On Tuesday I took little M to gymnastics. She normally loves it – until she has to do something hard. This week didn’t go so well. In the warm up songs there was a lot of jumping, and she can’t quite get her feet off the ground. When she was going around the equipment, and walking along the beam, the beam went from wide to narrow – and she would stop, panic, and no matter how much I reassured her I was next to her, she would flop her legs and I would be carrying her along it. Then came the exercises the instructors were practising. First, hanging from the high bar. Even with Kate’s arms firmly around her, there was a look of sheer panic across her little face, and she clung onto that bar for dear life until I helped her take her hands off, and she realised no-one was going to let her fall. And finally, the other children were practising handstands. There was no way this little lady was going to trust someone to hold her upside down! By the end of the 45 minutes, she was exhausted.

When you go to children’s groups like gymnastics, it’s easy to watch the other children and the other families, and to start comparing what your little one can do with the others you see there. I don’t do that with M. I know that the other children can jump, and aren’t petrified of the beam, they trust the people helping them. But I know M’s story and they don’t. I know this little lady was just as afraid of lying on her tummy at 2 years old, and we had to practise by me lying on the floor and her lying on me so it wasn’t so scary. I know she was scared of kneeling on the floor and I had to wedge her legs between my knees to keep her up. I know she had so many meltdowns at physiotherapy that the physio started coming to our house instead, because it was a safer place to M.  I know she had to have straight splints to hold her legs straight so she could practise standing, and then we spent hours by the sofa playing with toys to get her leg muscles strong enough to hold her up. And I know that in only 6 months, she went from not being able to roll over or sit herself up, to walking along the beach. I don’t expect her to be able to do what her peers can do, and I know that what she needs more than anything is the constant reminder that I am there with her, and, in time, she’ll try it, and she’ll smile that smile when she realises she’s done it ‘all by myself!’

Then I thought about myself, and the things I can’t do. The things I’m afraid to do because I think I’ll mess up, or the things I’m convinced everyone who sees me will look down on me for. The situations where I’m afraid to speak because I’m sure I’ll say something stupid. Often I am my worst critic-I play scenarios back over in my head and wish I’d been braver or wiser or hadn’t done that thing or said those words.

The truth is that I have my own story, and, little by little, I’m learning to embrace where I’ve come from, instead of beat myself up for when I mess up. There is a lovely verse that says, ‘For I, the Lord your God, hold your right hand; it is I who say to you, “Fear not, O Jacob, you men of Israel! I am the one who helps you, declares the Lord; your Redeemer is the Holy One of Israel.’ When I read it I picture a parent helping their child learning to walk, holding their hand, helping them balance, catching them when they fall. Being there when they try the things they can’t quite do yet, but cheering them on and being the safe arms to catch them. God is writing my story. He knows where I’ve come from, the messes I’ve made, the places I’ve tripped up. And He also knows my successes, the things I’ve learned along the way, the times I’ve held onto Him and trusted Him to keep me safe. I don’t need to compare myself with the people around me, or to listen to the critic in my head-I don’t have to live in shame of the past of fear of the future, because I am being held by the Holy One. The Author of my story knows me, loves me, is proud of me, and saved me. And my story isn’t over yet.