The Practice Gap: Before They Can Succeed, They Need to Practice
By Lisa Miller, in collaboration with Tatiana Guerreiro Ramos
When my kids were little, I rarely took them grocery shopping. I was always in a hurry, parking was a hassle, and honestly, it was just easier, faster, and less stressful to go alone (Monterey Market is chaotic enough!). On the rare occasions they came with me, everything took three times as long, and we came home with things nobody ate.
So I handled it myself and told myself it was fine.
As they got older, I started asking them to run to the store for me. And they struggled. Not because they weren't capable, but because they had never practiced. They didn't know how to find things, select unbruised fruit, buy the right quantity, or comparison shop. Skills I had assumed they would somehow absorb without ever actually teaching them.
They figured it out eventually. But I had to reckon with something: I hadn't given them the opportunity to learn alongside me when it mattered most.
Sound familiar?
Most parents aren't withholding practice out of neglect. We do it out of love, efficiency, and the very human instinct to protect our kids from struggle. We do it because we're tired, because the kitchen gets messy, and because watching our child flounder is uncomfortable.
Without realizing it, we can end up doing for our children what they need to learn to do for themselves. Then we are frustrated or annoyed when they have to ask a million questions for a (seemingly) simple task that actually requires copious amounts of executive function.
Here are some common ways this might show up:
We jump in the moment frustration appears, before our child has had a chance to sit with a problem long enough to process it and solve it. We edit their essays so thoroughly that they end up turning in our work instead of their own. We email their teacher on their behalf when they are old enough to advocate for themselves. The result is a “polished” outcome over which our kiddo has no agency, and a child who never learned the process, much less how to struggle through it.
We make their bed, pack their bag, and do their laundry because it's faster and neater. We order for them at restaurants. We keep the kitchen off-limits because the mess isn't worth it. Then we're surprised when they arrive at college, unable to manage the basics of independent living, and taken aback by the reactions of roommates who are irritated by their lack of housekeeping skills.
We call another parent to resolve a conflict that our child could have navigated themselves. We speak for them when they go quiet, fill in their sentences, smooth over their awkward moments. So they never have to experience any distress, leading them to avoid it at all costs. Then we are dismayed when they can’t seem to tolerate challenging situations.
We rescue them from boredom rather than letting them discover what they're capable of when left to figure things out for themselves. To daydream and engage in reflection and inner dialogue.
We always have cash ready, so they never have to budget. We handle returns, complaints, and customer service calls on their behalf. We pay for everything without ever inviting them into the conversation about cost, value, or trade-offs. Then we respond with eyerolls and exasperation when they overspend, can’t save, and have no sense of what it takes to live independently.
Every time we step in too soon, we send an unintentional message: I don't think you can handle this. And over time, children begin to believe it (aka learned helplessness). They internalize the sense that they need help with every little thing and shouldn’t make mistakes.
We didn’t mean to infantilize them or make life harder. In many cases, we opted for (our own) ease. But (our) ease in the short term can quietly become a deficit (for them) in the long term. The child who was never allowed to struggle in the kitchen doesn't know how to feed themselves with the ingredients in the refrigerator, so they constantly ask to order DoorDash or get takeout from fast-food places. The one who was never coached through a conflict doesn't know how to work hard at a relationship, much less do the repairs that are needed after inevitable hurts happen in human interactions. The student whose essays were always fixed doesn't know how to write or tolerate feedback from professors or peers about their work.
Mastery requires repetition. Repetition requires opportunity. And opportunity requires us, as parents, coaches, and educators, to step back a little more than might feel comfortable (and let them step forward). This requires us to work on (increase) our own distress tolerance.
It’s not always efficient. It’s not always pretty. The dismount might be hard to watch. But that's exactly what practice looks like.
It's never too late to start. Whether your child is seven or seventeen or twenty-three, the next opportunity to let them try is right around the corner. At the grocery store. At the restaurant. In the conversation they need to have.
Let them struggle a little. Let them figure it out. Let them practice. That's where mastery begins.