The Fear of FallingWhile teaching my daughter to ride a bike, I realised that the fear of falling is what stops us from moving forward.
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Taking advantage of the school holidays and my own time off work, I decided that the beginning of the evening was the perfect moment to try, once again, to teach my daughter how to ride a bike. I deliberately chose that time of day: fewer people around, less noise. Even the ground was cooler, as if the track itself became gentler for those learning how to fall. It’s curious how, as a father, you start worrying even about the ground where your children might trip. I wanted to make sure that if she did have to fall, it would be a less painful fall.
She still wasn’t cycling on her own. Not completely. It’s me who stays there, sometimes holding the saddle, sometimes her small body, trying to keep the balance while her little legs slowly turn the pedals. And it was beautiful to see her effort, the mix of excitement and fear written across her small face. With each attempt, we followed the same ritual: I would put her on the bike, adjust her small hands on the handlebars, say words of encouragement, let go slowly… and then she would take one, two turns of the pedals… and fall.
But what I realised yesterday, under the yellow glow of the streetlights casting long shadows on the ground, is that she wasn’t falling because she didn’t know how to pedal. She was falling because, in the middle of the motion, she was so worried about not falling that she forgot to keep pedalling.
And there I was, standing still, holding the crooked handlebars of the bike, hearing the creak of the chain, sometimes with her sitting on the ground, more angry than sad, and I realised how perfectly this scene mirrors life. How many times do we adults do the same thing? How often do we stop moving forward because we’re too busy trying to anticipate the fall? How many times do we fail to pursue something that could help us grow, simply because the possibility of falling scares us too much?
I think of how many of my own ideas have remained on paper. How many important conversations I postponed. How many dreams I put on hold because the fear of frustration seemed greater than the courage to keep going. It’s strange to realise that, in life, it’s often precisely the fear of falling that makes us fall. The bicycle teaches this with almost cruel clarity: balance only exists in motion. It’s stopping pedalling that causes you to topple.
I think of The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, and the times he says that what is essential is invisible to the eye. I believe that, many times, the essential is that quiet courage to keep pedalling, even when everything around seems to tell us that we’re going to fall. And I remember another of his phrases, which comes back to me in these moments: “One must endure the presence of two or three caterpillars if one wishes to become acquainted with the butterflies.” Perhaps falling is part of becoming a butterfly.
While holding my daughter, I realised how much being a father means being torn between protecting and letting go. Instinct wants to hold on forever. But the heart knows that, sooner or later, it will be necessary to let go. It’s painful to watch someone you love scrape themselves on the asphalt, even if it’s just a small graze on the knee. But still, we know it’s part of the process. That without falling, she’ll never discover the strength she has to get back up. And the truth is that, no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to prevent all of her falls. What I can do is always be there to help her stand up again.
But yesterday I realised something even more important about my role. I didn’t put the bike away. On the contrary: many times I told her to go back. I told her to get back on, to place her hands on the handlebars, her feet on the pedals, and to try again. That is a father’s role. To tell them to go back. To pedal again. Because I know she’ll only truly learn when she loses the fear of falling. Because the big thing about riding a bike, and about life, is precisely this: when you lose the fear of falling and understand that you have to keep moving forward, that’s when you overcome frustration and simply go.
Sometimes she looks at me as if I’m mad for asking her to get back on the bike. And perhaps I am, a little. But I deeply believe that each attempt brings her closer not just to balance, but to something even greater: the courage to keep going, even knowing that falls may happen.
I look at my daughter and realise that, in life, we are all pedalling like this. Many times, we keep going, hesitant, afraid of falling. But even when we don’t see it, there’s always someone holding on to us, even if it’s just through the memory of the love we once received. A friend who encourages us, a partner who supports us, parents who once taught us to try again, or even something greater, for those who have faith, holding us firmly when we feel we’re about to fall.
It’s true that real defeat lies in giving up before trying. Because, at the end of the day, we are all always learning how to ride a bike — in fatherhood, in marriage, in life.