[Also published in Her View From Home]
My seven-year-old wanted to learn taekwondo, so I signed him up with the local academy, and together, we eagerly anticipated the first day of class. When it came, my kiddo was ready to go—uniform on, belt tied just the right way (which is harder than you might think), and we left home in plenty of time to reach the dojo before class began. I parked, and we both climbed out of the car, but after just a few steps, my child abruptly stopped, seemingly rooted in place. I turned back to look at him.
“Mom, I can’t,” he said with panic in his small voice.
“What do you mean?” I asked. He’d been so excited to start this sport, I didn’t understand what was happening.
“I can’t go into that class,” he said. “I just can’t.”
“Ahh,” I realized that nerves had finally grabbed hold. He was literally glued to the spot, unable to make his body move.
I reassured him that it was going to be great fun. I reminded him how much he’d been looking forward to it. I pointed out that he loved watching when we’d come earlier in the week to observe the class. Nothing I said helped. So I changed tactics.
“Okay, listen, if you don’t want to join the class today, that’s fine. But we can’t stay here in the middle of the street. Let’s get out of the street so we’re in a safer place to talk.”
That finally got him moving, and once we reached the sidewalk, I tried again, “Great. This is better. Thank you. What if we go inside and watch today, and then you can decide about joining later? No class today, just watch.”
He looked me in the eyes, searching for I don’t know what? Confirmation that I was being truthful? Reassurance that I wasn’t mad? I’m not sure, but he finally nodded and walked into the academy and sat down next to me. The instructor recognized right away what was happening and came over to talk. He confirmed that it was fine to just watch, but he asked that my son watch from inside the dojo on the sidelines, rather than in the bleachers with me. Again, my kid complied.
A couple of times during class, the instructor casually approached my son to ask if he was ready to join in. The answer was always no, but it didn’t phase the instructor one bit. “No problem!” he’d respond with a big smile, and then would bound back over to resume instruction.
At the end of class, the group broke out into a game of dodgeball, and when the instructor asked my son if he’d like to join in, my kiddo finally said yes. From that day on, my son had no problems going to taekwondo class, and he steadily advanced through multiple belt levels.
I’ve thought of this moment many times since then. Even though my kid was anxious and panicked about starting his first day of taekwondo, we found a way through the fear. Not because he jumped in and did it without reservation, but because we were able to break it down into more manageable steps—he knew it was safer to talk on the sidewalk instead of on the road; he was familiar with walking into the academy; he’d watched the class perform before. These were all things he had prior experience with and could, therefore, confidently complete.
Big new things are often made up of lots of little things like these that we already know how to do. When faced with an intimidating challenge, the enormity of the situation can be overwhelming. If you feel this way, remind yourself (or your child) to look for the smaller familiar steps that lead toward the goal. Focus only on the step in front of you first, then the next, and as you steadily progress, the goal will begin to feel more achievable and less intimidating as you draw nearer to it.
Big new things seem big and new when viewed as a singular massive event. Break that mass down into the smaller components it’s made of, and step-by-step, you can accomplish anything.
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