The Death of Grit

And why I’m afraid we’re not teaching our kids how to struggle anymore

Last weekend, I stood at the edge of a soggy soccer field, watching my daughter’s team warm up under gray skies. The drills were basic: footwork, passing, shots on goal. But halfway through, I saw her slump her shoulders after missing a save, then glance toward the sideline to see if I had noticed. I did. What I saw wasn’t just frustration—it was a quiet unraveling. Not because she didn’t care. But because she did. And because caring without immediate success is one of the hardest emotional weights to carry at her age.

I walked over during the break, knelt next to her, and asked how she was feeling. “I’m just not good at this,” she said. “It’s too hard.” That’s when it hit me: she wasn’t struggling with technique—she was struggling with struggle itself.

Angela Duckworth defines grit as passion and sustained persistence. But on that field, grit looked like something much simpler: the choice to keep showing up, even when you’re tired, embarrassed, or unsure. I’ve always believed in grit. It’s what kept my parents alive through war and displacement. It’s what carried me through moments of rejection, doubt, and quiet reinvention. But now I wonder—can it be taught? Or worse, are we raising a generation that might not learn it at all?

We live in a world where everything can be optimized or delivered. Pain is numbed, failure is avoided, and boredom is cured with a swipe. But when I think of who I want my daughter to become—on and off the field—I don’t picture perfection. I picture resilience. I picture her learning how to breathe through the discomfort, to lace up her cleats again, and to go back in.

That’s the kind of strength I want to pass on. But I’ll admit, I don’t always know how. So this is the question I’m sitting with now: how do we teach grit—not just model it, but truly instill it in others? If you have thoughts, I’m listening. Because I’m still learning too.