There’s a moment that happens at almost every competition I attend. A fencer comes off the strip after a loss. Before she even has time to take off her mask, her parent is already there: “Why didn’t you finish your attack when she was at the back line? You had the moment! And that last touch — you should have parried instead of counter-attacking.”

The fencer’s eyes go flat. She nods, says nothing, and walks away to pack her bag. The parent thinks they’ve just helped. They haven’t. They’ve just inserted themselves into a conversation they were never supposed to be part of — and in doing so, they’ve undermined the coach, confused the fencer, and damaged the one relationship that matters most in this triangle: the trust between child and parent.

I’ve been coaching for over a decade and parenting four competitive fencers for just as long. I’ve been on every side of this equation — the coach watching a parent undo a week’s worth of mental preparation in thirty seconds, and the parent biting my tongue in the stands while my own child makes a mistake I desperately want to correct. I know how hard it is. And I know that most parents who overstep aren’t doing it out of ego — they’re doing it because they love their child and can’t stand watching them struggle.

But love without structure causes chaos. And that’s what this post is about: the structure.

Three Roles, Three Lanes, One Triangle

The parent-fencer-coach relationship works only when each person stays in their lane. Not because the lanes are rigid or because one role is more important than another, but because crossing lanes creates confusion — and confusion is the enemy of performance.

The coach’s lane is technical, tactical, and mental development. The coach decides what to work on in practice, what game plan to bring to competition, what adjustments to make between bouts, between events and between tournaments. The coach gives feedback on technique, reads the opponent, and guides the fencer’s competitive development. This is the coach’s expertise, and it needs to be respected even when — especially when — you disagree with a decision.

The fencer’s lane is execution and ownership. The fencer is the one on the strip. They make the decisions in real time. They feel the bout in a way that nobody watching from the sideline can fully understand. Their job is to absorb the coaching, execute the plan, and take responsibility for the outcome — good or bad.

The parent’s lane is logistics, emotional support, and the big picture. You get them to practice. You get them to tournaments. You make sure they eat, sleep, hydrate, and have working equipment. You provide the emotional safety net that allows them to take risks on the strip without fear of judgment at home. And you keep the long view — the one that sees fencing as part of your child’s development, not the entirety of it.

When these three lanes are respected, the system works beautifully. When they’re not, everything breaks down. I wrote about one of the most visible breakdowns — parents coaching from the sidelines — in my post on Silencing the Sidelines. But what happens on the strip during a bout is only the most obvious symptom. The deeper communication failures happen before and after, in the moments when nobody is watching.

The Uncomfortable Truth About Paying Customers

Let me say something that most coaches won’t say out loud.

Parents pay for their child’s fencing. They pay for lessons, for club membership, for strip coaching at competitions, for travel, for equipment. This creates a dynamic that is rarely acknowledged: the parent is a paying customer, and the coach is, in some sense, providing a service. This makes it genuinely awkward for coaches to tell parents to back off.

I admit — I rarely ask parents from my own club to keep quiet on the strip, even when I should, because we are in America and they are paying me to coach their child. If they think their unsolicited advice is helping, well, in most cases I’d rather keep my opinion to myself than risk the relationship.

But the truth is that the fact that you’re paying for coaching doesn’t make you a co-coach. You’re paying for expertise, the same way you pay a doctor or a tutor. You wouldn’t stand next to your child’s math teacher and offer alternative solutions during a lesson, or next to a surgeon giving suggestions despite how much you’ve read about this procedure on ChatGPT. The same principle applies here. Your financial investment gives you the right to expect professionalism, communication, and results over time. It does not give you the right to direct the coaching.

The Post-Bout Moment

The single most common communication failure I see — and I see it every single tournament — is what happens in the first five minutes after a bout ends.

The rule is quite simple, and I cannot state it strongly enough: do not give your child technical feedback after a bout. Not after a loss. Not after a win. Not ever. That is the coach’s job.

I know what you’re thinking. “But I saw the mistake clearly. It was obvious. Anyone could see it.” Maybe you’re right. Maybe it was obvious. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is who delivers the message, how and when.

When a parent gives technical feedback, several things happen simultaneously, none of them good. It confuses the fencer, especially if the parent’s observation contradicts what the coach has been working on. It undermines the coach’s authority — if the parent is doing the coach’s job, what does the fencer need the coach for? And most importantly, it turns the parent from a safe haven into another evaluator, one more person grading their performance.

So what should you do instead?

If your child just lost: be present. A hand on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you for competing.” Silence is often better than words. Let them process. If they want to talk, let them lead. If they don’t, respect that.

If your child just won: celebrate briefly and proportionally. “Great bout!” is enough. Don’t dissect why they won. Don’t berate their opponent, give luck or referee decision any significant weight. Don’t point out what they could have done better even in victory. Let them enjoy it.

The detailed technical conversation belongs to the coach, and it often doesn’t need to happen at the tournament at all. Many coaches prefer to address technical issues at the next practice, when emotions have settled and the fencer can actually absorb the information.

The Car Ride Home

If the post-bout moment is the most common failure, the car ride home is where the most damage is done.

You have a captive audience. Your child is physically unable to leave. The emotions from the day are still raw. And you, the parent, have been staying near their strip for eight hours with nothing to do but watch and accumulate opinions about everything your child did wrong.

I’ve talked to enough fencers over the years to know that many of them dread the car ride home more than the competition itself. Not because their parents are cruel, but because the car becomes an involuntary debrief where every mistake gets dissected and every result gets analyzed. The child learns that competition comes with a price: the post-tournament interrogation.

Over the years, with my own son, I’ve learned to handle this differently. After a tough loss, I would just ignore it or at most say something simple: “If you want to talk about this competition, I’m happy to discuss. Otherwise, we can talk about anything else and return to it whenever you want.”

Sometimes it ends in “there’s nothing to discuss.” Sometimes it leads to a detailed conversation. But the key is that it’s his choice, not mine. He knows I’m not going to criticize him. After all, I know he didn’t travel across the country with a desire to lose — things happen. 

But that trust took years to build. It didn’t happen overnight and it didn’t happen by accident. It happened because I made a deliberate choice, over and over, to keep the car a safe space, after making my share of mistakes and learning from them. Parents who are earlier in this journey: start now. The investment pays off.

What I Learned From Watching My Son

My son is one of the top US Junior epee fencers. In the last three NACs he won two Golds and a Bronze at the JO’s, losing in priority in the semifinal. And here’s what I think separates my perspective from many other fencing parents: while I genuinely believe he is one of the leaders in his age group, I know he is going to lose a fair share of his bouts and competitions, and I’m totally fine with it.

Unlike many parents I observe, for me the immediate result doesn’t define the experience, even if it’s a bad loss in the first DE. Not that I don’t want him to win — I obviously do, very much so. But I think my heartbeat is slower than other parents when I watch him fence. I’ve learned to enjoy his fencing in the abstract, without attaching a result to it.

For example, his Bronze medal bouts in JO’s were much more interesting to me than his Gold ones. While I was sorry he didn’t become a champion that day, the quality of his top 16 and top 8 bouts was extraordinary — the tactical depth, the composure, the adjustments he made between touches. He lost the semifinal in priority. That’s not a tragedy. That’s information. And most importantly, he knows what needs to happen next.

Most parents would trade a beautiful loss for an ugly win without thinking twice. I understand that instinct. But I think it’s wrong. If you can learn to appreciate the quality of your child’s fencing independent of the result, you free yourself from the emotional rollercoaster that destroys so many fencing families — and you free your child to compete without the weight of your expectations on their shoulders.

When and How to Talk to the Coach

Parents need to communicate with coaches. That’s not optional — it’s essential. But how and when matters enormously.

Good reasons to contact the coach include logistical information like schedule conflicts, injuries, and travel plans; questions about your child’s long-term development; discussions about training frequency or lesson scheduling; and raising concerns about your child’s emotional state or motivation. As I wrote in my post on what to look for in a fencing coach, your club and coaches should have an open door policy for this kind of communication.

What doesn’t belong in the parent-coach conversation: questioning tactical decisions made during a bout, suggesting why your child lost a specific match, comparing your child’s training to another fencer’s, or relitigating a referee’s call. These conversations put the coach in a defensive position and rarely lead anywhere productive.

Timing matters too. Before or after practice, during a calm moment, or through a scheduled conversation — that’s productive. At a tournament, immediately after a bout, in front of your child, or in front of other parents — that’s destructive. And one absolute rule: never critique the coach in front of your child. Even if you’re right. Even if the coach made a mistake. That conversation happens privately, adult to adult. The moment your child sees you undermining their coach, the trust in that entire triangle cracks. As I wrote years ago — trust your coach, or find a new one. But don’t try to do their job.

The Tournament Communication Protocol

There’s also a practical, logistical layer to parent-coach communication that gets overlooked because it’s not emotional — it’s operational. But it matters.

At any large tournament, a coach is managing multiple fencers across multiple events running simultaneously. The coach physically cannot be everywhere at once. This means parents often serve as the communication link — and doing this well is a genuine contribution.

Work out a simple text messaging protocol with your child’s coach before the competition. Something like: “Sarah fences next in pool, strip B12 (so far 3W, 1L).” Or: “Sarah’s DE is called, strip 7. Initial seeding: she’s 14, opponent’s 8.” Short, factual, timely. No analysis, no editorial commentary. Just the information the coach needs to be in the right place at the right time.

This is one of the most valuable things a parent can do at a competition. It’s not glamorous. It doesn’t feel like coaching. But it directly impacts whether your child has their coach present for the bouts and has the right information that matter most.

A Note to Fencers

This post is mostly addressed to parents, but fencers: you have responsibilities in this triangle too.

As you get older — particularly from Cadet age and up — you should be increasingly involved in your own development conversations. You should be able to tell your coach what you’re working on, what you struggle with, and what your goals are. You should be the one telling your coach your pool results, not your parent. You should be the one asking questions after a lesson, not waiting for your parent to ask on your behalf.

This doesn’t happen automatically. It’s a skill that develops when parents and coaches create space for it. But you have to step into that space. The fencer who takes ownership of their own communication — with their coach, with their parent, with themselves — is the fencer who is building the foundation for independence that will serve them far beyond the strip.

The goal is to gradually shift from a triangle where the parent and coach talk about you, to a system where you are at the center of your own development. By the time you’re a Junior, you should be having most of these conversations with your coach directly, with your parent stepping back into a supporting role.

Trust the System

I understand why parents overstep. I really do. You’ve invested thousands of dollars, countless hours, and enormous emotional energy into your child’s fencing. You want it to work. You want to help. And watching from the sidelines while your child struggles feels unbearable.

But the best thing you can do — the hardest thing and the most important thing — is trust the system. Trust the coach to do their job. Trust your child to fight their own battles on the strip. Trust the process that brought you to this point.

Your child doesn’t need another coach. They already have one. What they need is a parent — someone who loves them regardless of the score, who provides stability when the sport feels chaotic, who keeps the car ride home a safe space, and who can watch a beautiful semifinal loss and see the extraordinary fencing instead of only the missing medal.

That’s your lane. And it’s the most important one.