If you think you can, you can. And if you think you can’t, you’re right.

“Tumbling time!” I called out. My group of giggling children lined up before the sea of blue mats. Meagan trailed behind and stepped quietly into the back of the line. She was eight years old, the same age I was when I began sports acrobatics.

I started the class with forward and backward rolls, cartwheels and handstand forward rolls. The children had mastered this series months ago. Two girls and a boy had even achieved back handsprings on their own. But Megan was still working on handstand forward rolls. It simply took her a little longer to learn the tumbling moves.

I caught her ankles as she kicked into a handstand. While checking her body alignment, I reminded her to straighten her legs, to push against the floor and to tuck in her chin. I guided her as she rolled over, then we started the process again. Each time she stood up I made a special effort to find something to compliment. “What beautiful pointed toes you have,” or “Your legs were much straighter than last time,” or “That was the strongest handstand I’ve seen you do yet.”

One day before class, Megan’s father asked to talk to me. By his somber expression I didn’t know what to expect.

“I’m thinking of taking Megan out of class,” he said.

“Why?” I asked. Had I done something wrong? I wondered.

His arm draped protectively over Megan’s shoulders, he said, “She isn’t catching on like the other kids are. I don’t want her to hold them back.” I could see his pained expression as he said this. Megan’s eyes were downcast as if she wanted to disappear.

“I think you’re making mistake,” I said. “Megan needs this class, possibly more than the other children need it. I didn’t start out as a seven-time national champion. I started out as an eight-year-old girl, just like Megan. My coach used to say, ‘There are children with talent, then there is Christine. She just works hard.’ When I look at Megan I see myself. She works hard.”

“Sir, your daughter may never win a competition. She may never even compete, but I promise you that if she keeps trying and believing in herself, her self-esteem will be more important than any gold medal ever won. I believe in Megan. I believe that she can accomplish anything she sets out to do, in her own time.”

As I said these words Megan looked up at me. Her eyes were filled with tears, and she was smiling like a bud flowering into bloom.

Her father hugged me and whispered, “Thank you. Thank you so much.” He turned to Megan and said, “Honey, go and put on your leotard. It’s time for your class.”

Megan eventually did learn handstand forward rolls as well as many other skills—in her own time. More importantly, she never again stood at the back of the line. From that day forward, whenever I asked the children to line up for tumbling, Megan ran to stand in the front.