Whenever I mention that my 8-year-old son, Liam, dedicates 12 hours each week to a competitive gymnastics team, I typically elicit one of two reactions. The first is an enthusiastic, “That’s amazing! He’s headed for the Olympics, isn’t he?” The second response, however, is more tempered: “Wow, that sounds intense. When does he get to have fun?”
I can usually gauge which response I’ll receive based on who is asking. Parents from our highly competitive school and some of my child-free coworkers generally lean toward the Olympic dreamers, while teachers and family members often voice concern. I brush off the Olympic aspirations and reassure anyone worried that for Liam, gymnastics is genuinely enjoyable. I often mention that he still has plenty of time for video games. Yet, the reality is that we are constantly navigating the tightrope between lofty ambitions and the simple joy of childhood—a lesson we’ve both absorbed over the last year.
Athletics were never my strong suit. I reluctantly tried basketball, softball, track, field hockey, dance, and gymnastics but eventually quit them all. I did stick with gymnastics long enough to master some impressive tumbling moves, which earned me a spot on my high school and college cheerleading teams, but academics were where I excelled.
With that background, I had no grand expectations when I enrolled my children in various activities: ballet, soccer, swim team, skating, and tae kwon do. Some pursuits lasted a few months, others a year, but nothing seemed to resonate.
Then, after attending an exhibition of male Olympic gymnasts, Liam expressed interest in gymnastics. It took some time, but I finally found a boys’ class. Within weeks, an offer came for him to join the pre-team, and shortly thereafter, he was promoted to the competition team. In just a few months, his weekly gymnastics sessions skyrocketed from one hour to eight.
The rapid pace of this change left us somewhat blindsided, but when someone suggests that your child might be exceptional and that this once-loner—whose previous athletic interest consisted solely of Wii tennis—is now happier than ever, saying no becomes difficult.
The gym is a thirty-minute drive from home, making commutes challenging. While my daughter worked on her homework in the lobby, I began to feel increasingly frustrated as I watched Liam struggle to keep up with the other boys or receive less attention from the coach. The longer I observed, the more stressed I became. If he was truly as talented as his coach claimed, why did he always forget to point his toes?
As the first competition loomed, my anxiety intensified. I joined an online gymnastics community, bombarding the forums with questions. I searched for scores from last year’s events to gauge how many competitors Liam would face and how they had performed. I memorized every routine element and the point values for each bonus move.
Yes, I realize now that I had morphed into a CGM—crazy gym mom—an unflattering label in the gymnastics world. When the coach started reaching out for competition insights, it hit me just how out of control I’d become.
The initial competition ended on a high note. After five solid routines, Liam executed an advanced bonus move in his last event—a skill that few of the hundreds of competitors attempted. He ran to me afterward, beaming with pride.
However, the awards ceremony brought disappointment. Competing against 67 boys, many of whom had performed the same routines previously, Liam finished just shy of the medals, on the verge of tears. The two-hour drive home was excruciating. The coach and I tried everything to lift his spirits, but he barely spoke and refused to stop for ice cream.
Once home, he finally broke down in my lap. I assured him that he had done his best—and he truly had. Yet all he could focus on was the fact that his best hadn’t earned him a medal. I felt awful. What had I done?
As I reflected on the past few months, I realized I hadn’t meant to apply pressure. I had repeatedly stated that winning wasn’t important, but deep down, I questioned whether that was entirely true. I had to admit I was disappointed too. I embraced him tightly and ultimately coaxed him to bed. The coach texted to say that Liam could skip practice the following day if needed.
To my surprise, Liam bounced out of bed the next morning with a smile. When I mentioned skipping practice, he insisted he wanted to go. “I’m just going to work harder,” he declared, “and next time I’ll get a medal.” It seemed that perhaps my words had resonated or maybe he just needed time to process it all. Either way, he returned to practice with renewed determination.
And he was right. At the next competition, he came home with a handful of medals. I was the one holding back tears during his name’s announcement. I stole a glance at the coach, who was grinning almost as broadly as Liam. The rest of the season went smoothly, culminating in two silver medals and a bronze at the state championship.
I won’t pretend that watching your child win isn’t thrilling. However, we both emerged from the season with something far more significant than mere trophies. Liam learned that while medals are nice, the friendships he formed, the fulfillment of hard work, and the joy of mastering new skills are far more rewarding. I discovered that I can’t shield him from disappointment, that he possesses greater resilience than I had anticipated, and that by loosening my grip a little, he can chart his own path.
The sacrifices for this sport are considerable. Family dinners are scarce, weekend getaways are non-existent, and the expense of his training means fewer luxuries. However, while we all show support, the decision must ultimately come from him—this is a journey he needs to embrace, not one I impose on him.
Now, as he prepares for the upcoming competitive season, Liam is more committed than ever. His practice hours have increased, and he’s tackling more challenging skills—but we’ve both become more relaxed about it. I’ve stopped lingering during practices, and when my son shares news of a skill he’s mastered, I respond with, “Wow, you really put in the effort for that,” instead of asking for its point value.
After all, I can always look it up later. What? Recovery is a process.
In summary, this journey into the world of competitive gymnastics has taught both me and my son invaluable lessons about perseverance, the true meaning of success, and the importance of enjoying the process.