"When performance becomes a Path to Worth" by Tammy Evans
This past week, my daughter Reese stood at the free-throw line. I feel completely different than I felt 10 years ago when my older daughter stepped up to the line.
10 years later, I feel calm and regulated and excited to see the outcome.
But I do not say a word.
Not because I don't care. Because once upon a time, I cared deeply.
Here’s something that’s much harder to put into words: if I were standing at that line as a child, I would have made those free throws..not just because I was capable, but because my sense of worth depended on it. Making the shot meant I was okay. Missing it meant something was wrong with me.
I didn’t realize it then, but I wasn’t just playing for approval. I became the approval parent to myself.
If I performed, I moved on.
If I didn’t, the shame stayed with me for days.
And yes, I performed exceptionally. I became a Division I athlete. I had grit. I had talent. I loved sports. Sports were my connection, my identity, and my refuge. In many ways, they saved me.
But what no one tells parents is this:
Children can perform under pressure and still be harmed by it.
Achievement is not proof of regulation. Success is not proof of safety.
Kids will rise to pressure especially gifted, driven kids. But when pressure replaces emotional safety, the cost doesn’t always show up until much later. Sometimes it shows up decades later, when the sport ends and the body finally asks: Who am I now?
For me, softball became my purpose. And when I was ready to walk away from it in my thirties, I didn’t just grieve the game,I grieved the loss of the thing that told me I mattered. That sadness ran deep, because the sport had been carrying far more than it was ever meant to carry.
My story is nuanced. No one screamed from the stands. My parents didn’t push me aggressively. My mom showed up. She didn’t judge. That mattered more than she could have known. But my nervous system had already been shaped by my first ten years by an alcoholic single parent, by loss, by unpredictability, by learning early how to stay alert and perform in order to feel okay.
Back then, we didn’t have language for regulation. Parents did the best they could with what they knew. This isn’t about blame.
It’s about understanding.
Which is why, when Reese stood at that free-throw line, I stayed quiet.
Not because pressure is bad.
Not because standards don’t matter.
But because I know what happens when a child’s worth gets tangled with performance.
Children borrow our nervous systems before they can regulate their own. In moments of pressure, what they need most isn’t instruction, it’s safety. Calm. Trust. A sense that nothing about the relationship is on the line.
Whether Reese made or missed that shot wasn’t the most important part of the night.
What mattered came later.
The car ride home wasn’t a performance review. I let her lead the conversation. Sometimes she talks. Sometimes she quiet. Both are okay. The relationship stays intact.
This is the question I wish more parents would ask not with judgment, but with curiosity:
If the sport ended tomorrow, would my child still know who they are?
Would they still feel worthy, connected, and safe? (This happened to my daughter, Makay 8th-9th grade when she suffered a major basketball ending injury... (Read her story in my blogs).....
Every sport ends. Every jersey comes off. And when it does, the nervous system either knows how to self-regulate—or it doesn’t.
I don’t regret my success.
I don’t regret my grit.
I don’t regret loving the game.
I only wish I had learned sooner that worth doesn’t have to be earned in moments of pressure.
Sometimes the most powerful thing a parent can offer isn’t motivation or correction.
It’s becoming the steady presence our children don’t have to perform for.
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