1 moment. 1 pattern. 1 MicroStep. 1 question.

1 MOMENT

When your child tries something — and the verdict is already in.

I coach a K-2 girls' lacrosse team on Saturday mornings. Every week we rotate goalie so every girl gets to try it. They are surprisingly excited and fight over whose turn it is.

Last week it was Emma's turn.

She's six. She bounced into goal with her oversized jersey, a helmet that kept sliding over her eyes, gloves so big she could barely hold the stick, and her complete confidence that this was going to be great. She let in three shots in four minutes. She dove for one and missed completely. She got up, brushed off her knees, and kept going.

She was doing it. She was trying goalie.

I glanced over at her mom — Sarah. I know Sarah. She's one of those moms who is always there, always cheering, always doing everything she can for her kid. I've been Sarah. You've been Sarah.

She had that look.

And then, quietly, to the parent next to her:
"Yeah, goalie's not really her thing."

Four minutes. First time ever in goal.

And I get it. I do. But — four minutes? She's six!

The door closed. Emma didn't even hear it.

1 PATTERN

Here's what's happening in that moment — and it's not about lacrosse.

When a child hits a wall and can't get through it, her brain does something completely natural: it looks for an explanation. And the explanation that feels most true when you're frustrated and stuck is the permanent one.

I can't. I'm not good at this. I never will be.

It's not a character flaw. It's a nervous system looking for solid ground. If the reason is permanent — I'm just not good at goalie, I'm just not good at math, I'm just not that kind of person — then at least the uncertainty is over. She knows where she stands. Or so she thinks.

The problem is what gets wired when we let that explanation go unchallenged. Not today. Not from this one moment. But repeated across hundreds of small moments, that permanent explanation becomes the story she tells herself about what she's capable of — in math, on the field, in the audition room, in the job interview fifteen years from now.

Psychologist Carol Dweck spent decades studying this. Kids who believe their abilities are fixed — I'm either good at something or I'm not — give up faster, avoid challenge, and recover more slowly from setbacks. Kids who believe their abilities can grow — I'm not there yet, but I can get there — do the opposite.

The difference between those two kids is not talent. It's often one word.

And yet — most of us reach for something else first.

1 MICROSTEP

You don't need a speech. You don't need to argue with her conclusion or list the evidence against it.

When she says "goalie's not really my thing" or "I can't do this" or "I'll never make the team" — add yet.

"You're not there yet."

That's it. Not "Oh no, you did great" because she was there, and she knows better. And not "It doesn't matter — you had fun” because when we say that, it usually did matter to her and to us (if we’re honest). And she knows that. The first one she won't believe. The second one leaves the door closed and painted over.

We jump to reassurance because we think that's what builds confidence. It isn't. Confidence isn't built by arguing against the wall. It's built by showing her walls are temporary.

Yet says: this is temporary. Yet says: the story isn't over. Yet says: I believe you're on your way somewhere even when you can't see it.

And here's what's happening in her brain when you say it: the door she just tried to close stays open. Not because you forced it. Because you handed her a different explanation for the wall — one that has movement in it.

She may roll her eyes. Say it anyway.

"You're not there yet."

1 QUESTION

Where have you heard yourself use the permanent explanation — about your child, or about yourself?

Try throwing in a “yet” - watch what happens. 

Mary
Creator, the MicroStep Method®