A Lesson in Grit That Even a Clinical Psychologist (Me) Needed to Learn

A few weeks ago, my five-year-old noticed a jiu-jitsu studio across the street from where we had parked. He asked me what it was, and on a whim, following his curiosity, we walked inside. He wanted to try a class. He did the trial, came out completely excited, and immediately asked me to sign him up.

Jiu-jitsu is not cheap, so I asked him several times if he was sure. I explained that signing up meant actually going to class. He insisted. He loved it. He was ready.

Today was week three, and apparently the honeymoon period was over.

Jiu-jitsu is hard. The uniform is heavy. The studio gets incredibly hot. There is structure and discipline, and once class begins, nobody is particularly interested in whether you are in the mood to participate that day.

My son decided he was not wearing his uniform because he was hot. Then he decided he wasn't going to class.

His instructor walked over and immediately understood what was happening.

He told my son that this was not going to happen on his watch. Then he started telling him about his own childhood. His mother couldn't afford classes like these. He sold things so that he could afford to train. He walked to class. He knew what it meant to want an opportunity badly enough that you worked for the privilege of having it.

Then he looked at my son and told him, “Your mother is very generous. You need to be grateful”

And then he looked at me.

“You're a doctor. You know why you're here. You're paying me to teach him grit. Please leave. We got this.”

I stood there tearing up.

There are moments when being a psychologist and being a mother collide in the most humbling ways.

I know the research on resilience. I understand frustration tolerance. I spend my professional life talking with parents about the importance of allowing children to struggle, experience disappointment, tolerate uncomfortable feelings, and discover their own competence.

And then there is my five-year-old standing in front of me, hot and uncomfortable, telling me he doesn't want to do something anymore.

It is much easier to understand grit theoretically than it is to watch your own child build it.

I also knew something important about the person standing in front of me. When I first met this instructor, I spent probably thirty minutes asking him about himself, his background, his philosophy, and how he works with children. He struck me as an incredibly warm and compassionate person. There was a gentleness underneath his firmness that I trusted. He cared deeply about these kids, and he also believed that part of caring for them was expecting something from them.

So I left.

When I came back, I found a happy five-year-old.

He had worn the uniform. He had done the class. He had moved through the thing that, less than an hour earlier, had felt unbearable.

And I realized that this is one of the experiences I want my boys to have more of.

Many of our children are growing up with extraordinary comfort. Their needs are anticipated. Their schedules are organized. We drive them to activities, buy the uniforms, bring the water bottles, adjust the temperature, listen carefully to their feelings, and try very hard to give them childhoods where they feel safe and supported.

There is so much good in that.

There is also something children can miss when we become too efficient at removing discomfort from their lives.

Grit develops in the space between “I don't want to do this” and “I did it.”

Children need experiences where something is uncomfortable and nobody immediately fixes it. Where they aren't particularly good at something yet. Where they are tired or frustrated and are still expected to finish. Where another adult holds a standard that may be different from the one they are accustomed to at home.

I think this matters enormously for boys.

We have spent years, appropriately, trying to raise boys differently. We want boys who can name their feelings, cry without shame, ask for help, develop empathy, communicate, and experience tenderness. I want all of those things for my sons.

I also want them to know that having a feeling does not always mean organizing their lives around it.

“I don't feel like it” is information. It isn't always an instruction.

“I am uncomfortable” deserves to be heard. It doesn't automatically mean something needs to stop.

“I can't do this” sometimes needs a compassionate adult standing nearby saying, “I think you can.”

There is an important difference between forcing children through something that is genuinely unsafe and allowing them to experience the ordinary discomfort that comes with growth. Children need us to learn that difference too.

And sometimes they need people other than their parents to teach it.

Coaches. Teachers. Mentors. Instructors. Grandparents. Community members. Safe adults who see something in our children and are willing to hold a boundary when we might soften it.

There was something incredibly humbling about realizing that I had hired this man, in part, to give my son something I couldn't necessarily give him in the same way.

He wasn't replacing my parenting. He was adding something to it.

My son knows exactly where to come when he needs comfort. I want him to know where to reach inside himself when comfort isn't available.

Because someday I won't be standing outside every difficult room.

There won't always be someone adjusting the temperature, negotiating the expectation, or making the hard thing easier.

And when that day comes, I want my boys to have a memory somewhere inside themselves that says:

This is uncomfortable.

I don't want to do it.

I don't know if I can.

And I have done hard things before.

Today my five-year-old went to jiu-jitsu.

He learned a little something about grit.

And so did his mother.

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