
And maybe next time I ask her if she’s practiced, she’ll just smile and say, “Yes, Mom.” One can hope.
