#Unsettled

There is no off-season anymore. Between two sons playing year-round baseball and a daughter in competitive dance and swim, our family calendar—and bank account—is on a permanent loop. But it’s not just the relentless schedule that’s exhausting; it’s watching an entire industry convince parents that athletic success can be bought. Living in Florida, we are blessed with endless sunshine and mild winters, but it comes with an environment where youth sports literally never end. If you ask my husband and me when our last “vacation vacation” was—one that didn’t involve a hotel block, a tournament schedule, or a dance competition—we’d have to stare blankly at you for a long time.

On our daily walks, we often talk about how wildly youth sports have shifted since we were kids. My husband now coaches high school and youth baseball, and whether it’s travel ball, dance, soccer, or gymnastics, the trend is identical: We are living in the Pay-to-Play Epidemic.

It used to be simple: you showed up, worked hard, and earned your spot. Today, a multi-billion-dollar industry promises you can purchase your child’s athletic success. Don’t like how your kid is hitting? Hire a private guru. Need more velocity? Pay thousands for elite showcase teams. Parents drink the Kool-Aid because we love our kids and want the best for them. But somewhere along the way, our math gets broken. We convince ourselves: We’ve invested so much, they HAVE to play. Or worse: If we just spend a little more, they’ll become a star.

Except sports don’t work like that. Life doesn’t work like that. You can buy extra reps, but you cannot purchase heart, passion, or genetics.

Less than 1% of youth athletes go pro. Genetics matter. I look at my own family: my husband was blessed with natural size and pristine hand-eye coordination. My boys inherited his control on the mound, but unfortunately for them, their mother is 5’3” and I assure you, I was never winning any athletic awards. While they got his height (topping out at 6’1” and 6’5”), they also inherited my frame and struggle to put on weight. They both earned opportunities to play in college, but they are realistic. More importantly, they learned to be great teammates.

We never bought into the illusion. We constantly reinforced: Grades come first. Have a backup plan. If you love the game, find a career inside it. My father learned early in high school that he wasn’t going to play professionally. He pivoted into broadcasting and has gone on to spend 51 years in Major League Baseball.

My daughter, meanwhile, inherited her dad’s tall frame—not the typical build for a dancer. But she loves to dance. Being on a team exposed her to working with people who don’t fit a standard mold, which brings us to the hardest truth parents have to face: Our kids don’t always fit the mold, and that is okay.

The goal isn’t perfection; it’s learning how to play well with others. How to work through friction. How to hang in there through the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Lately, I see a troubling pattern. Kid doesn’t like the coach? Switch teams. Didn’t get enough playing time at school? Transfer. Don’t like the dance studio? Move to another one.

What are we actually teaching them? To run the second things get uncomfortable?

When I danced, there were times I didn’t like my teacher, but I didn’t switch studios. When I played basketball (which is another story to come), I rode the bench constantly. I still showed up. I still practiced. I cheered for my teammates, and I made lifelong friends.

Years ago, when my husband was transitioning out of playing and started assistant coaching our sons, he struggled one weekend while making a lineup. To avoid any perception of favoritism, he sat our son—one of his best hitters at the time—to give another boy a turn.

Confused, I asked him, “Why sit him? The other kid isn’t hitting as well right now. Don’t people want to win?”

He dropped a pearl of wisdom that reshaped my perspective: “Everyone paid money to be here. Winning is great, but the bigger picture is making sure all these kids stay passionate about the game.”

He understood what so many of us forget in the heat of competition: the end goal isn’t a plastic 12U trophy. It’s character.

When things get tough today, too many parents buy a way out instead of encouraging their kids to dig in. But when we teach our children that adversity is solved by swapping jerseys, what happens when they enter the real world?

In real life, there is no transfer portal. You can’t jump to a new company the first time you get tough feedback from a boss—not when you have a mortgage, bills, and adult responsibilities. In the real world, you have to adapt, pivot, sit with disappointment, and earn your keep.

Actions always speak louder than words, and our kids are constantly watching us. They see how we react when things don’t go our way. They notice whether we teach them to grit their teeth and push through, or whether we pull out our wallets to buy them a shortcut.

The next time we’re tempted to bail our kids out of a tough athletic situation, we need to pause. We aren’t just raising athletes. We are raising future adults—and the lessons they learn from the bench might just be the ones that serve them best.