#13. The sound of not being ready

Quirin left two days ago for Germany, his first visit to see family in three and a half years. It’s been a meaningful trip for him, and here, it's meant something else entirely: managing both kids and the company solo. I’ve been trying to keep things steady, routines intact, the house functional, and the team supported. And yet, today hit differently.

It was Saturday. Swimming lessons in the morning. A proper breakfast was made. Then Penelope’s first piano recital. I was confirmed only the day before that she was actually ready to participate. She’d only been learning for two terms, and the recital was mostly for kids in their third. Still, her teacher said she had the skill and the confidence to join. That was enough for me.

We showed up on time. Penelope walked confidently into the green room. I sat in the front row, determined to be present, to witness her moment. And then came that moment: the teacher turned to me and asked, “Where is Penelope’s book?”

I froze.

I had assumed she didn’t need it, that the song would be pre-selected or memorised. But of course, she did. And we hadn’t practiced. The book had been missing for a week amidst the chaos of family, work, and everything else. And now, my daughter was about to sit at the piano without it, in front of fifty people.

She didn’t flinch. She sat with grace, touched a few keys, and the teacher gently guided her. But in that moment, I felt like I’d let her down. I saw how prepared the other children were. I could see it, not just in their fingers but in the layered dedication of their parents that was showing in the confidence, in the clarity, and in the care.

And Penelope? She was the only preschooler there. The others were older, eight, nine, and ten. She held her own. She made me proud. And yet, I sat there with a tightness in my chest that wouldn’t leave.

It brought back some old memories. I was fourteen, top of my class, and asked to give a speech at the year-end ceremony. I wanted to do well, but I had no help. No guidance, no feedback, no one to practice with. I did what I could on my own, and the result showed; the speech fell flat. I remember the silence that followed. Not because it was a failure, but because it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t prepared, and I wasn’t seen. That memory came rushing back today.

I’ve often said I don’t believe in “mum guilt.” But today I felt it, not in a vague or performative way, but in the raw awareness that I dropped the ball. That her readiness was within reach, but I wasn’t present enough to help her grab it.

Still, I’m early in this journey as a mother, as someone navigating how to hold space for both the business and the human beings growing right in front of me. Like in the early days of founding a company, when I tried to cut corners and learned quickly that it never pays off, I was reminded today that showing up is only part of it. Preparation matters. Presence matters.

And still, I’m grateful for the lesson. Because we have time. Because she’s just beginning. And because I know we’ll be back at that piano, and next time, I’ll make sure she is ready.

When was the last time you saw your own lesson reflected in your child, and what did it teach you about yourself?

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