It was my son’s first sports day at school. He’d been looking forward to it for weeks. He talked about it most evenings with excitement and enthusiasm – it was great! 

But this was a new experience for him. It wasn’t a stretch for me and his mother to surmise that, as pumped as he was, the reality of the day would be vastly different from the vision he’d played out in his mind. 

So, we installed an emotional safety net ahead of time.  

We emphasised that, as parents, we value effort more than ranking. ‘I don’t care if you come in last place or first place, as long as you try your best,’ I said.  

We also prewarned him about potential stomach butterflies he might feel on the day, and about how everyone in his class would probably feel them as well.  

But he was quick to dismiss our concerns, opting to get back to his Lego. Fine. No parenting required here; we show up and support him. Easy. 

But then the big day arrived … 

‘I don’t want to do sports day any more,’ he said. ‘My stomach hurts. I don’t think I can go to school.’ 

He had done a complete one-eighty. Excitement had given way to anxiety. 

But again, we were prepared for this. His mother and I had already mapped out a strategy to respond to any pre-sports-day jitters. So, we went to work. 

We normalised his anxiety, reminding him it was to be expected. We celebrated his bravery. We emphasised the fun parts of the day: spending more time outside with his friends and running around instead of sitting still in the classroom. And we reminded him that Mummy and Daddy would be there the whole time, cheering him on.  

No dice. He still didn’t want to go to school. 

So, we had to get creative. 

We told him he could take with him in the car his favourite soft toy, which is rarely used these days for emotional-support duties.  

Nope. 

Next, we rehearsed the races at home to help him feel at ease and comfortable with the race-day format. 

That didn’t work either. 

Hmmm. Talk about a head-scratcher. But then … ‘Er,’ I said to my son, ‘do you know Daddy gets butterflies in his tummy as well?’ 

‘Like, when you were a kid?’ he asked. 

‘Yes. But also as an adult.’ 

The change was near instantaneous. His attention went from anxious to curious in a nanosecond. ‘When, Daddy? When did you get butterflies?’ 

I told him the truth. I told him I was terrified when my first book came out, fearing people might think I wasn’t a very good writer. I told him I got nervous before going for job interviews and especially before any public speaking gigs. 

And it worked. It bloody worked! 

‘Actually, my tummy is feeling OK now,’ he said. ‘I do want to go to sports day. Daddy, can you tell me about some more times when you got scared?’ he said. 

In the end, all it took was an act of vulnerability. I showed him that his big, strong superhero daddy was anything but big and strong, and certainly no superhero. 

And that was enough. 

Revealing our weaknesses and displaying vulnerability to our children is counter-intuitive to the version of ourselves we presume we must project at all times. And yet, on this occasion, vulnerability was the right call. 

This isn’t just about sports day jitters: it is about teaching our children that they are not alone in their misgivings, that emotions are part of us all and that grown-ups have feelings too. 

If our children only see us as superheroes, then they’ll grow up believing that’s what they must be. But that’s not true. Emotional avoidance is one lesson we don’t want in any school curriculum.  

But it’s our job to show them that. 

Incidentally, my son had a blast at sports day. He entertained everyone by slowing down halfway through the relay race to wave to all the parents, who, of course, waved back with smiles. 

To hell with effort – go out there and have fun!