When Third Place Feels Like Failure

"On our way home, I just kept thinking… I only made it to third place in the competition. I could feel the air in the car. I could sense my mom’s disappointment. Everyone thought I’d make it to the state champion, but I failed myself. I failed my family. I failed my mom. She even got me this amazing outfit just for the competition. So what now…" (shared here with permission and lightly edited to protect privacy.)

That quote was from a real child I worked with—not a dramatic exaggeration, not an outlier. Just a bright kid, gifted and adored, crushed under the weight of their own achievement.

His mom hadn’t said anything harsh. In fact, she’d said all the right things: "We’re proud of you," "You did your best," "It’s okay." When we spoke afterward, she told me, "I feel like my son only sees himself as 'the smart one' and worries constantly about maintaining that image. That was never what I wanted to teach him." But the message her child received was different. Why? Because in that family—as in many others—success had subtly become the glue that held their sense of worth and love together.

This article is for parents like her. Parents like me. Parents who deeply love their children and would do anything for them—except perhaps the hardest thing: letting go of the idea that our child’s highest potential is something we must unlock at all costs.

How We Got Here: The Culture of Optimization

Every day, I speak with families of children who are bright, motivated, and surrounded by opportunity—and yet, they are not thriving. These are not students who lack ability or access. They are children who, despite their talents, carry the crushing weight of perfectionism, anxiety, and identity confusion. And too often, their parents feel the same.

We don’t talk enough about what it means to parent a gifted child in today’s world. From various extracurricular activities to numerous competitions to curated Instagram posts about 12-year-olds coding neural networks, we are living in a culture driven by performance, comparison, and overengineering. The word "optimization" gets at the heart of it, but even that feels too sterile. If your child is bright, they should be brilliant. If they’re brilliant, they should be remarkable. If they’re remarkable, they should be the best. And if they’re the best, there had better be proof—a medal, a top ranking, an acceptance letter, a trophy. Talents, in this mindset, must be externally validated to be real. Otherwise, it doesn’t count. Otherwise, you risk being seen as someone who merely "had potential" but never did anything with it. The message is subtle but powerful: brilliance only matters if the world applauds it. Anything less feels like a betrayal of potential.

Before we rush to judge parents who seem overly focused on external accolades, let me be clear: this obsession often isn’t born from vanity. It often grows out of love and fear. We love our children so much that we want to protect them from disappointment, missed chances, or the pain of being underestimated. And we fear a world that measures worth by accomplishment—a world that might overlook or undervalue them if we don’t help them stand out. The line between nurturing and managing their brilliance starts to blur. We find ourselves curating their paths, building scaffolds of opportunity so they don’t fall behind. We want our children to have every chance. But we’ve confused possibility with pressure. We’ve mistaken potential for a path.

I know this because I’m a psychologist. And I also know this because I’m a mom.

The Fragility Point: Why Brilliance Backfires

It starts innocently: your child learns to read before they even enter a classroom, breezes through math worksheets, and becomes known as “the smart one.” You hear stories of kids winning prestigious competitions in 6th grade or publishing papers at 14. Your child is just as capable. You know it. 

But if your child is just as capable, then why aren’t they achieving the same results? Why didn’t they get into that program? Why weren’t they recognized? The mind scrambles for answers, and often the only place it lands is on you. Maybe you didn’t sign them up for the right classes early enough. Maybe you didn’t know the right information or use the right parenting strategies. Maybe you missed something. And suddenly, your child’s perceived "underachievement" starts to feel like your failure.

This is when love becomes fear. This is how supporting a child turns into managing a brand. Not because we’re superficial, but because we are terrified of wasting their potential—or worse, of being the reason it was wasted.

And so, we begin to internalize every result. Many parents see their child’s outcomes as a reflection of their parenting. If your child is gifted, and yet didn’t qualify for USAMO (United States of America Mathematical Olympiad), didn’t get into that selective program, didn’t place in the top percent—what does that say about you? The logic, though unspoken, begins to take root: if my child is capable, and they didn’t achieve, it must be because I didn’t do enough. A rejection from a summer camp becomes a crisis. A lower score feels like a red flag. We don’t just fear that our children are falling short—we fear that we failed them.

Meanwhile, gifted kids learn to equate identity with achievement. They’re safe only when they’re succeeding. This is especially true for students who have always been the fastest, the ones who "just get it"—praised for how much they learned rather than how much they struggled. Many of them grow up in environments where success comes easily and quickly, which makes real challenges feel like an existential threat. When they finally encounter difficult materials, they don’t have the internal scaffolding to cope with it. Instead of interpreting struggle as a sign of growth, they see it as failure. I call this the "fragility point": the moment when a gifted child hits a true intellectual obstacle and, lacking practice in productive struggle, they don’t think, "This is hard - I love it when I have to think hard about things." They spiral into, "I must not be smart enough," or, "Maybe I'm not actually smart."

This collapse is often worsened by a sense of being constantly watched and evaluated. Whether it's by teachers, peers, or especially parents, these students come to associate their worth with how well they perform. That anxiety doesn’t just hinder their learning—it strips the joy from it. If you're always worried about how you’re being perceived, you can't afford to be curious. You can only afford to be correct.

Parenting from Fear: The Invisible Curriculum

We say, "Just do your best," but discuss who took home first place at the dinner table. We say, "You’re more than your grades," but beam the brightest when they win. We say, "It’s okay to struggle," but silently Google tutors after one bad test.

This is the invisible curriculum we teach at home: struggle is a threat, failure is a mark of inadequacy, and success is the bare minimum for being seen and valued. In this hidden curriculum, our children learn that love is loudest when they win, and quietest when they fall short. They learn that their mistakes are liabilities and their accomplishments are expectations. And because they are so perceptive, they pick up on the pauses, the tone shifts, the unspoken comparisons—not just from us, but from their peers, their forums, their coaches. They grow up surrounded by a web of messaging that tells them: your worth is conditional.

None of this is intentional. Parents don’t set out to make love feel conditional. In fact, we’re often doing the opposite—trying to give our children every advantage, every tool, every opportunity. But when our own anxiety goes unexamined, it leaks out in subtle ways. We cheer a little louder when they win. We panic when they fall short. We nudge them toward the resume-builders. All of it comes from love—but also from fear: fear that they won’t be okay unless we do everything we can. And our children, wise and watchful, pick up on it all. They don’t just listen to our words; they watch our reactions, absorb the tone at the dinner table, and notice who gets celebrated and why.

And it isn’t just the home. In online forums, kids compare their AMC scores and AP course loads. They scroll through brag posts about perfect SATs and summer research awards, and quietly wonder if they’re falling behind. In peer groups, conversations revolve around rank, scores, and selective program acceptances. To be smart, it seems, isn’t enough—you must be provably exceptional.

Even well-meaning coaches and teachers contribute. Some emphasize teamwork, curiosity, and joy in learning. Others focus relentlessly on competition prep and placements, sometimes even telling parents which classes their child must take to keep up. These messages accumulate. They shape what students believe about their worth—and they reinforce the parent’s fear of missing an essential step.

And this fear? It doesn’t make us bad parents. It makes us human. Of course we want our kids to have every chance. Of course we want to support them.

But parenting from fear—of falling behind, of missing out, of not reaching full potential—can slowly erode the very connection we’re trying to preserve. We become managers instead of mentors. And our children, feeling the pressure from all sides, start to equate love with performance.

What If Potential Was Not the Point?

Here’s the trap: "full potential" sounds noble. It sounds like love.

But it is also a bottomless pit.

Because there is no final, measurable endpoint to being human. There is no optimized version of your child. There is only the child you have today—alive, growing, learning, sometimes messy and confused, always worthy.

We say we want our kids to reach their full potential, but what do we really mean? A place at an elite college? A perfect test score? A national award?

I used to joke with my friend Dr. Daniel Fried, who teaches biochemistry to many gifted students. He once told me that some of his students only engage with material if it will be on a test. If it isn’t going to be graded, they don’t want to learn it. We were rock climbing one day when he said, “Not everything has to be transactional. Why do you come rock climbing—so you can win a medal?" We laughed at the absurdity of it. You climb because it challenges you, or simply because it’s something to do on a Saturday afternoon. Learning should be like that too—something we do because it’s meaningful, joyful, or beautiful in itself. But somewhere along the way, we started treating knowledge like currency. If it won’t show up on a test or a résumé, it must not be worth knowing. That mindset doesn’t just limit what kids learn—it limits who they believe they’re allowed to be.

One metaphor I often use with families is this: If you’re never going to be an Olympic swimmer, should you still swim? Of course. Because swimming itself is worth doing. What if the purpose of giftedness weren’t to achieve more, but to feel more deeply, think more creatively, and connect more authentically?

What if your child grows up to be a kind, curious, joyful person who doesn't even know what AIME (American Invitational Mathematics Exam) is, but still reads math books at night and giggles because it brings them joy?

Would that be enough?

The deeper irony is this: the fear of failure doesn’t protect us from it—it guarantees we’ll feel like failures, no matter how much we achieve. When we teach children—explicitly or implicitly—that their worth is measured by accomplishments, we create a hunger that can never be satisfied. Every milestone just becomes the new baseline. Every win fades too quickly. And the fear of falling behind doesn’t disappear when they succeed; it only grows stronger. In this mindset, no achievement is ever enough, and the very effort to avoid that identity becomes the source of endless anxiety and dissatisfaction.

It’s a painful paradox: the more we try to shape our children into who we think they need to be to be happy, the more we teach them that who they are isn’t enough. And here’s the irony: when kids are driven by fear—of failing, of not measuring up, of letting us down—they don’t feel the freedom to stretch, explore, or take risks. But when they feel safe—when they trust that their worth is not on the line—they can face challenges with openness and resilience. They become more willing to try, to fail, and to try again. And often, they end up achieving more—not because they were pushed to be perfect, but because they felt secure enough to fully engage with life. The freedom to be unapologetically themselves is what actually allows their lives to flourish.

What We Can Do Instead

Before you shift how you parent, begin by reflecting on how you feel.

How does your body feel when you read about a 12-year-old publishing a research article in a top academic journal? When you hear that a peer’s child placed at the top of a national competition? Be honest with yourself. Do you feel a pang of fear? A sense of falling short? A rush of pressure to do more? That’s not a weakness. That’s being human.

Start here.

You can’t meaningfully shift your parenting if your own anxiety goes unexamined. Otherwise, your fear will bleed into even your most well-intentioned efforts. You’ll say the right words, but your child will sense the tension underneath. To raise emotionally grounded children, we must begin with emotional honesty in ourselves.

So what does that look like?

It starts with noticing. Pay attention to how your body reacts when you hear about another child’s accomplishments. Is there a knot in your stomach? A tightness in your chest? A rush to compare? Instead of pushing those feelings away, try naming them. Say to yourself, "I feel insecure right now," or "This makes me feel like I’m not doing enough." Accept the feeling without judgment.

Then, ask yourself: What story am I telling myself? That I’m falling behind as a parent? That I’ve failed my child? That my child’s worth—or mine—is defined by outcomes?

Write it down. Talk it out with a trusted friend. Sit with it long enough to see what’s underneath. This kind of self-inquiry creates space. It softens the grip of fear and helps you show up more fully present for your child.

You don’t have to be fearless. You just have to be honest to yourself.

Here are a few intentional shifts we can make as parents—not to unlock some idealized version of our child, but to protect what truly matters: their love of learning, and their sense of self.

• Intentionally shift the focus after key moments. After a competition, presentation, or test, resist the impulse to ask about the results. Instead, ask questions that reinforce reflection and connection: "What was the most memorable moment?" "What surprised you?" "Did you meet someone interesting?" By not centering the outcome, you’re signaling that their worth is not contingent on performance. It may feel unnatural at first, but this shift requires deliberate practice—and over time, it rewires the emotional tone of how your family relates to achievement.
• Make space for discomfort. When your child faces something hard—whether it’s a difficult problem set or a group project that isn’t going smoothly—make space for discomfort. And before anything else, check in with yourself. Notice how you feel when you learn that your child is struggling. Does your mind immediately leap to Googling tutors? To signing up for new classes? To asking a dozen questions about how to fix it? Pause. Remind yourself: some classes are hard. Some experiences are frustrating. That’s not a problem to be solved—it’s a part of being alive. You don’t need to rescue them. You don’t need to offer suggestions. You don’t need to make it better. Instead, you might simply say, "That sounds like a tough class," and leave it at that. Normalize challenge. 
• Create non-performance spaces. Give them outlets where being "the best" doesn’t matter. Hobbies, time in nature, unplugged creative play—all offer children a chance to connect with themselves and others outside of achievement. But this takes intention. These moments of joy, connection, and rest don’t just happen on their own—they must be protected and prioritized. Sometimes, even a child’s comfort can provoke a parent’s anxiety. You may catch yourself thinking, "They seem too relaxed. Shouldn’t they be studying? Shouldn’t I be doing more to help them reach their potential?" But comfort is not complacency. It’s a necessary part of a balanced life. Make room for downtime. Let your child linger in moments of peace, creativity, and play. Don’t rush to fill every blank space in their calendar. Schedule joy on purpose. Go for walks. Bake cookies. Watch silly movies. Share slow dinners. These are not distractions from their growth. These are what make growth sustainable—and life meaningful.‍
• Say it out loud—and often. Make your love visible and verbal, but don’t feel like it always has to be a serious talk. Sprinkle it into everyday moments: while driving, while cooking, while laughing together. Say things like, "I just love how you tied your shoes today—so creative," or "That purple crochet dog you made? Totally genius." Say, "If I could choose any 10-year-old in the world, I'd still choose to spend time with you." Let them know, casually yet explicitly, that your love isn't earned through trophies or test scores. Before big competitions or performances, say things like, "I’m already so proud of you—just getting here is amazing," or "Whatever happens, I just love seeing you do something you care about." It might feel strange at first, but with time, it becomes natural. Make appreciating the small things a habit. Make these small comments part of the background music of their life.

These shifts may feel subtle at first, even unnatural. But practiced over time, they change the emotional landscape of your home.They create safety—and a space where genuine curiosity and internal motivation can grow. Not just for your child, but perhaps for you too. Along the way, you may feel your younger self exhale—relieved to know they were always enough, too.

About the Author

Dr. Hui S. Jiang is a licensed psychologist, director of the 3E Center—a psychological group practice serving neurodivergent children and their families—and the Admissions Director at Epsilon Camp, a residential summer program for children ages 7 to 12 who are captivated by mathematics. She works closely with families to promote growth, resilience, and balance.