Why Kids Lose Motivation During State Testing: One Parent’s Stupid Mistake and What I Learned
The gravel crunching under my sneakers, April sun warm enough to leave my puffer jacket in the car, Lila’s ponytail slipping down one shoulder as she dragged her feet toward the 4th grade door. She’d been complaining about stomach cramps since she woke up, and I’d already talked her down from one panic attack in the shower about how the “test people” would mark all her answers wrong if her bubble wasn’t filled in dark enough.
I’d prepped all week, bought her favorite blueberry muffins for breakfast, packed an extra lemon water bottle, even remembered to put the lavender scented lotion she likes on her hands to calm her jitters. Then, as she turned to go in, I opened my mouth and said the stupidest thing I could have thought of: “Remember, this test doesn’t actually mean anything, okay? No matter what happens, your dad and I still think you’re awesome.”
She just blinked at me, nodded, and turned to walk down the hallway. I stood there for a minute, feeling proud of myself for taking the pressure off, just like all the parenting articles said I should.
That afternoon when I picked her up, she was quiet. She didn’t fight her little brother for the front seat, which is how I knew something was off. She just picked at the granola bar in her lunch box and said the test was fine. Next day was the same, and by the third day of testing, when we pulled into the school parking lot, she crossed her arms and refused to unbuckle her seatbelt. She said she couldn’t go in, she couldn’t sit through another four hours of bubbles, and it didn’t matter anyway, so why bother?
I coaxed her inside, and we ended up in Ms. Henderson’s office, the school counselor who keeps a bowl of stale lemon drops on her desk and always has a box of extra hair ties. Lila cried into a crumpled tissue and repeated what I’d said: Mom said it doesn’t matter. So why do I have to do it?
I sat there on the little plastic couch, face hot, and realized exactly how stupid my offhand comment had been. I’d been so focused on stopping her test anxiety that I’d accidentally drained all her motivation to even try.
Ms. Henderson said she sees this all the time. Parents mean well. They hate seeing their kids stressed, they know the test scores don’t determine a kid’s whole future, so they tell kids the test doesn’t matter. What kids hear is: the grown-ups are making me do a pointless, boring thing that doesn’t matter, so why should I push through when I hit a hard question? Why should I sit still for three extra hours when I could just zone out? It’s not that kids are being lazy, it’s just plain common sense for them: if something doesn’t matter, why waste effort on it?
That hit me hard. I’d always thought taking pressure off meant diminishing the whole event. But the truth is, for a 10-year-old, showing up and doing the work matters, even if the score itself doesn’t change anything for them long-term.
After Lila calmed down, I apologized to her right there. I didn’t make excuses. I said, “I said the wrong thing. What I meant was, no matter what score you get on this test, I’m still proud of you and I still know how smart you are. That doesn’t mean showing up and trying doesn’t matter. It just means your score doesn’t change how I feel about you.” I told her the ice cream we’d planned after testing was still on, but it was for working hard through a long, boring week, not because the test itself was worthless. She ate a lemon drop, wiped her face, and walked to class. She finished the rest of the tests that week, no more drama.
Over the past year, I’ve talked to other parents and a couple of my kid’s teachers about this, and the small shifts we can make before testing that don’t take extra time or fancy resources. The biggest one is swapping one phrase for another. Instead of saying “this test doesn’t matter,” say “your score on this test doesn’t change how I feel about you.” It’s a tiny change, but it means the world to a kid who’s already nervous. It takes the pressure off the outcome without telling them the effort they’re putting in is worthless.
Another small thing I do now is keep our routine the same. When Lila was in 4th grade, I changed everything: bought special breakfasts, talked about testing every night at dinner, asked her every morning if she was nervous. All that just signaled to her that this was a big, scary thing that I was worried about too. Now, I mention testing once a couple days out, if she brings it up, and that’s it. We eat the same cereal we eat every morning, we leave the house at the same time, no special fanfare. If she says she’s nervous, I just say “that makes sense, sitting for that long sounds exhausting. I’d be a little nervous too.” I don’t rush to fix the feeling, I just let it be there.
Scores came back last summer, and Lila’s were exactly where her teacher said they’d be. Nothing amazing, nothing bad, just her. We still got ice cream, like we promised.
This year, 5th grade state testing is coming up in a few weeks. I still catch myself opening my mouth to say something stupid, like “don’t worry, it doesn’t matter” when Lila mentions it. I just have to pause, correct myself, and stick to the small things. So far, that’s enough. We haven’t had any panic attacks in the shower yet, and I’m hoping we won’t. But if we do, I know what I’ll say this time.
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