Why Your Kids Need to See You Fail

- and Why I’m Learning to Let Them

Photo by Timon Studler on Unsplash

I am a failure!

That’s not a confession I make lightly—or often. But there it is, in black and white, a truth I’ve spent a lifetime trying to conceal, especially from those closest to me. Most of all, from my children.

For so long, I’ve internalized the belief that failure was a stain—evidence of weakness, ineptitude, or not trying hard enough. I wasn’t handed that belief explicitly, but it was there in the quiet nods of approval when I succeeded, the silence when I didn’t, the discomfort in adults’ eyes when a child tried and missed. We learn early to hide failure, to mask it, to bury it under performance and perfection.

And yet, some of the most meaningful lessons I’ve learned in life have come not from my triumphs, but from the jagged, humbling, character-shaping moments of failure.

Where the Fear Begins

Our culture’s dysfunctional relationship with failure is learned in childhood. There’s research to back this up. Carol Dweck’s work on growth mindset shows that when children are praised solely for their intelligence or success—rather than effort or resilience—they often develop an aversion to challenge. They fear failure, equating it with personal deficiency.

In therapy, I’ve worked with countless adults whose earliest wounds were formed not by failure itself, but by how those failures were handled—shamed, ignored, or used as weapons. A failed test. A bad decision. A social misstep. Instead of being normalized, those experiences were framed as indicators of worthlessness. So we grow up avoiding risk, chasing perfection, or burning ourselves out trying to outrun a truth we fear: that we are fallible.

Interrogating the Word "Failure"

What do we even mean when we say "failure"?

Is it falling short of a goal? Disappointing others? Losing something we tried to hold onto? And who gets to decide when a failure is final?

I’ve come to realize that failure isn’t a destination—it’s a part of the journey. A teacher. A mirror. A disruptor. It humbles us. It wakes us up. It invites us to reconsider our values and recalibrate our direction.

I have failed in jobs, in relationships, in parenting. I’ve made bad calls. I've misunderstood people I love. I’ve pushed too hard, or not enough. And yes, my kids have seen it.

And that’s the point.

The Grit in the Comeback

My kids need to see me fail—not because I want to model struggle, but because I want to model recovery. I want them to witness resilience in real time. I want them to know that when things fall apart, they don’t have to.

When I mess up and take responsibility, I teach them accountability.
When I say “I’m sorry,” I teach them humility.
When I recalibrate and try again, I teach them perseverance.
When I cry or get overwhelmed but keep showing up, I teach them grace.

Too often, we think we need to be perfect in front of our children—to shield them from our shortcomings, to hide our anxiety, to never raise our voices or lose our way. But perfection is a dangerous illusion. What our children actually need is for us to be real. Present. Human.

Parenting Without the Cape

I’m not their superhero. I’m their father.

That means I lead with love, not omnipotence. It means I show them how to navigate life not by hiding my scars, but by living with them openly and honestly.

When children see adults apologize, shift course, or regroup after defeat, it builds their emotional intelligence. It lays the groundwork for self-compassion. It helps them internalize that setbacks are not stop signs. They’re invitations.

And in my counseling work, I see what happens when this doesn’t occur—when adults are so afraid of failure they can’t move forward, so burdened by shame they can’t forgive themselves, so perfectionist they don’t risk being fully known.

We break that cycle by showing our children that failure is not the opposite of success—it’s part of it.

The Hardest Truth

It’s still hard. Every day, I battle the inner critic that tells me I’m not enough. I still want to present a version of myself to the world—especially to my children—that is unbreakable. But I’ve learned that what’s unbreakable is often unbendable. And what can’t bend, breaks.

So, I let myself bend. I let them see it. And then I invite them to walk with me as I rise.

Not perfectly.

But faithfully.

---

If this reflection resonated with you, I’d love to hear from you in the comments:
What has failure taught you—and what do you hope your children or loved ones learn from watching you rise?

If you found value in this piece, please consider liking it, sharing it with someone who might need it today, or subscribing to support this ongoing journey of storytelling, reflection, and reclamation.

Your presence here matters more than you know.

With gratitude,
Jackie
Tethered Together: Perspectives on the Human Experience