The Story Behind Letting Your Child Try

Long before I understood independence, two people were practicing it on my behalf – my parents. What looked like freedom for me was often fear for them.

A Personal Reflection from My Childhood

This is the lived-experience companion to Letting Your Child Try in the Parenting Kids with JIA series.

Every lesson in the Parenting Kids with JIA series comes from somewhere. A moment, a memory, a person who shifted the way I understood my own body.

This is the origin story of one of the biggest ones.

Letting Your Child Try wasn’t just a parenting philosophy I learned later in life. It was something I lived, long before I had the language for it. This companion post shares the personal side of that lesson: the physiotherapist who insisted I “do it myself”, the parents who held their breath while I figured out how to adapt, and the childhood moments that quietly built the confidence I still carry today.

The Wisdom That Shaped My Early Independence

Long before I understood what independence really meant, the people around me were quietly shaping it. I grew up thinking it was normal to just figure things out, to adapt, to improvise, to keep up with the other kids even when my body didn’t move the way theirs did. What I didn’t see then was the courage it took for my parents to let that happen. Behind every “I can do it myself” moment was a couple holding their breath, trusting that giving me space to try was more important than protecting me from struggle. This is the story of how that lesson began.

There are moments in childhood that don’t feel like lessons until much later.
This is one of mine.

Early on, I had a physiotherapist at SickKids named Joan Baldwin. There are not enough words to express the love I had for this woman as a child. Joan was the kind of physiotherapist who understood children in a way that can’t be taught. She had a calm, patient presence. The kind that made you feel safe even when your body didn’t. She knew when to push, when to pause, and when a child needed encouragement more than instruction. For a little girl trying to make sense of a body that didn’t follow the rules, Joan was a steady hand and a gentle guide.

Joan was the one who insisted that my parents let me “do it myself.”  She had  the kind of calm authority that made people listen.  Even though, given my condition, it would have been so much easier for my mom or dad to step in; help me get dressed, pick things up, pull on my socks (which was a whole event on its own). Joan was unwavering. She told them that even if it was hard at first, and even if I couldn’t do things the way other kids did them, they had to let me try. In fact, they had to make me try.

My mom used to tell me how, at times, people accused her of being cruel because she wouldn’t step in and help me. They didn’t understand the truth of it, of how much it tore her up inside to stand back and let me struggle through something she could have done for me in seconds. What they saw as withholding was actually the hardest kind of love: the kind that gives a child the chance to grow stronger, even when it breaks your heart to watch.

What they couldn’t see was how those moments were building something in me that would matter for the rest of my life. Every time they held back. Every time they let me wrestle with a sock or a zipper or something I’d dropped, they were giving me the tools I’d need to navigate a world that wasn’t built with my body in mind. Their strength became the foundation for my own.

The Courage to Step Back So I Could Step Forward

It became natural for me to just do. A fused knee wasn’t a reason to sit things out. It was simply a detail to work around. If I wanted to ride my bike, then I rode my bike. I’d stick that straight leg out in front and pedal with the other foot, because that’s what made sense. I didn’t think of it as resilience back then. It was just life. You figure it out, you keep moving, and you don’t wait for the world to adjust itself around you.

And it wasn’t just the bike. If all the kids in the neighbourhood were going ice skating, then of course I was going too. Roller-skating? Yes please. I never stopped to wonder whether I could do something with a fused knee, I just figured out how to make it work. That was the rhythm of my childhood: see what everyone else is doing, adapt, and join in. The fused leg was a detail, not a barrier.

Learning to Trust Myself (and a Horse Named Jack)

Letting me try even meant letting me learn how to ride a horse with a fused knee. For a few summers in a row, my brother and I went to Lynbarry Ranch, a camp to learn how to ride a horse. I loved it. I was good at it. I had even finally worked my way up to learning how to jump.

That particular summer I had hit my full height, all five foot nine of me, so the only horse suited for me was Jack. Jack was the only horse with a chain across his stall instead of a rope because he was a little nervous. But after a few introductions, where he stood on my foot on purpose (yes horses do this), then me sneaking him some treats, he and I got along.

One day, Jack and I were riding in front of the instructor on an open trail. As we came alongside a small country road, a man on a motorcycle drove by and decided to give us a friendly wave and a honk of his horn.

Jack did not appreciate the gesture.

He took off, and I did my best to stay calm and hang on. Then I saw a ditch up ahead. And of course, Jack jumped it. I dropped my hands and folded forward into the jump, giving him the freedom through the reins and letting my body move with his, as I had been taught.

When I finally got him back to a trot, the instructor caught up and told me I had handled it correctly.

Jack disagreed. He bucked and threw me off.

The Gift of Letting Me Try

And yes, I now realize what a double‑edged sword that was for my parents. They were proud of me for pulling on my own sock, for figuring things out, for refusing to sit on the sidelines. But at the same time, they were going crazy with worry while I laced up my skates or took off down the street on my bike. They held their breath so I could learn to breathe on my own.

I didn’t know then that every adaptation I made came with its own cost for them in the form of a quiet fear they swallowed so I could feel normal. I didn’t realize until adulthood how much of my confidence was built on the foundation of their restraint.

If there’s one thing my parent’s experience taught me, it’s that letting a child try, really try, is an act of love that often goes unseen. People may misunderstand it and they may even judge it. They may never know how much it hurts to stand back when every instinct tells you to step in. But those small, difficult moments are where confidence takes root. They’re where resilience begins. And sometimes the greatest gift you can give a child is the space to discover what they’re capable of, even when it ties your stomach in knots.

Letting your child try may feel like the hardest thing you’ll ever do. But sometimes stepping back is the very thing that allows them to step forward. My parent’s courage didn’t look like protection. It looked like permission.

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Author’s Note

This story is why Letting Your Child Try matters so much to me. It’s why I wrote the guidance piece for the Parent Series. Because I know firsthand how those small, difficult moments shape a child’s confidence and identity.

My parents’ courage didn’t look like stepping in. It looked like stepping back.
And that choice became the foundation of who I am today.

If you haven’t read the main post yet, you can find it in the Parenting Kids with JIA collection. Together, these two pieces tell both sides of the same truth: the practical guidance for parents, and the lived experience that taught me why it matters.

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