Fun Confidence Building Activities to Do With Your 7-Year-Old Niece
The first morning my 7-year-old niece Lila stayed with me alone, I leaned against the kitchen counter and asked what she wanted for breakfast. She kicked the base of the cabinet with her sparkly unicorn Crocs, stared at her socks, and mumbled “whatever.” My sister had texted me the night before, saying Lila had come home from school three days in a row saying she was “bad at everything” – bad at reading out loud, bad at kickball, bad at picking out her own clothes. I’d originally planned a big day trip to the city zoo, bought tickets and everything, but standing there, watching her shrink into her faded dinosaur hoodie, I knew big and planned was the last thing she needed. I scrapped the trip and started pulling together low-key stuff I thought might let her stretch a little without pressure.
After breakfast, I pulled out the stack of picture books she’d stuffed in her duffel and told her I was tired of reading. I asked if she’d read one to me instead. She immediately shook her head, said she couldn’t read the big words right. I told her that didn’t matter. She could make up whatever words she wanted, and I’d never correct her. She hesitated for a full minute, then dragged over a silly book about a penguin who lives in Antarctica, climbed onto the couch next to me, and started. She made up a whole side plot about the penguin opening a sprinkle bakery, that wasn’t anywhere in the actual book. I just asked questions, like “what does the penguin do with all the extra sprinkles?” and “does he let his friends eat for free?” I didn’t rush her, I didn’t point out when she skipped a page, I just listened. By the end of an hour, she’d read me three whole books, all with her own made-up stories. I realized right then that most days, every adult in Lila’s life is telling her what the right answer is. What word to read, what direction to run, what color to use. Just giving her space to do it her way, no rules, was something she almost never gets.
Next I dragged out the junk bin I keep by my laundry room, full of stuff I’ve been meaning to throw away for months: a broken digital alarm clock, a chipped ceramic mug, a dead TV remote, random keychains, packing tape and kid-sized screwdrivers. I told her I had no idea what to do with any of this, and I was bad at making stuff, so could she figure it out? I left her at the dining room table and went to fold laundry, didn’t check in every five minutes to see how she was doing. She spent an hour and 45 minutes there, completely quiet, until she called me over to show me her creation: a robot cat made from the alarm clock body and the mug for a head, that “wakes me up when it’s cookie time.” She carried that thing around for the rest of her stay, even brought it into the bathroom when she brushed her teeth. That’s when I saw her first un-shy smile, the one that shows her missing front tooth.
After lunch we played restaurant, and she got to be the owner. She drew the menu, set the prices, and told me what I could order. I intentionally ordered things that weren’t on her menu, just to give her practice setting a boundary. At first she looked panicked, like she’d messed up the whole game, then she took a breath and said “we don’t have that. You have to pick something else.” I apologized, ordered the fairy toast she’d drawn on the menu, and paid her three glitter stickers as a tip, which she accepted as proper payment. It sounds small, but Lila has spent her whole life defaulting to what other people want, so saying no to an adult was a big win for her.
The next day we did a neighborhood photo scavenger hunt, and the only rule was she got to make the list of what we were looking for. She drew everything: a red door, a cat with a collar, a purple flower, a person with blue hair. I followed her lead the whole walk, even turned left onto the dead end she insisted we take, no comment when we had to turn around 10 minutes later. When she spotted a guy walking his dog with bright blue hair, she even walked up and asked if she could take his picture, something she never would have done the day before.
I used to think confidence building was big stuff: signing them up for team sports, forcing them to order their own food at restaurants, pushing them to perform for relatives. But with Lila, I learned that for quiet 7-year-olds, confidence grows from small, low-stakes opportunities to be in charge. None of these activities cost any money, none require any advance planning, you just do them while you’re hanging out. The trick is you have to step back: no correcting, no redirecting, no making it “right.” If their menu only has sprinkles, that’s fine. If their robot doesn’t do anything, that’s even better. You don’t have to push them out of their comfort zone dramatically; you just have to let them stand in the middle of their own small, safe comfort zone and call the shots for a little while.
When my sister picked Lila up, she ran to the car immediately and shoved the robot cat into her mom’s hands, telling her the whole story of the penguin bakery before my sister even got the trunk open. My sister texted me three days later saying Lila had volunteered to read a story to her class, something she’d refused to do all semester. Lila’s still shy. She still sometimes shrugs and says “whatever” when you ask her what she wants. That doesn’t change in four days. It’s not like a few activities fixed all her self-doubt overnight. But last night I got a picture from my sister: Lila standing next to her robot cat on the kitchen counter, holding a drawing she made for me, signed in big pink crayon “From Lila, The Best Story Reader.” It’s not a big miracle. It’s just a small step. And that’s more than enough for now.
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