We Can Do Hard Things (Even When Our Brain Says No)
"I can’t do it! It’s too hard! I want to go back to when the rule was you did it!"
That’s my preschool-aged son, frustrated over putting on his own shirt.
When we first told him — sometime around age four — that it was time for him to take on a little more independence in self-care, he was devastated. His face said it all: What do you mean I have to do this myself? Isn't this your job?
Every morning became a scene. Either my husband or I would step into the role of his personal cheering squad. We coached and encouraged as he wrestled his shirt over his head. The emotions came in waves — shock, frustration, anger, disappointment, more frustration, and finally, if we stayed with him through it, motivation and triumph.
Then came the next challenge. Socks. Once again, the whole journey began.
Watching him go through this cycle fascinated me. As someone who works every day with children and emotions, I could see exactly what was happening. Physically, he was more than capable. Yet his brain was sending out urgent signals. Fatigue, distress, and sometimes full shutdown would take over. This wasn’t about motor skills. It was about the moment when a small self meets a big task, and suddenly, the weight of doing this alone feels like too much.
We rarely consider how complex everyday tasks really are until they become new again. Putting on a shirt has many steps: picking the shirt, turning it the right way, finding the head hole, pushing the head through, threading one arm and then the other, pulling it down. Shirts with buttons or zippers add even more layers to this process.
With daily practice, his tolerance for frustration slowly grew. Over time, the process became smoother. Yet not every day was easy. Some mornings felt impossible all over again.
When frustration returned and his emotional brain flipped on, I saw it clearly. The amygdala lit up. Everything suddenly felt like a threat. Fight, flight, or freeze took over. In those moments, I leaned on the same tools I teach in my work: noticing, naming, and staying connected.
"I know this feels hard," I told him. "It was hard for me when I was little, too. I believe in you. You can do hard things."
Soon enough, he returned to the task. Every single time, he completed it.
Now, two years later, those moments feel far away. He pulls his shirt over his head without hesitation. Getting dressed has become just another part of his morning. Sometimes I watch him — the ease in his body, the absence of tears — and remember how steep the climb once felt. What once seemed impossible has quietly become his.
The struggle is no longer visible, yet it lives softly in the background as part of his story. This is how resilience is born and folded into us. Not through sudden transformation, but through ordinary, sacred repetition. Step by step, with love beside us, we become people who can meet what once felt unmeetable.
This pattern shows up everywhere. Our brains are designed to keep us safe. From the beginning of life, they look out for us: feed me, hold me, keep me warm. That wiring never disappears. Even as we grow and develop more advanced abilities, survival instincts remain active.
You can see it in a baby learning how to crawl. The first few attempts often end in frustration or tears. Their bodies want to move forward, yet falling or tipping sideways feels terrifying. Still, they return to the challenge. Eventually, small tries become strength.
You see it in middle schoolers, too. I sit across from them in my office as they wrestle with academic pressure and social worries. Their brains say, this is too much, and I watch them flirt with shutdown. "I'm bad at this," or "I don't care anyway," they insist. Underneath, it is that same old wiring — discomfort feels threatening.
Adults know this feeling well. It shows up before difficult conversations, during career transitions, in moments of relational vulnerability. The voice whispers, this is scary, don’t go there. Our brains prefer predictability and comfort. They would rather keep us safe than push us toward growth.
I remind my students about this often. When they get stuck, I say, "Even though you're really smart, your brain is kind of dumb." They always laugh, yet they understand. The brain does not always know the difference between real danger and discomfort. When things feel overwhelming, it still sounds the alarm.
When that happens, I teach them what to say back.
"Thanks, brain. I hear you. You are trying to keep me safe. Right now though, I am okay. This is hard, but I can do hard things."
Naming it. Validating it. Choosing to move forward. This is how we grow.
Still, meeting these moments is not only about noticing what is hard. It is about noticing who is here.
While our brains are wired for survival, they are also deeply wired for love. It is love — felt and offered — that opens the doorway to attunement. When we soften into our love for the child before us, we make space to really see them. Not only why they are struggling, but what is happening right now. What they need in this moment to move through.
Attunement grows from love. It is the quiet listening beneath behavior, the leaning in rather than pushing away. It is what helps us know whether this is the moment for a deep breath, a gentle word, or simply silent presence. Without love, we rush to solve or fix. With love, we stay curious. We meet them — not as a problem to manage, but as a person to guide.
This is the invitation of these moments. To open ourselves not only to our child’s frustration, but to our own tenderness. To let love lead us toward what they need most: to be seen, to be believed in, and to not be alone in what feels hard.
Whether it is a child pulling on a shirt, a student wrestling with a tough assignment, or an adult stepping into something new and tender, the pattern is the same. We hit a wall. The brain sounds the alarm. That moment offers us a chance to remember:
This is hard. We are safe. We can do hard things.
Growth lives right there, just beyond "I can’t." That is where bravery blooms. That is where self-trust takes root. That is where something sacred begins — in the choosing to stay.
These moments may seem small on the surface. Yet they hold the quiet work of shaping resilient hearts. This is what we offer, moment by moment, as parents, teachers, and guides. We whisper, through our presence and our patience, You can do hard things. Until, one day, they believe it too.
In that moment — when they believe it — we begin to believe it more deeply as well.
Practicing "You Can Do Hard Things" — A Few Simple Tools
When the alarm sounds — whether in a child, a student, or ourselves — here are gentle ways to meet it with love and attunement.
1. Slow down and notice.
Pause and take in what is happening. This is not only about fixing or moving through. It is about being present enough to truly see the moment.
2. Open to love.
Softly connect to your love for this child (or for yourself). Love makes space for patience, curiosity, and tenderness. It helps us resist the urge to rush or solve.
3. Attune to the "what," not only the "why."
What is needed right now? Comfort? Space? A quiet presence? Let attunement — not urgency — guide your response.
4. Name the experience.
"I can see this feels hard right now."
Naming brings awareness and helps ease the intensity. It tells the brain and heart, You are seen. You are safe.
5. Validate the feeling.
"It makes sense that this feels frustrating."
Validation soothes and helps the child (or ourselves) feel accepted in the moment.
6. Offer simple, confident belief.
"I know you can do this."
Steady belief helps them borrow your confidence while they find their own.
7. Stay close — without rushing.
"I’m right here while you try."
Sometimes the most powerful support is quiet companionship and gentle presence.
8. Trust in the slow unfolding.
Today's hard thing will one day be easy. These moments build resilience, yes — but also trust, courage, and connection.