Proud? No, Just… Accidentally Happy

“Keep talking like that and pretty soon your head won’t fit through the door”

Ever hear those words, or something like them? I did—often enough that I can still hear my mom’s voice and see the look on her face. The message was clear: being proud was not a virtue. Pride, I was taught, created conflict and an attitude no one appreciated.

No one enjoys talking with a “been there, done it better” kind of person. We’ve all met them, and we’ve all endured their stories again and again.

But as a child, those words crushed me. I wasn’t trying to boast—I just wanted someone to notice and affirm a job well done. Instead, I grew up believing I was good but never good enough. That if I did have skills, I shouldn’t say anything about them. Just keep my head down, do the work, and never expect or desire praise.

This isn’t meant as criticism of my parents. It was a different time—a time of blunt truths and little emotional cushion. Many I talk to share the same story. Our parents were children of WWII. Survival and responsibility left little room for feelings (yes, we had them, even back then!). With no books, podcasts, or parenting workshops, they raised us the way they were raised. From what I can tell, there were very few families who did it differently. And I’ve come to believe they did the best they could with what they knew.

When it was our turn in the ’90s, many of us swung the other way. Determined to give our kids what we missed, we became over-the-top cheerleaders. I went to every game, activity, and field trip. I wanted my three kids to know I was their biggest supporter, always telling them: “You can do anything you want.”

They believed me—until reality hit. Following passion without natural gifting, training, or understanding of strengths led to confusion and frustration. I see now that the conversation needed to be more complete. Passion is vital, but it needs to be balanced with talent. And often, the magic is in finding creative ways to use both—even in directions you didn’t expect. Most skills are transferable if you’re open to new perspectives.

Now, with an 18-month-old grandchild, I’m seeing this play out all over again. Recently, I watched him buckle the strap on his booster seat—over and over. Every time he succeeded, he clapped and laughed, utterly delighted with himself. We couldn’t help but clap and laugh with him. His joy was contagious.

And it made me wonder: when do we stop doing that? When do we stop celebrating the little victories, the new skills, the hard work finally paying off?

Can we be proud and humble at the same time? I think so. For me, “proud” still feels like a loaded word, but I’m learning to say: “I’m happy with how that turned out.” or “I’m excited about this.” Accepting a compliment without deflecting is still a work in progress—but I want to be more like my grandson: clap, laugh, share the joy, and try again.

What about you? Have you had to relearn something too?