Confidence

My daughter dented her car this morning.

I could tell that having me in the car made it ten times worse. The dent was bad enough. Having your dad there to witness it apparently comes with its own damage multiplier.

That made me sad.

And it made me think about the effect I have on her confidence. What I say. What I don’t say. What my face does before I’ve had a chance to tell it to behave.

As a parent. As a teacher.

How I can help someone feel capable. How I can make them feel small. Sometimes without realising I’ve done either.

Because the dent is something we can get fixed.

Confidence is a little more complicated.

It’s fragile.

You can spend years building it, and then someone says, “Well, you’re not really a creative person, are you?” and your brain decides this is an official diagnosis.

It’s important.

It gets you to put your hand up. Apply for the job. Share the idea. Get back behind the wheel.

A parent can destroy it.

Sometimes with cruelty. Sometimes with a joke. Sometimes by taking over, again, because it’s quicker, until a child learns that the most useful thing they can do is stand back.

Sometimes with a facial expression we barely notice making.

A teacher can destroy it.

One comment. In front of one class. On an otherwise completely ordinary Tuesday.

The teacher forgets it by lunchtime.

The child remembers it at forty-seven.

It’s precious.

And we sometimes handle someone else’s so casually.

We’re careful with a borrowed phone. We should probably be at least that careful with a person who’s showing us something they’ve made.

Some people seem to be born with more of it.

They arrive convinced the world would benefit from hearing their views. By the age of four, they are chairing meetings about bedtime.

Others need a little encouragement before they’ll tell you which biscuit they want.

Life can knock it out of us.

A rejection. A redundancy. A relationship ending. A mistake made in front of someone whose opinion matters to you.

“That went wrong” becomes “I’m no good at this”.

One bad experience becomes a rule for the rest of our lives.

We do some of our most creative work when we have it.

We try something strange. Ask something obvious. Make something that might be brilliant, but currently looks like a shelving accident.

We get through the awkward first attempt without treating it as evidence that we should never attempt anything again.

We need to recognise that.

In our children. In our classrooms. In the person at work who begins every suggestion with, “This is probably a stupid idea.”

We need to let them finish.

I need to remember it when I’m teaching.

The person struggling with something I find easy might already be having quite a difficult conversation with themselves.

“It’s easy” isn’t always reassuring.

Sometimes it just means, “And yet somehow you’re still struggling.”

We can build it, too.

The teacher who says, “Keep going.”

The parent who resists stepping in.

The person who takes your idea seriously while you’re still trying to.

We can give someone room to do something badly while they learn to do it well.

Even when we could do it faster.

Even when we have a helpful suggestion.

I have a considerable stock of helpful suggestions. Being a dad seems to come with a subscription.

We can remember that confident people need encouragement too.

They may just have learnt to look comfortable while privately reviewing something they said in 2008.

Our words matter.

Especially when someone is learning.

Especially when they’ve failed.

Especially when we’re the voice they’re going to carry around in their head.

I’ve been thinking about that since this morning.

About how much my reaction matters. About whether, when something goes wrong, I help my daughter feel that she can handle it.

I want to be someone who helps her get back behind the wheel.

Confidence.

So much of life depends on it.

And so often, a little of someone else’s is in our hands.