It was just another busy evening at the school gym—kids running around, parents chatting, the usual chaos of a school event. I was juggling a million things in my head when I saw my son, standing there, gripping his little blue ball like it was the most precious thing in the world.
He wasn’t running or laughing like the other kids. Instead, he stood still, taking everything in. His sister threw an arm around him, her bright pink backpack nearly swallowing her small frame. She grinned at the camera, full of energy, full of life. But my son? He had this quiet, thoughtful look on his face, like he was somewhere else entirely.
I knelt beside him, brushing his hair back. “You okay, buddy?”
And then he looked up at me with those big, brown eyes of his, and I could see it. There was something more to his silence than just being shy or tired.
“I don’t want to play,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper amidst the clamor of children and parents.
I blinked, unsure of how to respond. “Why not? It’s fun, remember? You love playing ball with your friends.”
He shook his head slowly, the ball still clutched tightly in his small hands. “I’m not like them, Mom. I don’t know how to be like them.”
His words hit me harder than I expected. Here was my little boy, who, up until now, had been this confident, outgoing kid, suddenly unsure of himself in a space where everyone was running around having fun. And it wasn’t just about the game. It wasn’t even about the ball.
I felt a pang of concern. Was he being bullied? Was something happening at school that I didn’t know about? Was it something I had missed?
I knelt down even lower so I could look him in the eye. “What do you mean, buddy? You are just like them. You’re so good at so many things—remember the art project you made? Or how you built that Lego castle last week?”
He looked down at the ball, his fingers tightening around it. “But I don’t know how to run and kick the ball like everyone else. I don’t know the rules. I don’t fit in.”
My heart sank. How had I missed this? All this time, I thought he was just being shy or distracted, but it turned out that he was feeling left out. He was comparing himself to the other kids, and in his eyes, he didn’t measure up.
I put my arm around his shoulders and squeezed gently. “You don’t have to be like everyone else. You don’t have to fit into a mold that doesn’t feel right for you. You’re special just the way you are, and you don’t need to know every rule to have fun or be a part of something.”
He looked at me, his eyes wide. “But I don’t know how to play.”
I smiled softly, feeling a sense of relief wash over me. “You know what? Neither did I when I was your age. But guess what? The best part of playing is just having fun. You don’t need to be perfect, buddy. You just need to try.”
His face brightened a little. But then he hesitated, looking around at the other kids again. “What if I mess up?”
I chuckled softly, ruffling his hair. “Everyone messes up, sweetheart. It’s not about being perfect, it’s about enjoying the game. And if you mess up, you learn. We all mess up. It’s okay.”
He nodded slowly, and for the first time that evening, I saw a flicker of understanding in his eyes. But he still wasn’t ready to jump in. I could tell he needed more time to process everything.
We sat there for a while, just watching the other kids play. I didn’t push him, didn’t pressure him. I just let him feel safe in his own thoughts.
As the evening wore on, I noticed that my son started to edge closer to the group of kids. He was still standing apart, but I could see his gaze shift toward them, the ball still gripped in his hands.
At one point, another boy, one who was a bit older than my son, jogged over to where he was standing. “Hey,” the boy said with a grin, “wanna play?”
I watched as my son hesitated, the doubt in his eyes still there. But then, almost as if he’d made a decision, he nodded. “Okay.”
The boy smiled and motioned toward the group. “Don’t worry about the rules. Just kick it around with us. You’ll figure it out.”
And so, my son joined the game.
I stood there for a few moments, watching him. At first, he was a little awkward, not quite knowing where to run or what to do. But as the game went on, he started to get into it. The other kids cheered him on, showing him how to kick the ball, encouraging him when he made mistakes. Slowly, the fear faded, and the joy of just playing began to fill him up.
By the end of the game, he was laughing and running with the others, his blue ball now just one part of a bigger, more exciting experience. His sister ran up to him, her pink backpack bouncing as she threw her arms around him.
“See?” I whispered, smiling to myself. “You just needed to give it a try.”
He grinned back at me, his face glowing with that sense of accomplishment. “I did it, Mom. I played. And I didn’t mess up.”
I realized then that the lesson wasn’t just for him—it was for me too.
For so long, I had been so caught up in the idea of being perfect, in trying to get everything right, that I’d forgotten how important it was to just jump in, to just try. Sometimes, it’s not about knowing all the rules or being the best. It’s about showing up, about taking that first step and being willing to learn, even if you fall flat on your face along the way.
I had spent so much time worrying about whether my son would fit in or whether he was doing things “the right way” that I had forgotten that the true reward comes from the process, not the outcome.
The twist came in the form of my son. He had taught me that the fear of failure wasn’t something to avoid, but something to embrace. After all, it’s only when we make mistakes that we truly grow. It’s only when we take risks, when we try something new, that we discover what we’re truly capable of.
And sometimes, the most unexpected teachers come in the smallest of packages.
The next day, I found myself tackling my own fears and uncertainties in ways I hadn’t before. I signed up for a yoga class, something I had always put off because I was afraid of looking silly. But now, I realized that just like my son, I didn’t need to be perfect. I just needed to try.
In the end, it wasn’t just about my son learning how to play a game. It was about us both learning that it’s okay to take chances, to stumble along the way, and to find joy in the journey. That’s where the real magic happens.
If you’re reading this, I hope you find the courage to try something new, to embrace your imperfections, and to take that first step—no matter how small. Share this with someone who needs a reminder that we all start somewhere, and it’s okay to not have everything figured out. Just keep trying. You’ll get there.
And if you enjoyed this, please like and share. Let’s remind each other that the most important thing is not to be perfect—but to be brave enough to begin.
