How to Carry Disappointment Without Passing It On

There’s a particular kind of ache no one warns you about in parenting—the ache of quiet disappointment. Not because your child isn’t good enough, but because you see their potential, their gifts, their strengths… and they don’t. Or worse, they can’t be bothered to try.

My daughter is smart. Naturally bright, curious, funny. Charismatic, some said. Get her tested, others advised. Push her, a few insisted. Let her be a child—she’ll always be smart, said many.

I did a bit of everything. I gently encouraged her. I gave her every opportunity I could afford. And she did… nothing.

I saw her gifts early on. I believed in her. I still do. But I also saw what she wouldn’t admit: she didn’t want to try.

Like so many parents, I saved where I could, sacrificed in ways no one could see, and supported her softly. I tried not to overwhelm. No pressure—just faith. The quiet, steady kind. I gave her room to grow—space I never had.

And she knew. She knew what I gave up. She knew the belief behind every softly spoken, “I’m proud of you no matter what.” Maybe too much so. Perhaps she believed her intelligence alone would carry her through. That effort was optional because she had “it.”

But here’s the truth she didn’t want to learn—effort isn’t optional. Not in a world full of kids who are being pushed. Not when some children have the full weight of privilege, pressure, tutors, and relentless guidance behind them.

She had the smarts. Her tutors said so. But she didn’t try.

And now, that coveted selective school—with its no-bullying policies, high-achieving students, and hyper-involved parents—is off the table. No rebels. No drifting kids. No class skippers. Just kids competing to outsmart each other and parents who are arguably a different kind of exhausting.

She didn’t want it. She couldn’t see the point. She opted out.

Meanwhile, her friend—bless her, not the naturally gifted one—had no choice. Surrounded by pressure, endless support, extra lessons… she had to perform. And no surprise—she got in.

And me? I’m left swallowing disappointment; I never wanted her to feel it on her skin. She’s a kid. She should be free from the weight of my expectations, from the bitterness of comparisons, from the sting of what could’ve been.

She shouldn’t feel my frustration—not when she’s still becoming. Still building who she is.

But if I’m being honest? I’m gutted.

I want to scream at the laziness, at the blind confidence, at the missed opportunity.

Because I gave all I could—and it still wasn’t enough. Not because she wasn’t capable, but because she wouldn’t try.

So I breathe. Deeply. Repeatedly. I push the disappointment down where she can’t see it.

Because this is my burden. Not hers.