Uncomfortable Is Where It Starts He is nine years old. And he reminded me everything about sitting in discomfort.
He Is Nine Years Old. And He Reminded Me Everything About Sitting in Discomfort.
A blog post by Angela Valeri | Veracia Life Coaching
This one isn't about a client.
It's about my son.
And I'm writing it because what I watched him go through this past week stayed with me in a way I wasn't expecting. Not just as a proud mom, though I am that, completely, but as someone who spends her days talking to women about discomfort, persistence, and what happens when you refuse to quit on yourself.
He showed me all of it. In real time. On a soccer field in Miami.
A New Team. A Different Country. And Nobody Rolling Out the Welcome Mat.
Layo is nine years old.
We entered him into a tournament in Miami with a team he had practiced with only a handful of times. He was the youngest on the roster. Many of the boys had history with each other, chemistry, shorthand, trust. Layo was walking into something already formed, trying to find his place inside it.
And they weren't exactly opening the door for him.
Not maliciously. Kids don't always know they're doing it. But he wasn't being pulled in. He wasn't being passed to. He was on the field but not really in it, and as his mom, I could see exactly what was happening even when he couldn't put words to it.
He was struggling to find where he fit.
And it was hard to watch.
The Shoulders. The Fingers. The Boy Who Wasn't Himself.
I know what Layo looks like when he's locked in on a field. I've watched him play enough to know the difference between him performing and him holding back.
This was holding back.
Shoulders up near his ears. Picking at his fingers, head down. Playing small. Doing just enough not to stand out, in the worst way. He wasn't performing and the team couldn't see what we knew he was capable of. Because the version of him they were getting wasn't the real version.
It wasn't his fault. It wasn't their fault either.
He just wasn't comfortable yet. And you cannot perform from a place where you don't feel like you belong.
First game, he got 10 minutes. He came off that field pissed off and defeated, and we gave him the hard truth: You haven't given them a reason to trust you yet. That's just where you are. Keep showing up.
He didn't want to hear it.
But he heard it.
You Can't Force the Result Before You've Built the Foundation.
Here's what I watched play out over the course of a few days,
Layo kept showing up. Not perfectly. Not confidently. But consistently.
He started to find the moments where he could connect, a pass here, a defensive play there, small things that started to build something between him and these boys. Slowly, the team started to see him. And slowly, he started to feel safe enough to actually be himself.
The foundation wasn't ready yet. So the result couldn't be either.
And Then Came the Semifinals.
By the time the semifinals arrived, something had shifted that I can't fully explain but absolutely felt from the stands.
These boys were a team now. Not on paper, actually. They'd built something real in the days between games, and it showed up on the field in a way that made my chest tight.
Layo scored two goals in that semifinal.
Two goals. The kid who played 10 minutes in game one, who came off the field angry and defeated, who couldn't find his footing in a group that wasn't making room for him, he went out and scored twice and brought his team to the championship.
His father and I were beside ourselves.
The Penalty Shot.
I need to talk about the championship. Specifically, one moment in the championship that I will remember for the rest of my life.
A penalty shot.
My nine year old son, standing at that spot, the whole game hanging by each brave player stepping up in front of that net. I was woozy. I'm not exaggerating. My knees were soft. My heart was somewhere in my throat. His father was next to me and I don't think either of us was breathing.
And Layo?
Calm. Collected. Like he'd been there a thousand times.
He stepped up, composed himself, and scored. Confidently. Then turned and walked away like he knew exactly what he was doing the whole time.
His father and I were weak in the knees with tears in our eyes.
That's the only way I can describe it. Pure, overwhelming, tearful pride, watching your child do something that you weren't even sure you could have handled at his age. At any age.
They won the championship.
A group of boys who had barely played together, in a country that wasn't theirs, becoming something real because they took the time to become real with each other first.
What My Nine Year Old Taught Me This Week
As a life coach. I spend my days sitting with women who are navigating pressure, identity, burnout, trauma, and the gap between who they are and how they're showing up.
And watching Layo this week, I saw something I recognize deeply.
The pressure to perform before you're ready. The pain of being in a room, or on a field, where no one can see what you're capable of yet, because the conditions haven't been right for you to show it. The temptation to shrink, to hold back, to protect yourself when the environment doesn't feel safe.
And the absolute necessity of staying in it anyway.
Layo didn't win that championship because he pushed harder than everyone else in game one. He won it because he stayed. He kept showing up, imperfectly, uncomfortably, without any guarantee it was going to pay off. He let the discomfort do what discomfort is actually supposed to do: build the thing that performance gets to stand on.
To say I'm proud of him doesn't cover it.
But here's the part I keep coming back to, the part I wasn't expecting.
Watching him stand at that penalty spot, calm when I was falling apart, I thought about all the times I didn't raise my hand. All the times I stayed on the bench because I didn't feel ready, didn't feel welcome, didn't feel certain enough to step into something that scared me.
How many times did I miss out on that opportunity?
Countless.
How much more could I have done in life?
Endless.
My nine year old took the shot. He helped his team to the final and they ultimately won the championship because he finally showed up, and because he brought his whole heart to the field.
The question he left me with is the same one I'll leave you with:
What are you waiting to feel ready for?
