Sometimes Love Hides in the Bushes: Rethinking the Pressure of Parenting, Sports, and Letting Them Find Their Own Way

My dad’s first day of school looked a lot different than childhood looks today.

His parents didn’t walk him into the building.

They didn’t take pictures.

They didn’t explain every detail or ease every fear.

They simply put him on the bus with his older brother, said goodbye… and trusted he’d figure it out.

Can you even imagine that now?

Today, we know everything.

We track grades, practices, playing time, coaches, group chats, recruiting, friendships, emotions...all of it.

We don’t just raise our kids anymore…

we manage them.

And sometimes that is love.

But sometimes… it becomes pressure.

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I thought about that after reading an article about Fenwick standout Lucy Luers...one of the top players in the GCL conference who spoke honestly about the pressure of playing for her parents, who are also her coaches.

She said it creates “a lot of pressure.”

She said “everybody looks at me.”

That line stayed with me.

Because just this past weekend, Ema said something that stopped me in my tracks.

She told me that when she played basketball, she felt pressure — from me, from Nick, from our history in the sport, and even from her high school coaches who are Lucy's parents, and were like second parents to her.

And layered into that…

Lucy.

Her best friend since sixth grade.

Like a sister to her.

And if I’m being honest...like a daughter to me.

Of course there was pressure.

Not because the love wasn’t real.

But because sometimes… love gets loud.

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And then Ema said something that made me laugh...because it was so simple and so true.

She told me she never felt that same pressure in volleyball.

Why?

“Because I know you and Dad don’t know the sport,” she said.

“And I know more than you.”

And she’s right.

One hundred percent right. We are both stupid idiots when it comes to the sport of volleyball.

And maybe that’s exactly why she found her love there.

Because it was hers.

Not ours.

Not influenced, not overanalyzed, not coached from the car ride home.

Just hers.

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Maybe that’s the lesson.

Maybe we...as parents...need to step back more.

Maybe we need to trust more.

Maybe we need to stop inserting ourselves into every moment and start allowing space for something greater to step in.

Because when we loosen our grip…

God often steps closer.

And in that space...in that quiet, unforced, unpressured space...something beautiful happens.

Our kids begin to hear their own voice.

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I think about that when I remember my own dad.

My sophomore year, I played the match that would send me to state in tennis.

My dad knew something about me...something I didn’t even fully understand at the time.

He knew that when he watched me, I felt pressure. Not because he was hard on me… but because I cared so much about what he thought.

So do you know what he did?

He hid.

In the bushes.

Literally.

He watched without me knowing, because he loved me enough to remove himself from the moment.

I won the match.

And afterward, he walked out and hugged me.

I remember being shocked to see him.

But now I understand…

That was love.

Not loud love.

Not controlling love.

Not visible, performative, ever-present love.

Quiet love.

Wise love.

The kind of love that says:

This moment belongs to you — not me.

There is something deeply faithful about that kind of parenting.

It requires trust.

It requires restraint.

It requires surrender.

It requires believing that God is already working in your child’s life...without your constant intervention.

That they are being guided.

That they are being shaped.

That they are being carried… even when you step back.

By angels you cannot always see.

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Our generation of parents does so many things beautifully.

We are present.

We are involved.

We care deeply.

But maybe we also need to ask ourselves something honestly:

Are we helping our children…

or are we making them carry us too?

Maybe not every game needs analysis.

Maybe not every mistake needs correction.

Maybe not every moment needs our voice.

Maybe sometimes the greatest gift we can give our children…

is space.

Space to struggle.

Space to grow.

Space to choose.

Space to fall in love with something that doesn’t belong to us.

Because when something truly belongs to them…

That’s where confidence is built.

That’s where joy lives.

That’s where purpose begins.

And maybe... just maybe...

more of us need to learn what my dad already knew all those years ago:

Sometimes love doesn’t sit in the stands.

Sometimes…

love hides in the bushes.

The Scrapbook

After writing all of this…

I went back to find the “hiding in the bushes” picture...tucked inside my mom’s perfectly labeled, carefully kept scrapbook from my sophomore year.

My mom didn’t grow up playing sports.

And she definitely wasn’t our coach like my dad.

But she was always there.

The one in the stands.

The one behind the camera.

The one capturing it all.

Every game.

Every moment.

Every newspaper clipping...saved.

Held onto.

As a kid, I didn’t get it.

It felt like too much.

But now…

I see it for what it was.

Love.

The kind that preserves.

The kind that remembers.

The kind that says, this mattered.

Thank you, Mom.

And as I turned those pages…pieces of my life I had completely forgotten...

came gently back to me.

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It starts with the match.

The one that advanced me to state.

The one where my dad hid in the bushes.

And there it is...an actual picture of him...crouched down, peeking through the greenery, watching without being seen.

My mom even wrote it down like it was completely normal:

“Good luck charm… Dad hides in the bushes.”

And right next to it… in her same calm, steady handwriting:

“Good job, honey.”

I laughed out loud.

Because that was my dad.

And that was my mom.

That was their love.

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And then the pages turn.

Match notes.

Scores.

Little updates in my mom’s handwriting — like she was sitting right there, just quietly documenting it all.

“Great seed...#5."

“A bye in round 1.”

“Here we go...first match.”

“A little pep talk!”

And then, tucked in like only a mom would notice:

“We're all so proud, Elizabeth.”

“Advance to next round.”

Steady.

Encouraging.

Never too much.

Just enough.

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And then this one:

“Maybe you’re not a jinx after all, Dad!”

I can just picture it.

The humor.

The lightness.

The way my mom held space for both of them in that moment.

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But here’s the part that stopped me.

My parents weren’t even at state.

They were in New York… at my uncle’s wedding.

And somehow — I had completely forgotten that.

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Instead…

I was there with my people.

Julie and Jenna Tellefsen — “the twins.”

My best friends since grade school.

“My family for the weekend,” my mom wrote under one of the pictures.

And she was right.

That’s exactly what they were.

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Their dad — Mr. T.

A man who coached us in basketball all our years in grade school together at Sacred Heart.

He believed in us, he showed up for us long before any of this mattered.

The twins didn’t make it to state that year.

I was the only one from St. Catherine’s.

But they still came.

They stayed.

They drove me.

They sat in the stands.

They cheered like it was theirs too.

Because it was never about me.

It was always about we.

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And I didn’t remember any of it.

Not the matches.

Not the scores.

Not even how I played.

Apparently, according to my mom’s notes when I was playing in the state consolation match for 5th place…I was

“having a bad day.”

Which makes perfect sense.

Because I’m me.

And I’m hard on myself.

And I probably couldn’t see what was right in front of me.

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But here’s what I do remember.

I remember my dad hiding in the bushes.

And now…

I remember this.

“I can’t believe we’re here!!”

That line, written across the top of one of the pages —

full of excitement, innocence, possibility.

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I made First Team All-County in Racine.

I earned All-State honors.

There’s even the certificate —

carefully saved, perfectly preserved.

But none of that is what stayed with me.

Not really.

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What stayed…

were the people.

The ones who showed up.

The ones who didn’t have to be there — but were.

The ones who made it feel like I was never alone.

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Even the pictures in the scrapbook…

weren’t taken by my mom.

They were taken by Mrs. Tellefsen.

For my mom.

You can still see the timestamps printed on them.

So simple.

So old school.

So full of care.

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And in between it all… my mom’s quiet voice again:

“A little time to relax in Madison before Day 2.”

“We love them...them Badger!”

“And we love Mad-Town.”

She wasn’t just documenting tennis.

She was capturing the moment.

The joy.

The people.

The experience.

The life around the sport.

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And it hit me…

That’s it.

That’s what matters.

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Not the rankings.

Not the stats.

Not the tournaments.

Not even the wins.

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It’s the people who stand beside you.

The ones who carry you when you don’t even realize you need it.

The ones who show up in quiet ways…

Like hiding in bushes.

Like sitting in stands.

Like writing “good job, honey” in the margins.

Like taking pictures for someone else’s memories.

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That’s love.

That’s community.

That’s what lasts.

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And it’s so different than what we see now.

So different than the pressure.

The expectations.

The weight some of these kids are carrying.

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I think about Lucy.

And I wish I could hug her.

I wish she knew…

That this part — the pressure, the expectations, the noise...

it fades.

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But what doesn’t fade…

Are the people.

The real ones.

The ones who choose you.

The ones who stay.

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Because here’s the truth I didn’t understand back then…

and only see now:

I don’t remember my state run.

But I still have my people.

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Friends from grade school.

High school.

College.

Even preschool.

Still here.

Still showing up.

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That is the real win.

That is the blessing.

That is the legacy.

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Those are the angels God sends.

Over and over again.

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And I have been so incredibly blessed to have them from the very beginning.

Through my parents.

Through my grandparents.

Through my teammates.

Through my friends.

A family built on something deeper.

Something lasting.

Something faithful.

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Covenant love.

The kind that stays.

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And now…

I see it being carried forward.

Through me and Nick.

Through our children.

Who are already shining brighter than anything I ever accomplished.

Spreading light in ways that matter far more than any scoreboard ever could.

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And for that…

I will always be grateful.

Always be humbled.

Always be in awe.

Because God is Good.

And I am forever blessed for the Guardian Angels He has sent me.

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Prayer to Your Guardian Angel

Angel of God, my guardian dear,

to whom God’s love commits me here,

ever this day be at my side,

to light and guard, to rule and guide.

Amen.

Captured by Jody, Saved with Love