My husband and I stood near the entryway of the ice arena. Not huge fans of crowded areas, we had moved ourselves to a spot along the wall just outside the chatter of the disappointed parents.
I didn’t need to hear each word they exchanged to feel the murmur of their emotional opinions. “If the coach had done this.” “If the ref had called that.” “If the goalie…” and then realizing we were standing within earshot, the sentence would remain unfinished.
We know how they might have wanted to end that sentence. “If she had played better.” “If she had saved more.” “If she hadn’t made so many mistakes.”
Parents with care for their children feel their performances with them. It is awesome to watch their successes and cheer with them when they win. But when they lose, and especially when they suck, it is challenging to absorb their failures and not dive into disappointment with them, or ahead of them.
We had exactly 8 minutes to process how her game had made us feel. My husband was better at digesting the heaviness of a goaltending failure. He had been a goaltender. I was learning the mentality necessary to step into such a pressured situation, on purpose, fail in that effort, and still come out okay on the other end.
It is work to do the right parent thing. I knew she needed to see us with the same countenance she might have seen had she pulled off a shutout.
Deep breathing. Visualization of the child I was raising, but more importantly the woman we were hoping she’d become.
She needed to know our love was unconditional. There was not a thing she could do in that crease that changed our commitment to love her…through all of it.
Love allows for sorrows to be halved, not multiplied and we had to put down our pride and be ready with open arms the second she walked through that door.
Much of the room had cleared by the time she lugged her bag through the doorway and a single tear appeared on her cheek. My husband silently embraced her. They hugged. She cried. I waited. When it was my turn for the silent affirmation that nothing had changed between us, I felt her tuck her forehead onto my shoulder as she shuddered in her disappointment.
Love. It never changes. It never waivers. It needs no words.
If you are not able to show up silently in the space a child needs to process their failures, work harder to drop your pride and open your arms. All they need is a hug.
Meagan Frank 
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