This essay appears in Minnesota Parent Feb. 2020 magazine.

Teen tryouts are more stressful than watching any youth tournament. At a recent tryout event for a J.O. volleyball club, I saw elated faces and relief hugs between teens and parents. This was after the first of four teams of girls were dismissed from the courts. I also saw the anguish of parents still waiting. Some appeared so stressed they held their heads, wringing their hands, and said they could not handle another minute of waiting. I wasn’t worried. “Whatever happens, happens. We can deal with it,” I told a friend, thinking out of 4 levels, my kid would make one of them and even if it was the bottom rung, we were still in for a season of sports.

We were all there with one goal in mind: to have our teens get on a roster. Selection meant that “golden ticket” to gain the training at team practices and the experience of tournament competition. This is where athletes are developed. They learn strategy, build up physical endurance, confidence, take risks, and get a boost of self-esteem. They learn to trust and lead others.

The last wave of teens was dismissed. At first, I didn’t see my daughter among the buzzing crowd. She was not with the burst of smiling girls waving the roster paperwork, beckoning parents to the back of the gym for the deposit check. There was a lull. Not a good sign.

Then I saw her, head high, drinking from her water bottle with disappointment in her gaze. She nodded, and I smiled, reassuringly. A parent can read their kid’s expressions. Her feet bypassed me, darting through the crowd toward the restrooms where I assume she blinked a tear and blew her nose behind a stall door. I was unsettled, in disbelief. Benched! No worse, Cut! Where is my resolve now, Miss “Whatever Happens, Happens?”  I had to dig it out quickly.

Be Empathic, with a Brave Face
It’s painful to watch your child get cut. My heart sank. I just assumed she’d make a team, especially after five years in competitive volleyball. I’ve seen the tears and hugs in team waiting rooms before.  I inhaled deeply to reset my emotions, and became that stoic pillar on which she could lean. As she came up to me, I hoped she felt my magnetic pull projecting a recovery energy that everything will be okay.

We both acted strong, and brushed off her status casually, answering questions through the crowd as familiar faces inquired, “How did you do?”

“Turned down,” we say publicly, and offer congratulations to the teens who made a team. We hung around to assess options. Then, cutting our losses at this club, we opened the doors to exit the humid gym. The contrast of bright sunlight stung our eyes. I wanted to talk some sense into the sun.

Analyze, but Don’t Bash the Process
In the car, I listened. She had competed with more than 90 teens that showed up for 40 spots. She explained that she knew she missed a pass when evaluators were watching; that even with strong serves, blocks, and passes, with so many players, there were few chances to touch the ball. Every action counted, and when she did perform well, the evaluators it seemed were not looking. It wasn’t a matter of endurance, as the tryouts took longer than two hours, yet she did not seem winded. “It’s beyond your control,” I said. “You did your best and I’m proud of you.”

In the Twin Cities, there are other options: Secondary clubs hold tryouts later in the day to recruit those cut by popular top tier clubs in the morning. We knew we had to decide this quickly. There was a stigma to shake off.

Listen, Comfort, Invite Comradery
Back at home, we sat at the dining table, decompressing. Hugs seemed to be the best remedy, as my words didn’t bring relief. Still, I tried to reinforce my support, reiterating: “That was courageous to take the risk and tryout at a top competitive club.” The texts and tweets of her friends and their results at different clubs joined our table conversation virtually. The healing came from comradery.

We each retreated to freshen up. When she emerged, I saw a hint of puffy eyelids. I told her it is okay to cry, to be mad, and I saw she already knew this. In the hours after the tryouts, she shook off the defeat, gleefully talking about an upcoming high school dance. But then later: a delayed reaction surfaced. The Tryout Blues snuck back in and I saw her eyes puffy again. The emotional healing process continued with an internalized demeanor, and then physical reports of a headache, a stomach ache, stepped up roughhousing with a sibling. All of this was a normal reaction to the anguish of the disappointment.

It’s About Her, Not Me
I recounted the tough odds, and my mind drifted to secret regret and wonder. Perhaps I should have encouraged a lesser competitive club where the odds where slightly more in her favor, but I stopped my mind of playing that rewind tape and tried not to look back. I worried about a lightning bolt trigger that would bring a wave of a new identity. As individuals, we all identify ourselves with our accomplishments. It makes us who we are: Where we work. Where we play. My teen always beamed when answering questions about her sport. Now, she’ll talk more about how she spends her time using other talents. I stopped myself from worrying what that might be.

I made a conscious effort to not project my Tryout Blues on my teen, exacerbating the issue. However, secretly, those first 12 hours were tough disappointment I felt in my gut. I kept thinking about how lucky a team would have been to have her. They missed out on her athletic dedication–never late, always warmed up and ready to play. They’ll miss her leadership contributions and contagious team spirit to help players shake off any lost points. I could always read her lips from the bleachers saying, “Come on, we can do this!” Her team cheer. I will miss the team parents I spent hours with during the last few seasons. Reveling in this thought, my Tryout Blues hit hard. Where and when will I see this again? But I could not let myself wallow in Tryout Blues for long.

New Options: Not Making a Team is Not a Failure
I suddenly realized we have free time coming up with no commitments. “Is there another winter sport of interest?” I asked my teen. “You now could take on those babysitting jobs since you’ll have open weekends,” I suggested.

While we had planned our calendars to allow for 18 hours a week for practices and weekend tournaments, now there seemed to be a large gap of time to fulfill in other meaningful ways. What an opportunity! Plus, there was that cost: $2500 to $3000 for a regional team club placement. Now extra funds in our budget could be put toward some other sport or maybe a spring break vacation!

Then, I stopped myself from offering too much guidance.  I tried to just stay factual, not emotional. Together, we composed emails to directors at other clubs we considered, and heard back they were already full. Except for one club known to take cut players.

Then, I let go! I had to let my daughter figure this out, herself. I knew her self-esteem did not solely come from her chosen sport. She has many talents to channel elsewhere.  I shook off the Tryout Blues, knowing there will be another chapter, and I went to sleep that night in suspense of what was to be the next big thing. Que sera, sera. Whatever she decided would be respected.