A note from our Editor, Andrea Vanek
There is a kind of bravery in children that isn’t the sort that wins trophies or earns applause in assemblies. It’s quieter but no less powerful. It’s the courage to step into something you know will be difficult, to show up even when effort doesn’t look the same as everyone else’s, and to keep going anyway.
My son is eight.
While not formally diagnosed yet, both his occupational therapist and educational psychologist believe he shows clear signs of dyspraxia. His coordination takes longer to develop. Movements that come naturally to others require patience, repetition and huge reserves of concentration. He also has delays in speech, reading and writing.
In so many areas, what might look like half an effort is, in fact, his absolute maximum.
For years that difference kept him at the edges of sport.
He’d often refuse to take part, or he’d mask his struggles by goofing around, using humour to deflect. People weren’t unkind, but they often assumed he was distracted or not trying hard enough, unaware of the effort it took just to join in.
I’d quietly stopped hoping he’d ever find a place in sport.
Then came a twist. This year, out of the blue, he asked if he could try rugby.
That single request was its own act of courage. Sport brings obvious health benefits like stronger muscles, better coordination and improved stamina. But for my son, the value runs deeper. It gives him belonging, connection and a kind of confidence that spills into every part of his life.
We made a pact.
His promise was to give 100 percent of whatever he had on any given day. Mine was to give 100 percent back – through encouragement, patience and advocacy.
Speaking with his coach became part of that. A simple chat about how he processes movement helped turn effort into understanding. Frustration was replaced by support.
I don’t expect him to be a star player. I just want him to feel proud of himself, to enjoy the freedom of moving his body, and to know the joy of being part of a team.
Because once a child believes their best is enough, that belief becomes a foundation they can carry anywhere, for the rest of their life.
He’s still finding his rhythm, but now he walks a little taller. Rugby has given him something other sports never did – a team that sees him and makes space for him. It’s mended the confidence that being left out of football parties and playground games once chipped away.
He feels included, capable and connected.
And that, really, is what Cver stands for.
We believe movement should never be judged by performance, but valued for what it gives back…freedom, confidence and the chance to grow.
Every story of strength starts with someone deciding to show up – however imperfectly. Whether you’re eight or eighty, that’s where confidence begins.
That’s the real victory.
