When people discover that my 8-year-old son trains for 12 hours a week on a competitive gymnastics team, I tend to receive one of two reactions. The first is an enthusiastic, “Wow, he’s going to the Olympics, right?” The second is a more reserved, “That sounds intense. When does he get to have fun?”
I can usually guess which response I’ll hear. Parents at my children’s highly competitive school and my childless coworkers generally belong to the first group; while teachers and family lean toward the second. I typically brush off the Olympic dreamers, assuring any worried friends that gymnastics is indeed fun for my son. I often mention that he still has plenty of time for video games. However, the truth is, it’s an ongoing balancing act between pursuing big dreams and allowing him to simply be a kid—one of the unexpected lessons we’ve both learned throughout this journey.
To be honest, sports were never my strong suit. I dabbled in basketball, softball, track, field hockey, dance, and gymnastics, but none of them stuck. I did manage to learn some impressive tumbling tricks in gymnastics, which led me to cheerleading in high school and college, but academics were truly my passion.
So, I had low expectations when I signed my kids up for various activities: ballet, soccer, swimming, skating, and tae kwon do. Some lasted a few months, others a year, but nothing ever seemed to click. One day, after watching the men’s Olympic gymnasts at an exhibition, my son expressed interest in gymnastics. After some time, I found a boys’ class for him. Within weeks, he was invited to join the pre-team, and shortly after, he was promoted to the competition team. Just like that, he transitioned from one hour a week to eight.
It all unfolded so quickly that we hardly understood what we were getting into. But when an instructor tells you your child may have exceptional talent, and that child—a bit of a loner before gymnastics—seems happier than ever, it’s hard to say no. The gym is a thirty-minute drive from our home, making it challenging to shuttle back and forth. While my daughter tackled her homework in the lobby, I watched practice, growing increasingly frustrated when my son struggled to keep up or seemed to receive less attention from his coach. The more I observed, the more stressed I became. If he was truly as talented as the coach claimed, why did he always forget to point his toes?
As the first competition approached, my anxiety heightened. I joined an online gymnastics forum, inundating it with questions, and scoured the Internet for last year’s meet scores to gauge the competition. I became intimately familiar with every element in the routines and the point values of bonus moves.
Yes, I know—I had morphed into a CGM, or “crazy gym mom,” which is basically the worst title in the gymnastics community. When the coach began reaching out to me for competition insights, I realized I might have lost a bit of control.
The first meet ended on a high note. After five solid routines, my son executed an advanced bonus move in his final event—a feat that only a handful of competitors managed. He ran toward me, beaming with pride. Victory!
Then came the awards ceremony. Competing against 67 boys, many of whom had performed the same routines previously, my son finished just shy of the podium, holding back tears. The two-hour drive home was agonizing. The coach and I tried everything to lift his spirits, but he barely spoke, refusing to stop for ice cream.
When 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 the fact that his efforts hadn’t earned him a medal. I felt awful. Had I inadvertently put too much pressure on him? Despite claiming to not care about winning, I began to question my own feelings. I had to admit I felt disappointed too. I held him tighter and eventually coaxed him to bed. The coach texted to say that my son could skip practice the following day if he needed a break.
To my surprise, he woke up the next morning with a smile. I mentioned the option to skip practice, but he insisted on going. “I’m just going to work harder,” he declared, “and next time I’ll get a medal.” Perhaps something I said had resonated with him, or maybe he just needed time to process it all. Regardless, he was back in the game and more determined than ever.
And he was right. At the next meet, he came home with a handful of medals. I found myself holding back tears when they announced his name for the first time. I glanced over to see the coach grinning almost as broadly as my son. The rest of the season went exceptionally well, culminating in two silver medals and a bronze at the state championship.
I won’t pretend it’s not more enjoyable to see your child win rather than lose. However, we both took away something far more significant than just trophies. My son now understands that while medals are nice, the camaraderie with his teammates, the joy of hard work, and the thrill of mastering new skills are even more rewarding. I learned that I cannot shield him from disappointment, that he is more resilient than I realized, and that if I loosen my grip a little, he will find his own path.
We’ve made many sacrifices for this sport. Family dinners have become infrequent, weekend trips are a rarity, and the expenses associated with his training mean fewer extras for all of us. But while we all support him, in the end, he is the one who must show up to the gym every day. It must be something he genuinely wants, not merely what I desire for him.
As he prepares for the next competitive season, he’s training harder than ever, tackling more challenging skills. Yet we both feel significantly less anxious now. I’ve stopped lingering at practices, and when he shares news of a new skill he’s mastered, I simply say, “Wow, you really worked hard for that,” instead of inquiring about its point value. Besides, I can always look it up online later. What? Recovery is a process.
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In summary, my journey as a sports mom has been filled with surprises and lessons. While the road to success can be filled with challenges, it ultimately leads to growth for both my son and me.