As the long summer holidays approached, schools across England entered Sports Day season.
At our daughter’s school, Nursery, Reception and Year 1 all took part together. She came home excitedly telling us about all the different races they would be doing, so we were looking forward to our very first Sports Day as parents.
On the morning of Sports Day, the children started the day in school as usual, while parents were invited to join later in the morning.
When we arrived, the children already lined up in their team colours, waving excitedly at their families.
She gave us a little wave too.
But something felt different. She looked unusually nervous.
Then the races began.
There were football challenges, obstacle courses, egg-and-spoon races and plenty of cheering. While the other children laughed and chatted as they waited for their turns, she quietly went through the motions, looking as though she was trying very hard not to cry.
During a short break, I walked over to check on her.
She immediately threw her arms around me.
“I don’t want to do this.”
My heart sank.
Perhaps it was simply the atmosphere. Far more children than she usually sees, parents cheering from every direction, and so much happening all at once.
I’ve always known that she thrives in small groups but becomes quiet and tense in larger crowds. Even so, she normally loves lively events and joining in, so I hadn’t expected Sports Day to be quite this difficult for her.
All morning she kept looking for me, holding back tears. The hardest part was watching other children—even those who were usually quieter than she was—taking part excitedly while she seemed to be hanging on by a thread.
Things improved a little during the lunchtime picnic, and I hoped the afternoon would be easier.
At our school, Nursery children who stay all day simply repeat the morning’s activities after lunch, so parents were free to take them home after the first session if they wished.
One of her classmates decided to leave after lunch. Watching them go, she quietly said she wanted to go home too.
For a moment, I was tempted.
But I worried that if we left, Sports Day would become a memory of something she had escaped from because it felt too hard. More than anything, I wanted her to leave with at least one happy memory.
Before the welly-throwing event, I tried to lighten the mood.
“At home I never let you throw things,” I laughed. “But today everyone gets to throw wellies. Isn’t that brilliant?”
She smiled.
For a moment.
The afternoon, unfortunately, became even harder.
She tripped slightly during an obstacle race and burst into tears. Later, after wandering away because she didn’t want to join another activity, one of the Year 5 pupil helpers gently brought her back, and she cried all over again.
The final straw came near the end of the day.
She needed the toilet, so a teacher took her to the nearest one, which happened to be in the Key Stage 2 building.
The moment she saw it, everything she’d been holding together all day finally spilled over.
“The toilets are scary.”
She sat down on the floor and sobbed.
Watching her, I couldn’t stop wondering whether I’d made the wrong decision. I’d stayed because I wanted her to leave with a happier memory of Sports Day, yet things had only become worse.
Thankfully, she later used the younger children’s toilets, joined the final running race and proudly collected the participation medal every child received.
Little by little, her smile returned.
By the time the event finished, she was back to her usual cheerful self. We even stopped at the playground on the way home.
That evening, she behaved almost as though she wanted to erase the whole day from her memory.
I gently asked,
“What was the hardest part today?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged.
“Were there just too many people? When everything feels too much at once, that’s called being overwhelmed.
It was your very first Sports Day. Some of your friends had already done one before. It’s completely normal to feel overwhelmed when you’re trying something for the first time.
But even though it felt hard, you still finished it!”
She listened quietly.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t stop questioning myself. Should I have taken her home? Had I pushed her too far?
As I tucked her into bed that night, I whispered one last thing.
“Today was really hard, but you kept going until the end. I’m so proud of you.”
She lay quietly for a moment before replying,
“Even when you’re sad, you can still continue and finish it.”
That was it.
That was exactly what I’d hope she would understand.
She probably described feeling overwhelmed as “sad” because, at four years old, emotions are still difficult to name. But somehow she’d understood what I had been trying to tell her all day.
I couldn’t have been prouder.
Looking back, I realised I hadn’t enjoyed Sports Day much either when I was young. I can’t even explain exactly why. I just remember those kinds of days feeling overwhelming.
Perhaps she’s inherited that part of me?
Even as an adult, there are still moments when I want to run away. During my years studying and working, there were countless situations that made me feel exactly the same—speaking up in meetings, giving presentations to large audiences, walking into rooms full of people.
I stayed because leaving wasn’t really an option. Had it been, I know I would have wanted to walk away.
There will be many moments in her life when she’ll want to do the same, and I can’t protect her from every uncomfortable situation.
What I hope I can teach her instead is something I’m still learning myself: how to recognise those overwhelming feelings, steady herself, and keep going anyway.
Maybe that’s what her first Sports Day will eventually become.
Not the day she wanted to go home.
But the day she discovered that, even when she felt overwhelmed and wanted to walk away, she was stronger than she thought.
Multilingual Family in London 
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