It was late Sunday night. The drive home had been quiet, save for Willow’s occasional sighs from the back seat. We’d just returned from Winterfest, Willow’s second gymnastics competition in Flagstaff, hosted by Flagstaff Gymnastics.
He’d been down on himself ever since scoring a dismal 6.5 on mushroom. His shoulders slumped as he unpacked his bag, avoiding my eyes. I tried not to feed into his negative self-talk. So, I rushed through our goodnight routine.
As I went to close the door gently, his muttered words pierced the silence.
“You were no help, dad.”
Those words stopped me cold. The quiet tension hung thick in the air, broken only by the faint hum of the air purifier. I stepped back into his room.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He rolled over, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“It was like do or die with the spindle. I didn’t do it. My routine was trash!”
I drew in a deep breath. The events of the last couple weeks flashed through my mind. My well-intentioned pushes had backfired, leaving him raw and vulnerable. I tried to piece together what led to this gut-wrenching sentiment from my son.
Promotion to Level 4
After his strong showing at the first competition as a level 3, Willow was eager to advance. He begged me to be a level 4. Willow was dominating level 3 routines that no longer pushed him. I worried the lack of challenge would dim his spark or make him feel out of place among much younger competitors. I wanted to keep his momentum going; eager to unlock the growth I knew he craved. So, I pushed ahead.
I rushed to get Willow learning level 4 skills–assuming the adjustment would be smooth. I ignored the early signs of frustration building. Instead, the pressure mounted faster than the progress.
Attempting New Skills
Ambition came at a cost. Mastering an A skill on high bar (required for level 4) turned out to be a real challenge. We experimented with glide kips, back hip circles, and back uprises. I wasn’t comfortable spotting fly-aways without a pit yet, so we skipped dismounts entirely.
Willow was in beast mode. While the other boys grabbed water or switched events, he’d stay locked on the high bar insisting,
“One more, Dad—just one more glide kip.” or “Wait—I need a few more turns.”
He kept going without grips until his hands blistered raw. His mom would use medicinal herbs, bandaging them every night. I stayed silent, letting him continue. I knew he was pushing too hard, but I was unsure how to stop it without crushing his drive. All for that quicker level-up.
In addition, We were still fuzzy on level 4 mushroom rules—more circles than level 3’s 3.5, plus an A skill like a spindle. Willow’s best was 7 circles, but chasing the spindle during practice derailed his focus. The skill remained elusive.
I tried providing feedback on every attempt. However, every time he didn’t make progress on either the spindle or glide kip, it built a stronger mental block against the skills in his mind. It was like an invisible wall rising higher with each miss, turning determination into dread.
Competition Day
Fast-forward to the meet. Willow winced through warmups. Each swing sent sharp stings up his arms. I tried taping one of his hands to cover a fresh rip before Rings. He grit his teeth. His face flushed red as he powered through swings that should have been fluid.
I was impressed with his resolve. But he told me later,
“If my hands don’t heal within a week, I’m quitting.”
That warning hit me. My insistence on fulfilling level 4 requirements had turned his passion into punishment.
During the competition, he managed 4 and a half circles on Mushroom. I hoped that would suffice. However, the scorecard was returned with a 7.6 start value and a 6.5 final score. Willow snatched the card, crumpled it in his fist, and stormed off. His usual spark dimmed to defeat.
Confidence is Key
Back in Willow’s room that night, I came and sat on the side of his bed.
“I’m sorry for pressuring you, Willow. I just want you to have fun.”
I gave him a hug before leaving his room, feeling something inside of me change. Thinking back to times I’ve been stuck on skills myself, I remembered how the best coaches used small progressions—extra activities related to the focus skill—to build confidence and sidestep mental blocks.
The next morning, I had an idea for a new drill. It would help build muscles and mobility essential for strong circles, while adding fun and chipping away at that invisible wall without direct confrontation. The team resisted at first during practice—it was awkward and tough—but Willow persisted with it at home. He’d laugh through the soreness, saying, “This hurts, but in a good way!”
Even if he doesn’t perfect his circles before the next meet, he’s already noticing improvements. More importantly, I’m seeing his spark return. Building his confidence is what matters now.