What To Do When Your Kid Says “I Embarrassed Myself In Class And I’m The Worst At Everything”
The rain streaked the minivan windows last Tuesday when Mia slammed the passenger door and slumped down so far her head was below the dashboard. I asked how her day was, like I do every after school, and she just grunted, picking at a loose thread on her jeans. I turned up the pop radio we both half-listen to and pulled out of the parking lot, stopping at the gas station for her favorite blue slushie like I always do when I can feel a bad day hovering. Halfway home, she took one sip and blurted it out: “I embarrassed myself so bad in English today. I’m just the worst at everything.”
I almost said the thing I always used to say: Oh, honey, no one even noticed. That’s what my mom said to me when I messed up my chorus solo in 8th grade, and it’s the first line that pops into my head when my kid hurts. But I caught myself, remembering what the middle school counselor said at our parent night back in September: the first rule of bad embarrassment is don’t minimize it. So I pulled into the grocery store parking lot, put the car in park, and said, “What’s the part that’s bugging you the most right now?”
She told me: they had to read their personal narratives out loud that day, she’d drawn the first slip out of the cup, her socks were slippery from walking in the rain, she tripped over the leg of a desk on her way to the front, dropped all her loose pages, and they went flying across half the room. When she finally collected them, her hands were shaking so bad she messed up the first line three times, and Jake Miller, the boy she’s had a crush on since the start of the year, snickered. She finished the whole thing with her face on fire, and could barely wait for the bell to ring.
By the time she finished talking, her eyes were welling up, and she wiped them on her sleeve like she didn’t want me to see. I didn’t pull out a list of all the things she’s good at—she got first place in the school art contest last month, she can beat anyone at our local pool in a 50m freestyle, she remembers all my friend’s kids’ birthdays. I used to do that, when she says she’s bad at everything, rattle off her wins like that’s going to fix the bad feeling. But the counselor said that just makes kids feel like you’re ignoring what they’re actually going through. If their whole body feels humiliated, hearing a list of your strengths doesn’t make that ache go away. It just makes them think you don’t get how bad this hurts.
So I just said, “That sounds so horribly, cringingly awful. I’d want to hide in the bathroom too, if that happened to me.” She nodded, took a big slurp of her slushie, and didn’t say anything else for the rest of the ride home. When we got in the house, she grabbed her backpack and headed straight to her room, shutting the door most of the way. I pulled the pre-made oatmeal raisin cookie dough out of the fridge, cut three thick slices, baked them for 12 minutes, put one on a chipped ceramic plate with a glass of milk, and knocked on her door. I didn’t push her to open up more, I just set the plate on her desk, sat on the floor by her bed (she hates when I sit on her comforter, it gets wrinkled) and said I’d be in the living room if she wanted to talk more, then left.
That’s the second concrete thing I’ve learned: you don’t have to fix it in 10 minutes. Embarrassment sticks around, and letting it sit doesn’t mean you’re failing as a parent. If they want to be alone, give them space, but leave a small, tangible sign you’re there—their favorite snack, a show they like queued up on the TV, whatever works for them. It doesn’t have to be fancy. A $2 pre-baked cookie works better than a big speech most days.
The next morning, Mia dragged herself out of bed, and I thought she’d mope all day. Before we left, she asked me to pack an extra pack of gummy bears for her best friend Lila, who’d stayed home sick the day before. When she got in the car after school, she didn’t bring it up right away, but halfway home she said Jake asked her for a pencil before first period, and didn’t even mention the presentation. Lila gave her a silly cat sticker to make her feel better, and most people don’t even think about it now. But she still said it was the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to her, and she never wants to read out loud in front of the class again.
I didn’t push her to “get over it” or say she was being too sensitive. I just nodded. I still remember my own chorus solo mess up 25 years later, so who am I to tell her her feelings don’t matter? What I did do, a few days later when she brought it up again, was ask what she might want to do next time she has to speak in front of the class. She thought for a minute and said she’d rather just record it at home than do it live. That’s it, no big lesson, no push to “face her fear.”
Last week, when another presentation was announced, Mia emailed her teacher after school and asked if she could record it at home and send it in instead. The teacher said yes, and Mia did it in three takes, no tripping, no shaking hands, and got a good grade. She still sometimes brings up the incident, calling it “the day I ruined my entire life,” but she says it laughing now, when she’s telling the story to her friend over FaceTime.
I still mess up, sometimes. Last month I told her forgetting her lines in the school play wasn’t that big of a deal, and she shut down immediately. I’m learning to pause first, to not rush to fix the bad feeling, to let her decide what she needs next. It doesn’t get wrapped up in a neat bow every time. She still has days where one small awkward moment makes her think she’s bad at everything. But most days, after a cookie and a night to sleep it off, she’s ready to go back the next day, and that’s enough for me right now.
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