When I watch the Winter Olympics, I can’t disconnect myself from my role of a sports parent. While the Olympic Games is the highest possible scene in sports, a pinnacle of sport achievement for selected few, the work, the drama, the emotions, high or low, the triumphs or crashes, these all things are something that we experience too, maybe not at the same scale as these celebrated and accomplished athletes, but in the world of our children, these things are very close.

For good or for worse, these Winter Olympics provide a lot of heartbreaking moments, a lot of controversy, and give a lot of material for thoughts. Every time I see something that happens there I think to myself about my own parenting experiences and choices.

The latest was yesterday’s drama in the slalom event, when the poles were thrown away over the fence and the Gold medal favorite skier angrily walked away through the snow toward the woods. In fencing this is equivalent to throwing the mask or snapping one’s blade – something we consider utterly un-sportsmanship and which is punishable by black card, sometimes with dire consequences, as it was the case with Epee Men’s team disqualification at the Pan American championship before the Olympics and the whole team losing their chance to compete at Paris Olympics 2024.

So what happened at the Olympic slope? A Norwegian ski raced Atle Lie McGrath, who entered the final and his best event with a big lead, made a fatal mistake by straddling a gate in the first 15 seconds and immediately disqualifying in what was supposed to be a guaranteed gold run. As heartbreaking as it is, such things happen at any sport and to every athlete. Mistakes, miscalculations, nerves – all this is part of the game. If you are a sports parent for a reasonable time, I’m sure you have witnessed this not once with your own child. But what’s not that usual at the Olympics is an epic meltdown that followed this fatal crash.

McGrath threw his poles away above the fence, climbed the security fencing and stumbled away through the snow toward the woods, where he laid on his back in a hope that photographers and media wouldn’t catch him. Well, they are very alert to any drama and potential scoop, so escaping them was a futile effort.

What he said two hours later when he finally made it to the hotel was heart breaking: “I’m normally a guy that’s very good when it comes to perspective on things. And if I don’t ski well in a race, I can at least tell myself that I’m healthy and my family’s healthy and the people I love are here. So that’s nice, but that’s not been the case. I’ve lost someone I love so much and that makes it really hard.”

And the context is crucial here: McGrath had been racing with a heavy heart as his grandfather died the day of the opening ceremony. He was even unsure if he could run the race at all. But he did and his first race brought him close to the gold, which he missed in his best event. “I gave myself the absolute best opportunity you could today,” he said. “I skied so great, and I still couldn’t get it done. So that’s what really hurts.”

These words stopped me in my tracks. They give their absolute best and still they can fail.

Two Athletes, Two Weights

I wrote a few days ago about Ilia Malinin’s stunning collapse at the Olympics – the Quad God who entered as the unquestioned favorite, two-time World Champion, and finished 8th after his free skate routine disintegrated. The commentators had compared him to 5G while calling the others flip phones. That’s how dominant he was supposed to be.

Malinin was carrying the weight of expectations. The weight of hype. The weight of everyone’s certainty that he would win. The pressure of being untouchable, unbeatable, already crowned before he even skated.

McGrath was carrying something entirely different. The weight of grief. The weight of loss. The weight of trying to perform at the highest level while mourning someone he loved.

Two different weights. Both crushing in their own way.

And I cannot stop thinking what these two stories teach us as sports parents: our athletes are always carrying something we might not see.

What Athletes Carry Into Competition

The Norwegian skier said it himself: “I’m normally a guy that’s very good when it comes to perspective on things.”

He knew how to handle bad performances. He knew how to tell himself that what really matters is health and family and the people he loves. He had the mental tools that sports psychologists teach, the perspective that mature athletes develop.

But none of it worked. Because grief doesn’t care about your mental toughness. Loss doesn’t respond to perspective. When someone you love dies, the comforting mantras that usually ground you – “at least I’m healthy, at least my family’s healthy” – become meaningless.

McGrath did everything right in his preparation. He skied beautifully in the first run. He put himself in position to win Olympic gold. “He does everything right,” his teammate said, “and then that happens in 15 seconds.”

Sometimes it’s not about preparation. Sometimes it’s not about mental toughness. Sometimes athletes are carrying weight that makes perfect execution impossible, no matter how ready they are.

The Invisible Burdens

Your young athlete might be carrying things you don’t know about.

Maybe they’re carrying expectations like Malinin – not just yours, but their own. The weight of being the top-ranked fencer in their age group. The pressure of college coaches watching. The burden of teammates who look up to them. The fear of disappointing everyone who believes in them.

Maybe they’re carrying grief like McGrath – a grandparent’s illness, a family friend’s death, a pet they grew up with. Something that makes it hard to care about the competition even though they’re standing there trying to compete.

Maybe they’re carrying anxiety about school. Social pressure from peers. Friendship drama. Body image issues. Fear of failure. Fear of success. The weight of growing up in a world that feels increasingly uncertain and overwhelming.

Maybe they’re carrying the weight of your investment – the thousands of dollars, the hours of driving, the family schedule reorganized around their training. They know what you’ve sacrificed. They feel the obligation to make it worth it.

Or maybe they’re carrying something they haven’t told anyone. Something they think they should handle on their own. Something they’re ashamed of or confused by or just don’t have words for yet.

You don’t always know what they’re carrying. Sometimes they don’t even know themselves until the pressure of competition makes it impossible to ignore.

When “Just Focus” Doesn’t Work

McGrath’s teammate said it: “He’s doing everything perfect.”

Perfect preparation. Perfect first run. Perfect position. And still he couldn’t get it done.

This is what sports parents need to understand: sometimes your child does everything right and still fails, not because they didn’t try hard enough, weren’t mentally tough enough, or needed better preparation or more practice or stronger focus, but because they’re human. Because they’re carrying weight that makes performance impossible at that moment. Because grief or anxiety or pressure or pain overwhelms even the best technical, physical or mental preparation.

When your child has a terrible performance – when they collapse tactically, when they fence timidly, when they seem to give up – before you ask “What happened?” or say “You needed to focus better,” consider what they might be carrying that you can’t see.

What Support Actually Looks Like

McGrath’s teammate knew immediately: “We need to really back him up today.” Just that – we need to back him up.

That’s what support looks like after a devastating performance. Not analysis, advice or disappointment masked as concern. The only thing they really need is you backing them up.

When McGrath finally emerged from the woods and faced the media two hours later, he was honest about his pain. That vulnerability came from somewhere too. From knowing it was safe to fall apart. From knowing he didn’t have to pretend everything was fine.

When Malinin’s scores were announced and his Olympic dream evaporated, he immediately went to the gold medalist and congratulated him wholeheartedly. That grace under devastating disappointment came from somewhere. I’d bet it came from a family and coaching environment that taught him his value wasn’t contingent on results.

Both of these young men will carry these Olympic moments for the rest of their lives. What determines whether these moments destroy them or define them isn’t the performance itself – it’s what happens after.

Your child needs you to be proud of them not for what happened out there, but for what brought them there – including the courage it took to compete while carrying whatever weight they were carrying.

They need you to understand that sometimes perspective fails. Sometimes mental toughness isn’t enough. Sometimes doing everything right still ends in heartbreak.

And they need you to be there anyway, backing them up.

The Performance You Didn’t See

What I saw in McGrath’s performance was a young man who lost someone he loved but still showed up to compete at the Olympics. Who carried grief through qualifying, through training, through the opening ceremony, through the first run where he skied beautifully and put himself in position to win. While from a medal standing perspective his performance was a failure, for me it was extraordinary courage.

Most people see the first 15 seconds resulting in failure, but for me the triumph was in the 12 days of showing up while grieving.

Your child’s “bad performance” might actually be the most courageous thing they’ve done. You just can’t see it because you don’t know what weight they carried to get there.

So before you judge the result, consider the weight.

Before you analyze the failure, consider the courage it took to try.

And no matter what happened out there, back them up.

They’re carrying enough already. They need you to help carry the weight, not add to it.