Dear Mama, Sometimes the Bravest Thing You Can Do Is Step Outside the Room

Giving our children the space to discover what they're capable of.

There is a little girl in one of my dance classes.

She comes through the studio door in her tiny pink ballet shoes and usually takes her place right beside that door.

And nearby?

Her blanket.

Always her blanket.

She doesn't necessarily run into the middle of the room ready to dance.

She watches.

She observes.

She takes it all in.

And I let her.

Because after all these years of teaching little ones, I have learned something that I wish every mama knew:

Watching is learning too.

Observing is learning.

Standing by the door and figuring out the room is learning.

Feeling unsure and staying anyway is learning.

A child doesn't have to look courageous for courage to be growing.

And then something happens.

Eventually, we start moving across the floor.

And when Emmerson is ready...

she joins us.

Not because we forced her.

Not because someone dragged her away from the door.

Not because we took away the blanket that makes her feel safe.

She joins us because, in her own time, she has decided:

I think I can do this.

And every time it happens, I think it's one of the most beautiful things in the world.

But there's another person in this story.

Mama.

And sometimes Mama is the one who has to do the really hard thing.

Leave.

Oh, Mama. I know.

You bring your little girl into a new dance class. Maybe she's holding tightly to your hand. Maybe she looks uncertain. Maybe she's asking you to stay.

Everything inside of you wants to make her feel better.

So you think:

Maybe I'll just sit in the room.

Maybe she'll feel safer if she can see me.

Maybe she needs me.

Of course you think that.

You're her safe place.

You're her person.

You're her hero.

But sometimes...

the bravest thing a mama can do is step outside the room.

Not because her child doesn't need her.

But because her child needs the opportunity to discover something else too:

I can do this.

I experienced this again recently with a few of my little dancers.

Their moms were trying to help them feel comfortable, and I completely understood why.

But there's something that happens when one mama stays in the room.

Her little girl keeps checking for her.

The other little girls start wondering why their moms aren't there.

Suddenly I'm not only helping one child feel safe.

I'm trying to reassure an entire room of tiny humans who are now thinking:

Wait a minute. Where is MY mom?!

And let me tell you something else about little girls.

They are SMART.

Like, frighteningly smart. 😂

They know exactly where their safe person is.

They know exactly which facial expression pulls at Mama's heart.

They know exactly when to look across the room with those giant eyes that say:

Are you seriously going to leave me here with this crazy dance teacher?

And Mama's heart breaks a little.

Mine does too.

But I also know what can be waiting on the other side of that moment.

So I ask Mama to trust me.

Not because I expect her little girl to stop being nervous the second the door closes.

She might not.

She may stand on her dot for half the class.

She may stay beside the door.

She may watch everyone else dance.

She may need her blanket nearby.

That's okay.

Because she is still learning.

She is learning the music.

She is learning my voice.

She is learning the routine.

She is learning the other children.

She is learning that Mama leaves...

and Mama comes back.

Most importantly, she is learning something about herself.

I can be here without Mama standing beside me.

And guess what happened when those moms trusted the process and stepped outside?

Their little girls stayed.

At first, they watched.

Then they observed.

Then they absorbed.

And eventually...

they joined us.

Maybe not immediately.

Maybe not for everything.

Maybe not exactly the way the child beside them did.

But they did it.

And I wish their mamas could have seen what I saw.

Their daughters weren't being abandoned.

They were discovering themselves.

Now before someone thinks Miss Amy is suggesting we toss every crying toddler into ballet class and sprint toward Starbucks...

No. 😂

Every child is different.

Some children need longer transitions.

Some need additional support.

Some children aren't ready yet.

Some environments aren't right for every child.

And sometimes a child's distress really is telling us something we need to pay attention to.

This isn't about forcing independence.

It isn't about ignoring our instincts.

And it certainly isn't about judging the mama who knows her child needs something different.

It's about slowly learning the difference between:

“My child needs me right now.”

and

“My child is uncomfortable right now, and I believe she is capable of working through it.”

Those aren't always the same thing.

And knowing the difference takes wisdom.

Because someday it won't be ballet.

It will be preschool.

Kindergarten.

A sleepover.

A team.

An audition.

A first job.

A college dorm.

A difficult conversation.

A room full of people who don't know how wonderful she is yet.

And someday someone may leave her out.

Someone may tell her she isn't good enough.

Someone may make her question herself.

The world can be incredibly beautiful.

And it can also be incredibly unkind.

Mama won't always be able to walk into the room with her.

So perhaps one of the greatest gifts we can give our daughters isn't a life where they never feel afraid.

Maybe it's helping them discover:

I can feel afraid and still walk into the room.

I can be uncomfortable and stay.

I can watch for a while.

I can take my time.

I can use my voice.

I can ask for help when I need it.

I can keep my blanket nearby for as long as I need it.

And eventually...

I can take a step away from it.

Maybe that's one of the hardest parts of motherhood.

We spend their earliest years teaching them:

I've got you.

And then slowly, painfully, beautifully, we begin adding:

And you've got you, too.

That doesn't mean we stop being their safe place.

It doesn't mean we stop being their hero.

It means we begin teaching them that being loved and being capable can exist at the same time.

Sometimes love scoops them up.

Sometimes love sits beside them.

Sometimes love advocates loudly for them.

Sometimes love says, “She's not ready.”

And sometimes...

love smiles, says, “I believe in you,” and steps outside the room.

And maybe that's why little Emmerson standing beside that door with her blanket nearby gets me every time.

Because if you only looked at her for a moment, you might think:

She's not participating.

But I know better.

She's becoming brave.

Quietly.

Slowly.

On her own timeline.

She's watching.

She's absorbing.

She's learning.

And eventually, when she's ready, those tiny ballet shoes carry her away from the door and across the floor.

Maybe that's what courage looks like sometimes.

Not charging fearlessly into the middle of the room.

Maybe courage looks like standing beside the door for a while...

and staying.

And lately I've wondered if maybe my little dancers are teaching me something too.

I'm learning that uncomfortable doesn't automatically mean something is wrong.

Fear doesn't always mean stop.

Someone else's discomfort doesn't always mean I need to fix it.

And I don't have to rush in and make every uncomfortable feeling disappear.

Sometimes I can remain present.

Observe.

Listen.

Give it a minute.

Trust the process.

And discover what I'm capable of too.

Because maybe courage isn't being unafraid.

Maybe courage is knowing:

I can feel afraid and still stay with myself.

So, Mama, when your little girl looks back at you from her ballet dot...

or stands beside the door with her blanket nearby...

and every cell in your body wants to run back inside and make sure she's okay...

maybe sometimes the greatest gift you can give her is a smile that says:

I believe in you.

Then step outside the room.

She knows where you are.

She knows you'll come back.

And maybe—just maybe—while you're waiting on the other side of that door...

she's discovering that she can be her own safe place, too.

Love,
Amy