I’ve spent more than twenty years directing dancers—some just starting out, others just steps away from a professional stage. I’ve worked with children from age three to adulthood, and with parents at every point along the journey.

And as both a teacher and a mother of three, I’ve seen something that concerns me deeply:

We’ve become afraid to let our kids fail.

We want to protect them—and that instinct comes from love. I’ve felt it too. The fierce, aching desire to stand between your child and anything that could hurt them. I’ve watched my own kids walk through rejection, embarrassment, and confusion. And every part of me wanted to fix it, soften it, shield them.

And lately, that instinct has only grown louder.

Since the pandemic, I’ve noticed a new kind of tenderness in myself—and in many other parents. Our children have already lived through so much: isolation, canceled milestones, social disconnection. Something inside us whispers, “Haven’t they already had enough disappointment?”

So we start giving them what makes them happy in the moment—more screen time, fewer challenges, less discomfort. It feels like love. But often, it’s a shortcut that leads away from long-term strength.

Psychologist Dr. Lisa Damour, a specialist in adolescent development, writes, “When we shield children from the discomfort of failure, we rob them of the opportunity to develop coping skills.” And Harvard’s Center on the Developing Child emphasizes that “resilience is not a trait—it’s a skill set that must be built over time.”

That building process only happens when we allow failure to happen.

Julianna with her husband Jeremy and their three children.

And here’s the hard truth I’ve seen play out again and again:
When we rescue kids from every disappointment, we don’t build strength—we build fragility.

I’ve worked with students who fall apart over a casting decision, not because they’re spoiled, but because no one ever showed them how to face failure and come through it stronger. I’ve seen teens freeze when they receive honest correction—not because they lack talent, but because they’ve only ever heard applause.

Failure hurts. But it also teaches.

It builds resilience in layers—like calluses on the soul.
It creates emotional capacity.
It helps a child realize: “I can survive this. I can learn. I can try again.”

That mindset is a far more valuable gift than temporary comfort.

So what does real support look like?

It looks like sitting with your child in disappointment—and not rushing to fix it.
It looks like saying, “I believe in you,” instead of “I’ll talk to the teacher.”
It looks like asking, “What did you learn?” instead of “What went wrong?”
It looks like trusting that they are stronger than the pain they feel right now.

I’ve seen the most grounded, resilient dancers come from homes where parents allowed room for struggle. Not with indifference—but with deep, compassionate trust.

If we want our children to grow into capable, wise adults—not just in dance, but in life—we have to let them wrestle with reality.

Let them fall. Let them feel it. Then take their hand. Look them in the eye. And say,
“I still believe in you. Let’s get up and try again.”

That’s not weakness.
That’s love with a long view.
And it’s exactly what our kids need most.