#15. When no one is clapping

Last week, while waiting at my daughter's swimming lesson, I witnessed a small but striking moment. A girl emerged from the pool, and her parents met her with open arms and wide praise “You were amazing! Wow, you did so well!”

I found myself wondering: What exactly did she do? From what I could see, it was a typical kids’ swimming class: learning, flailing, trying. But the response was monumental. And it made me pause.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a parent too. I want my children to feel seen, uplifted, and celebrated. And yet, I’ve been reflecting more and more on the intention behind our words. On how easy it is to fall into the loop of quick praise: “You’re so smart,” “You’re amazing,” “You’re the best.” Sometimes, I catch myself doing it too, not because I’ve deeply considered what I’m reinforcing, but because it feels good. It makes them smile. It makes me feel like a good mum.

But that moment at the pool stirred something older in me.

I was transported back to a car ride with my father, over two decades ago. I had just graduated top of my class, number one in the entire school. I was proud, glowing with the kind of youthful confidence that feels earned. I turned to him and said, “Dad, I’m number one.” I expected a celebration.

Instead, he paused. And then said, “That’s good. But let’s see how you do at university; it’s going to be more difficult.”

That was it. No applause, no big emotional response. Just a simple challenge.

And strangely, that moment has stayed with me more powerfully than any cheer. It lit a fire in me. I wanted to show him (and myself) that I could rise to the next level too. His words didn’t make me feel small; they made me feel ready.

Looking back, I still don’t know if it was the right thing to say. But it shaped me. My parents rarely let us rest on our laurels. They didn’t make a big fuss about achievements; they expected more. And while that might’ve made me someone who sometimes forgets to pause and celebrate, it also made me someone who keeps going.

Now, as a mother, I find myself at a different edge of that spectrum. Wanting to celebrate my children well, but meaningfully. Wanting to be intentional with my words, aware of the lasting impact they can have.

Because life isn’t always applause and gold stars. It’s grit. It’s a challenge. It’s the quiet resilience to keep going even when no one’s clapping.

I want Penelope and Luca to feel celebrated, yes, but for things that matter. For effort, for courage, for growth. Not just for showing up, but for how they show up. I want them to recognise their own pride before they seek it in others. And when I praise them, I want it to feel like truth, not habit.

What’s the message behind your encouragement, and who taught you how to give it?

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