“Fall seven times, stand up eight.”
Japanese Proverb
Parenting will humble you in places you least expect.
For me, it was a roller rink.
My youngest son is what I’d politely describe as “emotionally high-definition.” He doesn’t feel things—he broadcasts them. So when he announced he wanted to learn how to roller-skate, I mentally stretched, preparing for whatever range of drama lay ahead.
The rink itself was pure nostalgia: neon lights, bad pop music, the faint smell of concession-stand pizza and Band-Aids. He laced up, wobbling like a baby giraffe, and took one bold step onto the floor.
And immediately ate it.
Hard.
He went down like someone had unplugged him.
But before I could even get to him, he popped back up, grinning, and went again. And again.
It was like watching courage on repeat—a highlight reel of tiny, hilarious failures.
To the casual observer, it probably looked like slapstick. To me, it looked like something holy. Every fall came with a little less fear. Every stumble turned into a laugh. Every wobble ended in determination.
About twenty falls in, I tried to step in—maybe call it a night before he cracked something expensive. But he just looked at me, sweaty and smiling, and said, “Can I go one more time?”
That’s when it hit me: he wasn’t chasing balance. He was chasing bravery.
We always tell ourselves, “Someday, I’ll try that.”
Someday, I’ll be brave.
Someday, when the timing’s right, when I’m ready, when I’ve got this all figured out.
But watching him, I realized “someday” doesn’t actually exist.
There’s just today.
Today’s the day you fall down.
Today’s the day you look ridiculous.
Today’s the day you get back up anyway.
When we left the rink, he traded skates for sneakers and asked, “When can we do that again?”
And I thought: probably as soon as my heart rate returns to normal.
But what I said was, “Anytime, buddy.”
Because that’s the thing about courage—once you find it, you can’t unsee it.
And sometimes, it shows up wearing skates.
