The Kids are The Story

Dear Reader,

There are things I’m still learning how to do, and there are things I’m learning how to stop doing.

Things I’m still learning how to do include ordering iced coffee instead of coffee ice cream when speaking Spanish in another country; learning how to finish my first middle-grade novel; and learning how to create a training plan for the Venice Half Marathon that helps me avoid pulling a hamstring.

The thing I’m learning how to STOP doing - which is really hard - is rescuing young people from challenges and trying to discover meaning for them.

Like I’ve said, this is hard. I’ve seen incredibly well-meaning adults experience this challenge, too.

When we really care about kids, we want the best for them. When we know how to solve a problem that’s within their reach, we may feel tempted to swoop in on their behalf. And when we’ve experienced so many of life’s wonders ourselves, we may try to reason or explain that wonder to young people until we’re red in the face, hoping our message will make it through.

The thing is, if kids are truly the story, doing hard things and discovering what matters most to them is not our journey, it’s theirs.

And that journey may involve some struggling. And making mistakes. And finding their agency and inner strength. And finding out what matters to them. And maybe even finding out how capable they really are.

So what is our role here, Dear Reader? Where is our power, as truly caring adults?

People who know me know how much I love baseball and the impact it’s had on my life. Growing up, my dad would share stories about Bernie Williams and Cal Ripken Jr. on our walks home from playing catch; later, coaches bought me cleats when they noticed I was wearing normal shoes to games, when my family couldn’t afford them; and others taught me proper pitching form before it was time for me to take the mound in the “big” little league games. Still, my discovery, my relationship to what I was learning and to the game I grew to love, these were my own.

That’s where our power lives, Dear Reader: in our ability to provide access and conditions for discovery.

We can model through our own lives.

We can introduce new ideas, places, and meaningful experiences.

We can ask questions. What do you notice? What do you wonder? What have you learned? And one of my favorites… How does that make you feel?

We can foster rituals. Daily journaling; weekly walks through the park; monthly celebrations; yearly trips to special places.

And we can tell stories. We can always tell stories.