This was a hard one for me to write about.
Some kids are good at studying and understanding concepts, and others — like my daughter, who is 12 years old — struggle with everything.
And coming to terms with the fact that she just can’t grasp concepts easily and is a slow learner has been hard.
She’s so good at other things. She can build a Lego set for 18 years and older with no problem. She’ll spend hours focused, patient, and creative. But when it comes to school, she falls behind.
I think maths and Afrikaans are the bane of my existence.
I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t get the math equation.
We’d done it at least twenty times.
What takes another child 20 minutes takes her 2 hours.
And by the end, I’m drained — crying in the bathroom in secret, feeling helpless.
I don’t expect 100%. Not even 70%. Honestly, not even 60%.
Just a pass.
I look at each subject, find the minimum pass mark, and aim for that.
I tell her, “As long as you pass, that’s all that matters.”
But even then, I sometimes wonder — am I still pushing her too hard?
I worry about how she’ll feel if she doesn’t make it.
Will it break her confidence?
How will she see herself?
And if I’m being honest, part of me dreads what it would mean for me too — another year of homework, school runs, exams, and late nights. I don’t want that. But I also don’t want her to feel like she’s failed.
And then I remind myself: ten years from now, none of this will matter.
This won’t be stamped in her passport.
This is just part of her journey — not her whole story.
There was a time I woke up every morning with this gripping anxiety and constant worry. It still gets to me sometimes, but I’m learning to let go.
She’s on her journey, and I’m on mine.
I remind her every chance I get:
“You are loved no matter what grade you get.”
It won’t change how proud we are of you.
You are still worthy.
Still loved.
Still enough.
And I remind myself too — this doesn’t mean I failed as a parent.
I tried my best, just like she’s trying hers.
Lately, I’ve learned how powerful positive reinforcement can be for her.
“You’re awesome. You’re the smartest kid I know. You can do this. There’s nothing you can’t do.”
Sometimes I say it for her. Sometimes I say it for me.
Because deep down, I’m hoping for the best — but also preparing for the worst.
And praying she passes.