Updated: December 18, 2023
Originally Published: June 4, 2023
Every time I mention that my 8-year-old daughter trains for a staggering 12 hours a week on a competitive gymnastics team, I encounter two distinct reactions. The first is an exuberant, “Wow, she’s going to the Olympics, right?” The second is more subdued: “That sounds intense. When does she get to have fun?”
I can predict these responses with uncanny accuracy. Parents from our highly competitive school or those without kids tend to lean towards the first, while teachers and family members usually align with the latter. I brush off the Olympic expectations and reassure anyone concerned that gymnastics is, indeed, fun for my daughter. I also mention that she still finds time to enjoy her beloved video games. However, the reality is that we constantly navigate the delicate balance between lofty aspirations and the joys of childhood—an unexpected lesson we’ve both learned this past year.
Sports were never my strong suit, to put it mildly. I dabbled in basketball, softball, track, field hockey, dance, and gymnastics but eventually quit them all. I did manage to stick with gymnastics long enough to learn some impressive tumbling moves, which helped me secure a spot on my high school and college cheerleading squads. Yet, academics were always my true passion.
So, when signing my kids up for various activities—ballet, soccer, swim team, skating, and tae kwon do—I had low expectations. Some lasted a few months, while others went on for a year, but nothing truly clicked. Then came the day my daughter, inspired by watching Olympic gymnasts perform, expressed an interest in gymnastics. It took some time, but I found a suitable boys’ class. Before I knew it, she was invited to join the pre-team group, and shortly after, she was promoted to the competition team. Her weekly gymnastics commitment skyrocketed from one hour to eight in just a few months.
It all happened so quickly that we barely grasped what we were getting into. When someone suggests your child may be exceptional, and that child—a bit of a loner who previously preferred playing Wii tennis—seems happier than ever, it’s hard to say no.
The gym is a half-hour drive from our home, complicating our routine. While my son did his homework in the lobby, I watched my daughter’s practices and found myself growing frustrated when she lagged behind her peers in mastering new skills or seemed to receive less one-on-one attention from the coach. The more I observed, the more stressed I became. If my daughter was as talented as the coach claimed, why did she always forget to point her toes?
As the first competition approached, my anxiety escalated. I joined an online gymnastics community, flooding the forums with questions and obsessively researching last year’s meet scores to gauge the competition. I memorized every element of the routines and the point values for each bonus move.
Yes, I had transformed into a CGM—Crazy Gym Mom—a title that holds a rather negative connotation in the gymnastics world. When the coach began calling me for competition insights, it dawned on me that I might be just a tad bit out of control.
The first meet concluded on a high note. After five solid routines, my daughter executed an advanced bonus move in her last event—a unique skill among hundreds of competitors. She sprinted over to me, beaming with pride. Victory!
However, the awards ceremony was a different story. Competing against 67 boys, many of whom had already performed their routines the previous year, she finished just shy of the medals and struggled to hold back tears.
The two-hour ride home was pure agony. The coach and I tried our best to cheer up my despondent little athlete. She barely spoke during the drive and wasn’t even tempted to stop for ice cream.
Once we reached home, she finally let her tears flow in my lap. I assured her she had done her best—and she truly had. Yet all she could see was that her best hadn’t been enough. I felt awful. What had I done?
I mentally replayed the last few months. I hadn’t intended to place any pressure on her; I had repeatedly stated that winning didn’t matter, but now I questioned whether I genuinely believed that. I realized I was disappointed too. I hugged her tightly and eventually coaxed her to bed. The coach texted to say she could skip practice the next day if she needed a break.
The following morning, I was astonished when she bounded out of bed with a smile. I mentioned skipping practice, but she insisted on going. “I’m just going to work harder,” she said, “and next time I’ll get a medal.” Huh. Perhaps something I said resonated with her, or maybe she just needed time to process it all. Either way, she was back and more determined than ever.
And she was right. At the next meet, she returned home with a handful of medals. I was the one holding back tears when they called her name for the first time. I glanced over to see the coach smiling as broadly as my daughter. The subsequent meets went well, and she capped off her first season with two silver medals and a bronze at the state championship.
I won’t deny that watching my child win is far more enjoyable than witnessing her lose. But we both emerged from the season with something more profound than trophies. She now understands that while medals are nice, the camaraderie with her teammates, the fulfillment of hard work, and the thrill of mastering new skills are even more rewarding. I learned that I can’t shield her from disappointment, that she is more resilient than I had anticipated, and that if I simply loosen my grip, she’ll find her own path.
We sacrifice a great deal for this sport: family dinners have become a rarity, weekend getaways are non-existent, and the high cost of her training means fewer luxuries for everyone. But while we are all supportive, it ultimately must be her passion, not mine.
As she prepares for the upcoming competitive season, she is training harder than ever. Her practice hours have increased, and she is tackling more challenging skills, yet we both feel far less anxious now. I’ve stopped attending every practice. When she triumphantly shares a new skill she has mastered, I say, “Wow, you really put in the effort for that,” rather than asking about its point value. Besides, I can always look it up online later. Recovery is a process.
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In summary, the journey of being a sports mom has been filled with unexpected lessons about resilience, joy, and the importance of allowing our children to embrace their passions fully.
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