We need to choose our words carefully—especially the ones we offer our children. I used to think I was being supportive, even encouraging, when I told my sons things like, “You’re going to do great things,” or “You’re going places, kid.”
Those words came from love. From the belief in who they are and what they’re capable of. But in hindsight, I see that it may have been carelessness, not thoughtlessness, that led me to contribute to a culture of quiet, crushing expectations.
I unknowingly put pressure on my kids
Because when you say something enough, even with the best of intentions, it becomes more than encouragement. It becomes a measure. And it took me years to realize that what I thought was instilling confidence might have felt more like pressure.
The truth is, there’s already enough pressure on our kids—more than any of us ever faced at their age. Pressure to achieve. Pressure to outperform. Pressure to become something remarkable. And not for the love of learning or passion or curiosity, but for awards, resumes, and prestige. It’s all around them: in sports, school, extracurriculars, social media. It’s heavy, and it’s relentless.
Ironically, I never cared much about that pressure in most areas. When one of my sons took piano lessons for two years without practicing, I didn’t mind. I never had any illusions of him becoming a concert pianist.
I just wanted him to enjoy learning something new. Eventually, he begged to quit. And after dragging him to lessons like I was torturing him with hot oil, I finally let it go. I sometimes worried that he was a “quitter.”
My kids played to learn how to be on a team, to move their bodies, and to have some fun on the field
Same with sports. I had children who were wonderfully honest about their lack of athletic aspirations. Other parents warned me darkly that if I didn’t sign them up for soccer at age three, we could just forget about future scholarships or team success. I didn’t care. If they played, it was to learn how to be on a team, to move their bodies, and maybe to have some fun. That was enough for me.
But school? School was different. That was our lane, our super power. That was the place where I did care. I fell into the “best grades, best school, best job, best life” trap. I believed in it. I wanted it, for them and, if i’m being honest, for me. And every time they succeeded, I reinforced the idea that greatness was expected and perhaps inevitable. I truly believed I was cheering them on.
Until recently, one of my sons—anxious and sincere—asked me quietly, “What if I don’t do great things? What if I just become a lawyer?” And in that moment, it hit me.
He wasn’t asking about ambition. He was asking if I would be disappointed if he settled into a perfectly wonderful, thoughtful, honest life. He was asking if he would be enough. That’s when I realized that the words I said meaning to lift him —had become a weight.
So I’ve stopped saying I expect greatness. I’ve stopped predicting their futures like I know what’s coming. Because I don’t. None of us do. And I want my kids to live happy lives whatever that looks like for them.
Here are my expectations of my kids
Instead, here’s what I do expect:
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I expect them to try. To put in honest effort, even when it’s hard.
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I expect them to fail—because they will—and to rise when they do, because that’s how resilience is built.
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I expect them to work not toward perfection, but toward progress.
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I expect them to value goodness over greatness. To be kind even when it’s inconvenient. To give even when it’s not easy.
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I expect them to learn for the sake of learning, to play for the sake of joy, and to live not by anyone else’s measure—but by their own.
Above all, I hope they love and are loved. I hope they find meaning in the small things. I hope they feel seen and known and treasured—not for what they accomplish, but for who they are.
And that will be more than enough for me.
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