Mindful Miles

It’s a truth universally acknowledged in the parent-of-a-teenager sphere that a spontaneous invitation from your child is rarer and more precious than gold. My son, usually either sprinting to the park for an aggressive game of football or utterly glued to his gaming tab, doesn’t often initiate “us time.” So when he does, it feels like a cosmic alignment.

I almost forgot this hard-won wisdom when he invited me to play football with him. My hopeful, parent-self obliged.

Little did I know, I wasn’t signing up for a friendly match; I was signing up for a 15-minute cardio disaster. It was a brutal, full-contact game of “Catch Me If You Can,” where the “prize” was not touching the ball, but simply not collapsing. I spent the entire time gasping, chasing his shadow, watching his masterful dribbles weave circles around me until I literally ran out of breath. My foot never even brushed the leather.

I didn’t score a single goal that day, but I scored something far more valuable: wisdom.

So, the next time he bounced in with that predatory, competitive glint in his eye and invited me for another “match,” I grinned, nestled under a warm throw, and very kindly said, “No, thank you.” I then proceeded to binge a fascinating documentary series, accompanied by a perfectly patient cup of hot chocolate. No sprinting required.

Later that evening, as I headed out for my usual mindful walk, he surprised me. He just fell into step beside me.

The talk flowed easily, moving from his online gaming triumphs to his true passion: football. He opened up, telling me how much he loved the game but lamented that he “really needed to work on scoring goals.”

I thought back to our “match.” I remembered the blur of his energy, the breathtaking speed, the fancy footwork, and the undeniable passion. He had everything—the drive, the technical skill, the fitness—but he felt he was struggling at the point that mattered most: the final breakthrough.

And that’s when the simple realization, the quiet reward of our walk, hit me.

So often in life, we mistake energy for efficacy. We see people doing and we assume they are succeeding. We watch a child’s dazzling display of talent—the quick feet, the endless stamina—and miss the one invisible element they are struggling to connect: the goal.

Our job as parents isn’t just to applaud the sprints; it’s to walk alongside them in the quiet moments until they feel safe enough to reveal the one thing they’re missing. And what a breakthrough it was! Naming the struggle immediately focused his fierce energy. He’s since returned to the field with a new, quiet determination. I’ve seen the change: the sprints are purposeful, the shots are crisp, and the goals are finally starting to fly into the back of the net