A little while ago, I attended a workshop about pressure and children. One of the messages that stayed with me was that pressure doesn’t necessarily produce successful children. In fact, there was apparently very little correlation between elite junior athletes and the adults who eventually become champions.

I left feeling uncomfortable. Was I putting too much pressure on my own children?

So, I decided to try something different.

I stopped asking so much about homework. I stopped reminding them about every training session. I tried to resist the urge to organise, prompt and push. Instead, I told myself that, over time, the responsibility needed to become theirs. That one day they would live with the consequences of their own choices—not mine.

So I loosened my grip.

Last term, my son’s grades dropped. His sporting performance dipped too. Almost immediately, I started questioning myself.

Had I made a mistake?

Had I confused stepping back with checking out?

Was I simply being too hands-off?

I sat with those questions for a while, unsure whether I needed to step back in.

Then a friend pointed something out that I hadn’t fully appreciated. Only a few days earlier, my son had told me that he needed to work harder at home if he wanted better grades. He had also realised he needed to put more effort into his swimming. And suddenly I saw it.

What had previously come from me… was starting to come from him.

The expectations hadn’t disappeared. They had simply changed owners.

And it got me thinking about how often this happens whenever we help someone grow. Whether we’re parenting, managing, coaching, mentoring or teaching, there comes a point where our role has to change. We stop being the person who provides the motivation. We become the person who creates the space for someone else to find it.

That transition isn’t always smooth. There may be a period where performance dips. Where confidence wobbles. Where mistakes become more obvious.

From the outside, it can look as though we’ve stepped back too far. But perhaps that’s simply what ownership looks like while it’s still taking shape.

Maybe the challenge isn’t knowing when to step back. Maybe it’s having the patience not to step back in too quickly.

Because sometimes the very thing we’re hoping to see—a person taking responsibility for themselves—can only happen once we’ve made enough room for it to emerge.

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Last night, a friend contacted me. He’s trying to decide whether to accept a new role.

As we talked, it became clear that the job itself wasn’t really the issue. It was what he would be leaving behind.

He’s been with his current organisation for a long time. It feels familiar. Predictable. Safe. He knows the people, understands the culture, and knows what’s expected of him.

The new role offered opportunity, but it also came with uncertainty. New relationships. New expectations. A period of not quite knowing what he was doing yet.

He admitted he could feel himself resisting it. Not because he didn’t want the opportunity, but because part of him desperately wanted to hold on to what already felt secure.

I understood that completely.

As he spoke, I noticed something. Almost everything he said was about what he might lose. The familiarity. The certainty. The comfort.

Very little of what he said was about what he might gain. And it reminded me of something I heard years ago that has stayed with me ever since.

That nervousness and excitement often feel remarkably similar. A racing heart. Butterflies. Anticipation. The physical sensations are much the same.

Sometimes the biggest difference is simply the story we attach to them. One story says, “This could go wrong.” The other says, “This could be something wonderful.”

And it got me thinking about how often we mistake possibility for danger simply because it feels unfamiliar.

But perhaps not every feeling of uncertainty is trying to warn us away from something. Perhaps sometimes it’s inviting us towards something.

The challenge, I suspect, is learning to tell the difference.

The other day, I was having an off day. Nothing major. I was just a bit flat, irritable, out of sorts.

I snapped at the kids a few times. Stomped around the house a bit. You know those days where everything feels slightly harder than it should.

And then I noticed something interesting.

Both of my kids suddenly seemed snappy too. They were bickering with each other, responding sharply, getting irritated over little things.

At first, I wondered whether we were all just tired. Run down. Maybe coming down with something.

And then it hit me.

They were reflecting my energy back to me. Not intentionally. Not maliciously. They had simply absorbed the atmosphere I’d created. And it made me realise how easily moods move through a home, a workplace, a relationship.

There’s nothing wrong with having a bad day. We all have them. But sometimes what we’re carrying spills further than we realise. Not because anyone means for it to — but because people naturally respond to the energy around them.

And maybe that’s why taking care of ourselves matters more than we think.

Not just for us, but for the people living alongside us too.

Recently, I noticed how critical my son has become. It’s usually directed at my daughter.

I was honestly a bit taken aback. Where had this come from?

That is, until I caught myself doing exactly the same thing… to him.

He was critical of her because I was critical of him.

I understand it. I’m a busy, working mum. Sometimes it’s easier to bark instructions than ask kindly. Sometimes it’s easier to point out what went wrong than to slow down and have a proper conversation.

Does it make it right? No. Does it make me human? Yes.

The thing is: in focusing on mistakes, I was also missing all the things he does well. All the things he gets right. And that made it harder to feel grateful for him in the way I want to.

So, I’ve been trying to shift. Asking instead of telling. Explaining instead of correcting. Noticing what he does well, rather than only what he gets wrong.

Am I good at it all the time? No.

Do I slip back into old habits? Yes.

I even did today, when he interrupted me while I was writing this.

But is my relationship with him better for trying?

Absolutely. Yes.

A while ago, I was at a swim meet with my two kids. I happened to be standing near a group of coaches while some swimmers waited to debrief after their races. One of the coaches — who wasn’t from our club — turned to a swimmer and asked how she’d swum in the previous race. She immediately focused on the negative.

He listened for a moment and then asked her a simple question. “What’s your measure of success?”

“Times,” she replied shortly.

He nodded, paused, and then asked: “Did you really expect to swim your personal best on the final afternoon of a three-day meet?” This time, she hesitated. “No.” And then he asked her to think about what a better measure of success might be.

That conversation stayed with me. Because it made me think about the way we move through our own lives. All those days where we wake up feeling slightly off. Flat. Tired. Sore. Mentally overloaded. Not unwell — just not operating at our absolute best. And yet so many of us still expect peak performance from ourselves anyway. We keep the same expectations. The same workload. The same standards. We judge ourselves against our “best” days, even when the circumstances are completely different.

But maybe there are times when adjusting the measure of success isn’t failure at all. Maybe sometimes success is simply showing up. Getting through the day. Doing what we can with the energy and capacity we have available to us in that moment.

And maybe we’d all feel a little lighter if we allowed ourselves to measure success more honestly sometimes.