June 6, 2025
I don’t recall exactly the circumstances in which I began telling my son: “We can learn how to do hard things!” It became a mantra during Covid, when I was, unwillingly, his sub Pre-K teacher when the world went virtual overnight.
We—mostly I—would say it repeatedly, almost chanting, to push back the protests that inevitably erupted when asked to do something difficult—something dangerous. He had what was described in technical language by medical evaluators, occupational therapists: low frustration tolerance. In practical terms that meant that he, as any of us might, struggled to keep at it when something was hard. But I was determined to help him push through the resistance, to see that he could tolerate more, to expand his sense of what he was capable of.
Writing your name was hard, that letter S, so tricky, all those curves—especially for a left-hander. But we can learn how to do hard things.
Dragging yourself onto the soccer field for practice was hard, when you felt an acute sense of not knowing what you were supposed to do, or being sure you could deliver. But we can learn how to do hard things.
Writing a sentence summarizing the paragraphs you just read is hard, when your brain takes in facts like isolated islands and struggles to synthesize and connect. But we can learn how to do hard things.
The activities have evolved over the years, and so has his tolerance, but that line: I can’t, it’s hard—it still threatens to be the end of every new horizon.
My cheerleading and coaching, my prodding and stubborn resistance well-suited to match his—I think they matter? I think my former three year old son, then six year old son, my current eight year old son, may have been pushed out of the nest-of-the-week a few times because of my (perhaps overbearing) engagement. He’s crossed some milestones.
But has he really learned that he can do hard things, or have I just drug him along?
At some point he has to internalize it, or all we have is a few new technical skills. I don’t really care if he never writes a beautiful letter S, but I desperately want him to learn how to try, to be brave in the face of all that danger. How does he really know, for himself, that we can learn how to do hard things?
How about hearing me admire his friend’s mom’s swimming routine, confessing that I’m so intimidated—I don’t really know how the system works, the pool culture. I’m not a great swimmer. And yet it seems like something that would be good for me. It seems like a fear I would be proud of myself to have overcome.
How about watching me come home dry-haired from my first attempt at morning laps at the public pool, sheepishly clutching the purple outfit I’d grabbed in the pre-dawn light. “It was Estella’s leotard,” I admit, embarrassed. “I had to turn around and come home.
How about seeing me a few weeks later, dragging myself out before his sisters wake up for my fourth or fifth visit, hearing me admit I really don’t want to go today, I am kind of dreading it, but I committed to go, so I will—then seeing me grinning and proud, hearing me tell my husband, “I feel stronger now than I did the first time, I can sense a difference!”
How about seeing me not have to be great at something to keep at it, even enjoy it? To see me realize my enjoyment of it isn’t tied to how I feel about putting in the work on the front end?
Ultimately I can’t make him learn how to do hard things.
But I can learn how to do hard things, and let him watch.
