What I Learned When My Shy 5-Year-Old Became a Flower Girl: Parenting Tips for Anxious Kids
The rubber soles of Lila’s sparkly new dress shoes stuck to the scuffed gym floor of our local church, and she froze three steps from the front altar. My cousin’s wedding was two days away, and the 20 or so people gathered for rehearsal all turned to look. I could feel my neck heating up, already mentally apologizing for the meltdown I was sure was coming. For as long as Lila’s been alive, she’s been the kid who hides behind my leg when strangers say hello, who leaves birthday parties early because the crowd gives her a stomach ache, who refuses to order her own chicken nuggets even at our favorite diner.
For months, everyone told me I was crazy to even ask her to be flower girl. “She’ll just ruin the processional,” one aunt said offhand at a family barbecue. “You should just ask the older cousin instead.” But Marnie, the bride, wanted Lila—she’d babysat her since she was a baby, and Lila sleeps with the stuffed rabbit Marnie gave her every night. When Marnie first asked, Lila shook her head so hard her pigtails flew. But a week later, she crawled into my lap while I was folding laundry and said, “I want to throw pink petals for Marnie.” So we said yes, and I started testing out a new approach I’d learned from Lila’s preschool teacher, after Lila refused to stand on stage for the winter holiday show back in December.
That day at rehearsal, my first instinct was to rush over, grab her hand, and pull her to the front, apologizing the whole way. That’s what I’d always done before, and it always ended with Lila crying in the back seat on the way home, too upset to even talk. This time, I stayed leaning against the back wall, and called out soft enough that only she could hear me: “You’ve got lots of options, bug. Do you want me to walk with you? Do you want to walk with Jake? Or you can come sit with me right now, no one will be upset.” I didn’t add any pleads, no “you promised” or “it’s not that hard.” I just waited.
She stood there for a full minute, twisting the satin handle of her fake-petal basket. Jake, the 7-year-old ring bearer who usually teases Lila for being too small, stopped at the front and turned around, holding out his grubby sandal-covered hand. “C’mon,” he yelled. “I’ll save you a sprinkled donut after.”
Slowly, Lila lifted one foot, then the other. She took Jake’s hand, and they walked the rest of the way down, petals flying everywhere (most of them landed in the choir pit, but no one minded). When everyone clapped, she grinned so wide her dimples popped, then ran straight for the donut table before anyone could drag her into a photo. On the wedding day, she sat still for 20 minutes while the hairstylist curled her hair and clipped in a sparkly pink barrette, never complained about the itchy tulle under her dress, and posed for 10 minutes of family photos without fidgeting. When the church doors opened for the processional, I peeked back and saw her peeking around the edge, grinning. She walked all the way down the aisle by herself, throwing petals evenly on both sides, and even stopped halfway to wave at my husband who was filming from the front row. When she reached me, she leaned against my leg and didn’t move for the rest of the ceremony, and that was exactly where I wanted her.
In the week since the wedding, so many parents have asked me how I got my shy kid to pull it off. Everyone’s got a shy kid, everyone’s got an opinion, and most of it boils down to “just push her more” or “she’ll grow out of it.” Neither of those are helpful, so I tell them the three concrete things that actually worked for us, things anyone can do next time their kid freezes up in a new situation.
First, we started small, months early. We didn’t wait until the week before the wedding to talk about it. Every time we walked past the church on our way to the park, I’d just mention “that’s where you’ll throw petals for Marnie” and leave it at that, no questions, no pressure. We practiced walking and throwing petals in our hallway with dandelions we picked in the front yard, first with just me, then with the cat as an audience, then with my mom on FaceTime. When she didn’t want to practice, we stopped. No big deal.
Second, I gave her a clear out every single step of the way. When we went for the dress fitting, I said “if you hate this dress, we can tell Marnie you changed your mind, no one will be sad.” When she froze at rehearsal, I gave her three clear options, none of which were “you have to do this anyway.” Most of the time, kids don’t freeze because they don’t want to try—they freeze because they’re scared they’ll be trapped if they get halfway and change their mind. Once they know they can stop anytime, the pressure melts off enough for them to try.
Third, I stopped talking about her shyness like it’s a problem to fix. I used to apologize for her to strangers: “Sorry she’s so shy.” That made her think there was something wrong with her for feeling scared. Now I just say “She’s getting used to you right now” and change the subject. I don’t discuss her shyness in front of her anymore, either. After the wedding, I didn’t tell her she was so brave for overcoming her shyness— I told her “I saw how hard you worked to keep going when your feet felt stuck. That must have taken a lot of energy.” It acknowledges her work without framing her feelings as something to get over.
It’s been a week, and Lila still carries her empty flower basket around the house, tucking her stuffed rabbits into it for naps. Last night, we went out for pizza, and when the waiter asked what she wanted, she hid behind my arm again, just like she always does. Being a flower girl didn’t fix her shyness, and I don’t want it to. I’m still learning—next time she freezes up at a birthday party, I’ll probably forget all of this and want to rush in and fix it. But for now, I’ve got this memory of her walking down that aisle, pink petals flying, grinning like she just did exactly what she wanted to do. And that’s enough.
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