Courtesy Photo: Kenpo in the Mountains
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By Jen Paul Schroer
My 8-year-old son, Ryker, attends karate classes here in Santa Fe, and recently we signed him up for a special class. I assumed this would be the day he tested for his next belt. As the class progressed, instructors began calling students forward and presenting them with their new colored belts.
One after another. Until it became painfully obvious that Ryker wasn’t one of them. Almost every child in the room at his level was given a new belt. Only three were not.
I sat there feeling my stomach sink. The parent next to me noticed what was happening and quietly said, “They should at least get something.”
I nodded, even as another voice inside my head challenged me. I have always claimed to believe that participation trophies aren’t helpful. I’ve said that awards should be earned through performance and achievement. I believe that struggle builds character and that resilience comes from overcoming disappointment.
Yet in that moment, my emotions betrayed my principles. I wanted him to get something. Anything.
I silently battled with myself while watching the class continue. Then, near the end, the instructor awarded Ryker a stripe on his belt for participating in the special class.
The relief I felt was immediate.
Followed quickly by guilt.
Courtesy Photo: Ryker, receiving another stripe on his way to earning his yellow belt.
Wasn’t I the one who believed kids needed to earn recognition? Why was I suddenly grateful for what could easily be dismissed as a participation award?
But underneath all of that was a deeper fear: I knew Ryker had to be disappointed. Or at least, I thought I knew. As the class ended, Ryker bounded over to me with excitement.
“Mom! I’m so close to my next belt!” he said. “I just need to practice two more karate moves.”
He wasn’t devastated. He wasn’t embarrassed. He wasn’t questioning his worth. He was motivated.
He understood exactly what he needed to do to earn the next belt, and he was excited to get back to work. Meanwhile, I had spent the entire class spiraling. It made me realize something uncomfortable: The emotional roller coaster I had put myself through wasn’t about Ryker at all. It was about me. I was projecting my own childhood disappointments onto my son.
When I was in seventh grade, I didn’t make the dance team. I had been on the team for three years. All of my friends made it. I didn’t. I remember the embarrassment. The anger. The overwhelming feeling that life as I knew it was over. Yes, slightly dramatic; I was 13, after all.
I missed an entire year of competitive dance. But something unexpected happened. It lit a fire in me.
I increased the number of dance classes I took each week. I practiced endlessly at home. I stretched, trained and worked harder than I ever had before. I did everything possible to prepare for the next year’s auditions. And it paid off. In eighth grade, I made the team.
And along the way, one of my dance instructors, Soraya, saw my determination. She saw how hard I was working and poured her support into me. She encouraged me when I doubted myself and reminded me that setbacks didn’t define my potential.
Courtesy Photo: Ryker Summer
Her belief in me mattered. The grit had to come from within, but her encouragement helped sustain it.
The confidence that came from earning my way back wasn’t rooted in talent. It was built through effort. Through persistence. Through proving to myself that setbacks weren’t permanent. That drive and grit have continued to shape my life decades later.
Believing that you are capable of improving and achieving your goals through hard work is an incredible gift. As parents, we desperately want to shield our children from pain and disappointment. We remember our own heartbreaks so vividly that we instinctively try to soften every blow.
But maybe our job isn’t to prevent disappointment. Maybe our job is to help our children move through it. To remind them that not getting something today doesn’t mean they won’t earn it tomorrow. To teach them that setbacks are information, not identity. To show them that disappointment can coexist with determination.
As I reflected on that karate class, I realized the lesson wasn’t that participation awards are always wrong or that recognition should be given without merit. Maybe the answer is that both things can be true. Achievement matters. Earning the belt matters. Making the team matters. Accomplishments built through discipline, effort and perseverance create confidence that cannot be manufactured.
But progress matters, too.
Jen Paul Schroer is a dedicated community leader with a proven track record of driving positive change. As a three-time Senate-confirmed cabinet secretary, trade association CEO, and chamber of commerce executive director, Jen has extensive experience in both the public and private sectors. As a wife and mother of two, Jen is deeply committed to improving the local community and supporting the economic well-being of families as the editor and owner of Tumbleweeds magazine and other ventures.