Last weekend, I was on the sidelines watching my daughter’s basketball game, heart pounding like it was Game 7 of the NBA Finals.To be fair, it was a thrilling, back-and-forth match-up, but this was a league of 8- and 9-year-old girls. Still, the energy in that gym? Electric. They played with joy, grit, and a kind of unfiltered hustle I didn’t discover until years later in my life.

I didn’t even pick up a basketball seriously until high school. I got cut from my elementary school team and brushed it off like it didn’t matter. “I’m more of a soccer guy anyway,” I told people. (Translation: I was devastated.)

So there I was, watching the next generation give it their all, when a dad nearby started… coaching. Loudly. Passionately. Aggressively. He barked at his daughter to shoot more, rebound harder, play defence like her sneakers were on fire. At first, I thought, Okay, he’s just really into it. But as the game got tighter, so did his tone. More volume. More control. At one point, his wife, clearly an expert in public de-escalation, walked over, whispered something sharp, and he left the gym in a silent storm.

She turned to me, smiled like an apology, and kept watching the game like nothing had happened.

But I couldn’t stop thinking: Why do we do this?

Why do we treat the performance of others - our kids, our partners, our colleagues, our teams, as a referendum on our own value?

Whether you're a parent or not, you've probably been there. Watching someone try something hard, and feeling that urge to jump in, correct, push, perfect. We say it’s because we care. And maybe we do. But if we’re honest? Sometimes, it’s because their outcome feels tied to our identity. Their stumble makes us uncomfortable. Their success makes us feel secure.

We all want to see the people we care about do well. But sometimes in our quest to help, we forget the deeper gift: giving them room to own the process even if it means falling short.

I’ve done this more times than I’d like to admit, tried to “help” when what was really needed was trust. But watching that game, I realized something: what matters more than managing the outcome is simply being present for the process.

Yes, I want my daughters to succeed. But more than that, I want them to fail…. miserably. I want them to miss the shot, trip on the way to the basket, get up, try again. Because success that comes without struggle is fragile. But success built on resilience? That’s the kind that lasts.

And this isn’t just a lesson for children.

As adults, we live under the constant pressure to perform, to avoid mistakes, to smooth out the wrinkles, to only show up when we’re sure we’ll win. But if we’re always playing it safe, always trying to look composed and capable, are we really living? Or are we just curating?

Here’s what I’m learning, whether I’m on the sidelines of a basketball court or just navigating life like the rest of us:

Cheer louder for effort than achievement.

Celebrate presence over perfection.

And remember that falling isn’t failure, it’s rehearsal for rising.

Because the truth is:

No one remembers the score.

But they will remember how it felt to have someone beside them not fixing, not controlling…. just there.

At the end of the day, they won’t remember the points.

They’ll remember the presence.

Yours.