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Between the Olympics and Reality: The Quiet Success of Unremarkable Children.
I find myself in a slightly more relaxed phase of motherhood. Both my children are now adults, with one stepping into the job market. It is, of course, not “all done” (does it ever end?), but it feels like the perfect moment to reflect, reassess, and indulge in a little retrospective wisdom.
Years ago, surrounded by highly achieving parents, the bar felt permanently set somewhere between the Olympics and Stockholm.
I remember my husband remarking, after reading a flurry of Facebook posts about unusually advanced toddlers, that our friends’ children would collectively produce an Indian cricketer, an Olympian, a Fields Medal winner, and a Nobel laureate, all from one WhatsApp group.
Such was the perceived talent pool. Or perhaps, the optimism.
I was no exception. I too quietly harboured dreams of raising exceptional children. Maybe not Nobel Prize exceptional, but at least “someone mentions them at a dinner party” exceptional.
Life, however, has a gentle way of editing our scripts.
My children are exceptional, just not in the way I once imagined. They are kind. They are thoughtful. They are the sort of people who say thank you to waiters and call home without being reminded. As it turns out, those are not minor achievements.
They have been to good schools, played sport, learned music, and done reasonably well at all of it. Not quite Royal Albert Hall or Lord’s level, but solid, respectable, clap-from-the-second-row performances.
And that, as it turns out, is where most of life happens.
We often forget just how small the percentage is that reaches global fame or prize-winning brilliance. Just below that sits a vast and comfortable band of good, capable, and quietly successful people. The world, inconveniently, is largely run by them.
Yet many of us resist accepting this. We prefer to believe our child is simply “one more coaching class away” from greatness.
So we stretch, financially, emotionally, and logistically. Flats are sold. Savings are dipped into. Weekends disappear into carpools and practice sessions. All in pursuit of that extra edge.
“Comparison is the death of joy,” Mark Twain said. He clearly never attended a modern parenting WhatsApp group.
One of the most striking examples of this collective ambition is the rush to send children abroad for education, often without financial aid, and sometimes beyond a family’s means.
The intention is pure, to give them the best. But the reality is more complicated.
Alongside opportunity comes pressure. Alongside pride comes a quiet, persistent guilt. The unspoken weight of sacrifice.
With ever-changing immigration rules, staying on in many Western countries is uncertain. This is not always easy to explain to parents back home, for whom a “foreign degree” still sounds like a guaranteed life upgrade.
Meanwhile, these young adults study intensely and work equally hard. I see them in cafés and supermarkets, stacking shelves, serving customers, moving through long shifts with visible fatigue. Their faces brighten instantly when someone is kind to them. It is a small reminder of how much they are carrying.
And one cannot help but wonder, had they stayed back home, might they have found similar outcomes with a little less strain?
On a more personal note, I occasionally feel a flicker of irritation. My daughter, after years of piano lessons, now barely plays. My son, after years of cricket coaching, wants a break. There is, I admit, a small voice that says, “After all those early mornings?”
But perhaps that is the wrong lens.
Not everything our children do needs to convert into lifelong passion or professional achievement. Sometimes it builds discipline, exposure, and perspective. Sometimes, it simply teaches them what they do not want to do.
As someone wisely said, “Your children are not your résumé.”
Be ambitious for them, certainly. Give them opportunities. Encourage effort. But do not begin with the assumption that every five-year-old with a bat is a future national player, or at the very least, IPL material.
Statistically speaking, most will not even make it to county or Ranji level. And that is perfectly fine.
There will always be a few extraordinary outliers. The rest will find their way into that wide, stable, and entirely respectable middle.
And there is dignity in that space.
In fact, there is happiness there too.
Better to raise children who are emotionally secure, resilient, and kind than ones burdened by quiet inadequacy or constant comparison. The world is already demanding enough.
Even the most well-meaning tiger parent, claws carefully sheathed, eventually has to admit that cubs are not meant to perform, they are meant to grow.
What we can offer is a home that does not measure them relentlessly. A safe space they can return to, regardless of how things unfold. A place that celebrates their joys and absorbs their disappointments.
A place where they are allowed to become themselves. Not impressive versions. Not performative versions.
Just whole ones.
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