When I was growing up, I had a brute of a swimming coach who’d say things like, “How many points have you scored for the team lately?” He also once pulled my fellow swimmers out of the water and had me swim the length of the pool so he could use me as the “what not to do” example.

And yet, I stayed on the team for seven years because of another of his maxims: “Winners never quit, and quitters never win.”

I kept hoping that if I stuck with it long enough, I’d eventually be one of those kids who was fast enough to score points for the team. It never happened, and to this day, I only get in a pool when my kids beg me to do it.  Even then, I watch the clock until I’ve hit the Fun Mom threshold and then I make the kids get out, usually by bribing them with candy or TV.

On the one hand, I’m glad I can swim and I’m sure I’m a better athlete today because I was in the pool for so much of my childhood. On the other hand, I learned another lesson that’s taken me ages to unlearn: that we don’t have to stick with everything we try.

This week, Lucy stopped taking violin lessons after giving it a three-year go. I’m not saying she quit, because I hate that word and all the stuff it implies.

Part of me is disappointed. I learned to play the viola when I was a teen, and I made so many friends and had such great experiences playing in chamber groups and orchestras. It’s horribly nerdy, but it was beautiful to me. (And, as impossible as this sounds, there were some very cute boys at orchestra camp.) I was hoping for the same sort of thing for Lucy. Even the cute-boy part.

Sometimes, these hopes pan out for parents. I know one remarkable family where the father writes and illustrates picture books, and all three children have made writing and art their careers.

Other times, though, the parent’s dreams are nothing more, and if you’re not careful, your dreams can become a kid’s nightmare.

It became increasingly clear as the months passed by and it got harder and harder to coax Lucy to practice that she wasn’t getting the same joy out of it that I did. She made the same mistakes ten, twenty, thirty times and it was almost impossible—actually, it was impossible—for me not to lose patience. Why wasn’t she learning this? Where was her focus?

It wasn’t a problem with the teacher. We love the violin teacher, who is much better than I am about staying patient and making music fun. The problem was, violin just wasn’t Lucy’s thing.

In the end, it was harder for her to let go than it was for me. She wept and worried that she’d be hurting her teacher’s feelings. When the time came for Alice to go to her lesson yesterday, Lucy tried hiding outside in the rain rather than face her teacher. Then, when the teacher gave her a hug, Lucy had to blink back tears and hide her face behind a book.

She did it, though. She faced what scared her most—that she was letting someone down—and she made it through the day. And she’s already decided what she wants to spend her time doing instead.

My disappointment that she will not grow up with a violin under her chin is far outweighed by the pride I feel in her for knowing herself, and for honoring that more than her strong desire to please other people.

You only get one childhood. You only get one adulthood, for that matter. It’s easy to let days fill up in an effort to please and impress other people, or in an effort to avoid looking like a quitter. But when you fill your time with things that don’t feed your soul, you never really get to find out who you are and what you’re meant to be doing with your life, nor do you get a chance to be the best you can be.

Sometimes, when you set out to teach your child something, she ends up teaching you. Thanks for the lesson, Lucy. You make me proud.