UNSCRIPTED

If homeschooling were a board game, and every good intention a throw of the dice, here are my typical outcomes:

1. Tears.
2. Triumph.
3. The inevitable pencil throw.
4. Hide under the blanket.
5. Storm out of the room.
6. “I quit!” (from either one of us, let’s be honest.)

I thought teaching at home would be all awesomeness — afternoons in art, books that made the world feel bigger, and real questions that lingered long after the lessons were done. I wasn’t expecting every small correction — a missed period here, a forgotten carry of the 1 there — to feel like walking through a minefield.

I have struggled this year — I mean really struggled — with meltdowns, especially after corrections. At first, I blamed it on attitude: stubbornness, pride, defiance. (He is his mother’s son, after all.) But as the months dragged on, and the tears kept coming, something didn’t add up. It wasn’t just stubbornness. It was something deeper. Something I couldn’t fix by telling him to “calm down.”

I’ve been pulling my hair out all year — only now seeing how every correction, no matter how well meant, plants the same painful question:
“Am I good enough?”

Since I started reading 10 to 25, I’m convinced — it’s not a bad attitude.
It’s biology.

When a child is corrected, even gently, their brain can interpret the feedback as a threat. And unfortunately, the amygdala doesn’t pause to consider my good intentions. The reasoning part of the brain — the part that handles listening, reflecting, really anything related to learning — essentially shuts down.

Oliver’s responses aren’t about disrespect at all, even though they may come across that way. They’re about survival. He’s not fighting me. He’s fighting to protect himself — especially if others are around and embarrassment’s at play. And the questions he’s asking, even if he can’t say them out loud, are real:

• Am I smart?
• Am I good enough?
• Am I still loved, even if I can’t add fractions with unlike denominators?

Homeschooling, these questions aren’t confined to a classroom. They bleed into our kitchen, our living room, and our backyard — places where kids expect safety and belonging. Without meaning to, every correction can start to feel like a withdrawal from the bank account of connection. And after just a year of homeschooling, I think we’re already slipping into the red.

In traditional school, correction is spaced out — grouped into subjects, softened by breaks. And most importantly, the feedback usually comes from someone less important than a parent. In homeschooling, that barrier between learning and living is lost. You are both the parent and the teacher.
And the feedback?
It’s constant.
From breakfast to bedtime.

The message starts to sound like a loop of:
“I’m not good enough.”

So now what?

I’ll offer a few things I’ve been practicing that seem to be working — on occasion.
(Think of them as optional solutions to the homeschooling board game outcomes.)

1. Correction comes after connection.

And I don’t mean the fake “compliment sandwich” — the quick, forced attempt at real connection.
I mean genuine connection.

For Ollie and I, it looks like:

• A game of table tennis,
• Cuddles on the couch,
• Music in the morning.

Anything that says: “You’re safe. You’re loved. We’re okay.”
Then correct.

2. Acknowledge their feelings — don’t shame them for having them.

I’ve learned (the hard way) that telling your kid to “calm down” while you yourself are losing your shit sends… some mixed signals.

Instead, I’m trying this:

“Your feelings are okay. It’s safe to feel frustrated.”

3. Offer support — but don’t force it.

When they’re upset, offer help.
But be prepared for a passionate NO — and shake that off like Taylor Swift.

Example:

“Can I show you something that might make this easier?”

If the answer’s no? That’s okay.
Sometimes they come back around.
Sometimes they don’t.
Don’t force your expectations at the expense of their experience.

4. Normalize mistakes.

Instead of asking, “How was your day?” (which always lands somewhere between “fine” and “good”), I’m going with:

“What did you fail at today?”

Because failure means you tried something new.
Failure means you’re growing.
And that’s what we’re really after.

5. Frame the struggle as a compliment.

Instead of harping on mistakes, call out the resilience you want to grow:

“You know what I love about you? You don’t give up, even when it’s hard.”

You can also coach forward instead of criticizing backward:

“Next time, you’re going to nail it.”

As a realist bordering on pessimistic, this has been a real struggle for me.

6. Remind them: Mistakes don’t define you.

Mistakes are stepping stones toward being incredible.
They’re just a snapshot of where you are — not where you’re going.

At the end of the day, I’m rolling the dice.
A lot of days, we land on tears.
Some days it’s storming out, it’s hiding under a blanket, it’s eating three Oreos and calling that math class.
And once in a while — maybe one time out of six — we land on triumph.

But we keep playing the game.