Series Note | It Began with a Torn-Up Drawing

This series grew out of my recent return to something my daughter went through two or three years ago. At the time, I simply saw her reactions as “having a bad temper” or “not knowing how to lose.” Looking back, they led me to much more complicated questions: Why don’t a child’s different abilities always develop at the same pace? How can a positive label become a source of pressure? And when a child’s sense of self-worth rests too heavily on one strength, why can a single failure so easily turn into a rejection of the whole self?

The next few essays draw on some of the same experiences, but each looks at a different side of these questions. They are not meant to give children new labels, nor do they try to offer one educational method that works for everyone. They are simply a record of how, through continued observation, a mother slowly came to understand her child differently—and to understand more clearly how much a parent’s gaze can shape the way a child grows.

01 | When a Child Can Already See Far Ahead, but Her Hands and Emotions Haven’t Caught Up

By Jane Sonnenschein · July 25, 2026

A few days ago, I saw a post in a Facebook group for parents of highly gifted children. A mother wrote that her daughter, who was not yet six, often reacted to small setbacks by rejecting herself. When she could not do something well, she would say she was stupid, that she did not like herself, and even that life was pointless or that she wished she had never been born.

The mother was clearly worried, and many other parents shared similar experiences in the comments. Some children hit or bit themselves after a failure. Others, though still very young, often thought about questions far beyond their age. By the end of the discussion, everyone seemed to be circling the same difficulty: some children understand too much too early and think too deeply, but they have not yet developed the emotional capacity to carry what they can already see.

When I read the post, I immediately thought of Alicia a few years ago.

When she was six or seven, drawing was her favourite thing to do. No one had formally taught her. She mostly watched people draw online and learned by copying them little by little. Even at that age, she could already tell what made a picture look good, and she knew what she wanted her own drawing to look like. But her hands often could not produce what she could already see in her mind.

Sometimes she struggled to draw a hand, or a line did not look the way she had imagined it. She would become extremely frustrated. She cried, threw things, and sometimes tore up the drawing she had just made. While angry, she would say, “Why am I so stupid? Why can’t I draw it properly?”

At the time, I found her reaction difficult to understand.

To me, it was only a drawing. No one expected her to get it right. No teacher was grading her, and no one criticised her for drawing a hand badly. She had never had formal lessons or spent years practising, so of course it was normal that she could not draw everything well. I often wondered why she needed to become so upset. If one drawing went wrong, couldn’t she simply start another one?

But for a child, it was clearly not that simple.

An adult sees “a drawing that did not turn out well.” The child may be feeling, “I know exactly what it is supposed to look like. Why can’t I make it look that way?”

She could already see the difference between the picture she imagined and the one she had made. She could also appreciate drawings far beyond her own ability. What she did not yet have was enough experience to understand that the distance between the two could only be reduced slowly, through time and practice. She could see clearly that she was not yet able to do it, but she did not know what to do with the disappointment that followed.

Later, she began watching all kinds of craft creators on her phone. She admired the things they crocheted and thought their work looked incredibly delicate. She wanted to reach the same level immediately.

Her father often told her, “That person has been doing this for years, and you have only just started. If you keep doing it for that long, of course you will get better too.”

I also told her that the saying “one minute on stage takes ten years of work behind the scenes” was not an empty phrase. We usually see only someone’s finished work. We do not see how many attempts went wrong before that, how many times they took something apart, or how many times they started again.

Looking back now, what we were really trying to teach her was not only perseverance. We were also trying to help her understand the difference between “I can’t do this yet” and “I will never be able to do this.”

Children can easily confuse the two.

One drawing that does not turn out well may make a child believe she has no talent. One failed attempt may quickly become “I’m stupid.” Once “I’m stupid” becomes the conclusion, the problem is no longer just the work in front of her. It becomes a rejection of her whole self.

Adults do this too. The difference is that adults usually have more language and experience. We may tell ourselves, “I’m not in good form today,” “I haven’t understood this part yet,” or “I need more practice,” instead of immediately deciding, “I’m useless.”

Children may not yet be able to make those distinctions. They can easily tie together the thing they have made, their ability, and their entire sense of self-worth.

For some children whose understanding develops quickly, this gap may be especially noticeable. Their eyes can already see far ahead. Their sense of beauty and their standards have moved forward, while their physical control, practical skills, and ability to manage emotions are still those of a child their age.

A child may be able to ask complex questions and notice very small details in someone else’s work, yet still have no way to express frustration except by crying, throwing things, or tearing up a drawing.

This does not mean that every highly intelligent child reacts this way. Nor does an intense emotional reaction necessarily mean that a child has a high IQ. Every child develops differently, and the same behaviour can have very different causes.

What matters is not the label. What matters is understanding why a particular child can experience such intense self-rejection over something that appears so small.

When Alicia was younger, her teachers and classmates often called her “the little artist.” It was meant as praise, and it certainly gave her a great deal of encouragement. But I gradually realised that even a positive label can become an invisible demand.

When everyone believed she was good at drawing, perhaps she began to think: If I am “the little artist,” then I should always draw well. If I am not even satisfied with what I have made, do I still deserve that name?

Perhaps what she tore up was not only a drawing. Perhaps she was also rejecting the version of herself that had failed to meet her own standard.

At the time, her interests were still quite concentrated. Drawing was almost her only creative outlet. When she had nothing else to do at home, she spent a great deal of time drawing. It brought her satisfaction, but it also carried too much of her self-evaluation.

When the thing she cared about most—and the thing for which others praised her most—did not go well, the frustration naturally felt much greater.

After she started school, her world gradually became wider. The school has a creative room where children can use paper, wood, plastic, yarn, and many other materials. She began making paper crafts, models, clay figures, and slime. She also searched for templates online, printed them out, and cut, folded, and glued them into all kinds of detailed little creations.

It was only recently that I suddenly realised she now rarely falls apart because a drawing has not turned out well.

It is not because she no longer cares about drawing, or because we finally persuaded her to lower her standards. Her creative world has simply grown wider.

In the past, drawing was almost the only way she could confirm that she was a creative person. Now she can express her ideas in many different ways. She can design, build, cut, and combine ordinary materials into something she can hold, play with, or give to someone else.

Craft projects usually frustrate her less than drawing does, because they come together through many small steps. Even when one part is not perfect, the project can still become a complete object in the end.

After working for a while, she often comes to me excitedly and shows me what she has made. She tells me about a new method she has discovered or a new thing she has managed to create.

That sense of satisfaction cannot be replaced by someone simply saying, “Well done.” The finished object is right there in her hands. She can truly feel: I made this.

She no longer needs one drawing to prove her entire worth.

I think this may be one of the reasons she gradually became calmer.

Sometimes a child’s frustration is not resolved by strengthening the same ability again and again. Nor does the child always need to keep pushing through the one thing that feels most difficult. Sometimes what helps is discovering that there are many other places where she can shine.

When a child’s entire sense of self-worth rests on one thing, a failure in that area can make her feel that her whole self has failed.

But when she knows that she can draw, make things, design, care for others, help her friends, and turn an idea into something real, then one drawing that goes wrong is simply one thing that did not work out. It no longer means, “I can’t do anything.”

This is something I have come to believe more and more: as children grow, they need more than stricter training and constant correction. They also need someone to help them expand the way they understand themselves.

Some children expect a great deal from themselves. It is not that they are unwilling to work. They have simply seen the distant standard too early, before learning how to walk the long road in between.

What parents can do may not be to keep saying, “You can definitely do it.” It may be to stay beside the child while she slowly learns that not being able to do something yet does not mean she has no ability, and that one failure cannot define a whole person.

A child’s eyes may be able to see far ahead. That in itself is a strength.

But when her hands and emotions have not yet caught up, what she needs is not to blame herself for moving too slowly. She needs someone to remind her that growth was never meant to arrive everywhere at once.

This essay is also available in other languages:

Chinese version: 当孩子的眼睛已经看得很远，手和情绪却还没有跟上

German version: Wenn ein Kind schon weit vorausblickt, Hände und Gefühle aber noch nicht mithalten