When the Mat Feels Too Hard: Why Kids Struggle—and How We Can Help Them Return
At The MATS Jiu-Jitsu Academy, we teach more than arm drags and breakfalls—we teach children how to struggle well.
That might sound strange. Isn’t struggle something we want to avoid?
Not quite. In fact, struggle—especially when met with support, structure, and meaning—is one of the greatest teachers a young person can encounter.
But here’s the truth: there are moments in every young student’s journey when they don’t want to come back. Not because they’re lazy. Not because they’re incapable. But because something has shifted internally—a mismatch between challenge and confidence, between desire and perceived ability.
When a child who once loved class starts hiding in the car or refusing to put on their gi, we often hear from parents, “I don’t know what happened. They used to love this. Now it’s a battle just to get out the door.”
That’s not a red flag—it’s a doorway.
Let’s open it together.
What’s Really Going On? The Psychology of Resistance
Modern child development research—drawing from neuropsychology, affective neuroscience, and contemporary learning theory—offers us a powerful reframe: resistance is not opposition, but information. In other words, behavior is communication. Always.
When a child resists returning to jiu-jitsu (or any sport), it’s rarely about dislike. More often, it reflects an internal struggle they may not yet be able to articulate. They may be encountering what Dr. Carol Dweck calls a fixed mindset trigger—where the discomfort of not being "good" at something becomes a perceived threat to identity. Or they may be navigating what Dr. Stephen Porges identifies in the Polyvagal Theory as a state of nervous system dysregulation—where feelings of safety are compromised, and the body retreats into a shutdown or freeze response.
Here are some of the quiet stories their resistance might be trying to tell:
"I used to feel confident, but now I’m not sure I belong."
"It’s hard to try when I don’t feel like I’m improving."
"I’m afraid of being embarrassed or hurt."
"Other kids are better than me, and that makes me want to disappear."
"I want to talk about this, but I don’t know how."
Developmental psychologists like Erik Erikson help us understand that children between ages 4 and 7 are actively constructing a sense of industry vs. inferiority—they're learning what they’re good at, where they struggle, and how effort is (or isn't) rewarded. When they face persistent difficulty, and don’t yet have the emotional scaffolding or support to make sense of it, they may opt for what psychologist Dr. Lev Vygotsky would describe as a retreat from the Zone of Proximal Development—that sweet spot where challenge meets capacity with guidance.
In this context, what looks like avoidance may actually be a young mind protecting itself from the threat of perceived failure or exclusion. Our task as adults is not to eliminate the challenge—but to make the support stronger, the language clearer, and the meaning deeper.
Modern child development research—from the fields of neuropsychology, attachment theory, and social learning—offers us a powerful frame: behavior is communication. Always.
When a child resists returning to jiu-jitsu (or any sport), they are not simply saying “I don’t like this”. They may be expressing something more nuanced:
“I’m not sure I’m good at this anymore.”
“It hurts to not be the best.”
“It feels scary to try hard and still lose.”
“I’m comparing myself to others, and I’m falling short.”
“I don’t know how to talk about what’s bothering me.”
In developmental psychology, this is often referred to as a break in perceived competence—the moment a child’s belief in their ability does not match the challenge in front of them. This disconnect can lead to what is known as a withdrawal response, where a child opts out of engagement not from laziness, but from a protective instinct against repeated emotional or performance-based injury. Particularly during the ages of 4 to 7, children are in the critical developmental stage Erik Erikson describes as "industry vs. inferiority," where they begin to form lasting impressions of their own capabilities and value.
If they repeatedly encounter struggle without adequate support or if they interpret failure as a fixed reflection of who they are (rather than a temporary state), the brain’s natural response may shift into what Dr. Daniel Siegel refers to as the "low road"—a stress pathway that triggers avoidance, freezing, or dissociation. Cognitive neuroscience also points to this as a form of learned helplessness, first explored by Martin Seligman, where persistent difficulty without resolution leads to a loss of initiative or belief in self-efficacy.
These aren’t just momentary emotions—they are deeply embodied responses that shape how a child comes to view challenge, failure, and resilience. Our task as coaches and caretakers is not to make the path easier, but to equip our students with the emotional scaffolding to move through it with confidence, context, and connection.
The Fight, Flight… or Freeze Response on the Mat
When children face distress—especially in high-stakes or high-effort environments like a martial arts academy—they may exhibit what is classically known in neurobiology as the fight, flight, or freeze response. This survival-based set of instincts is mediated by the autonomic nervous system, particularly through what Dr. Stephen Porges' Polyvagal Theory identifies as the dorsal vagal complex. In simplified terms: when a child does not feel safe or confident, their nervous system can perceive challenge as threat.
We often recognize "fight" behaviors as outward signs of frustration—acting out, defiance, aggression. "Flight" may look like avoidance, procrastination, or sudden loss of interest. But one of the most common—and easily misunderstood—responses in children is freeze. This is the child who goes silent. Who hides behind their parent. Who shuts down, pretends to be sick, or insists they "just don’t feel like going."
Importantly, these are not signs of manipulation or weakness. They are expressions of emotional overload—where the demands of the situation outstrip the child’s current ability to cope.
This freeze response often occurs in kids who have high sensitivity (both emotionally and neurologically), as well as those who experience internal perfectionism or fear of judgment. Dr. Mona Delahooke, in her work on neurodevelopmental support, encourages us to view this as a child being "stuck"—not stubborn. "Stuck" behavior is the outward signal that a child has temporarily lost access to their higher reasoning, their self-regulation, and their willingness to try again.
When adults respond to this freeze response by minimizing it (“You’re fine!”), shaming it (“Stop being dramatic.”), or ignoring it (“They’ll get over it.”), we inadvertently reinforce the child’s belief that emotional safety is not available in that environment. Instead, what’s needed is co-regulation—a calm, attuned adult presence that mirrors safety, not more pressure.
The key takeaway? Freeze is a signal, not a stopping point. It tells us that the challenge is too big or the support too small. And when we respond with understanding and structure, we give children not only the tools to return—but the confidence to do so on their own terms.
What’s fascinating is that children don’t always “fight” when they’re stressed. Many simply freeze. They shut down. They hide behind a parent. They go silent. They pretend to be tired. They say they’re hurt. These behaviors are not manipulations—they’re adaptive responses when a child does not yet have the language or tools to regulate or express emotion.
When we say things like “They’re just being dramatic” or “They don’t want to work hard,” we risk misreading their behavior and missing the chance to build true resilience.
Resilience Is Not Toughness—It’s Connection in Discomfort
Resilience, as it is widely understood in contemporary psychology, is not synonymous with grit or stoicism in the traditional sense—it’s not the ability to "tough it out" in silence or suppress emotions. Rather, resilience is increasingly defined as the capacity to recover and adapt in the presence of stress, and this capacity is built through relationships, not in isolation.
Adlerian psychology understood this well. Alfred Adler posited that human beings are inherently social creatures, and that all meaningful growth occurs within a framework of social interest—a sense of belonging, contribution, and community. For a child, this means that emotional resilience grows not from being pushed to endure, but from being invited into connected, meaningful struggle.
Current research in developmental neuroscience supports this. Dr. Bruce Perry, in his work on trauma and neurodevelopment, emphasizes that regulation precedes reasoning—that a dysregulated child cannot learn or adapt until they feel safe. This ties directly into the principle of co-regulation, where an attuned adult provides calm, supportive presence, allowing the child’s nervous system to stabilize and return to a state where learning and effort are possible.
As Dr. Ross Greene articulates in his Collaborative & Proactive Solutions model, "Children do well if they can." This framework assumes that when kids struggle, it’s not from willful defiance but from lagging skills—emotional, cognitive, or social. It follows then that the antidote to distress isn’t coercion or consequence, but collaboration—adults working with children to identify the source of the struggle and build the skills to meet it.
In this way, resilience is born at the intersection of challenge and attunement. When a child is struggling with jiu-jitsu, the goal is not to convince them that discomfort isn’t real, but to help them see that it can be faced together. We aren’t asking them to be tough. We’re helping them be connected. And from that connection, toughness grows naturally—not as armor, but as self-trust.
Contemporary research aligns with what Adlerian psychology taught a century ago: children don’t become resilient by being pushed. They grow resilient when they feel safe, seen, and supported while doing something hard.
In Adlerian terms, the child must feel a sense of belonging and significance—a deep-seated belief that they matter, and that their efforts contribute to something bigger than themselves.
This is echoed in the work of leading child psychologists like Dr. Ross Greene (author of The Explosive Child) and Dr. Tina Payne Bryson (co-author of The Whole-Brain Child), who show that when children are dysregulated, they need co-regulation, not coercion. They need a calm adult to sit beside them, not stand above them.
How We Can Help—Together
So how do we, as a community of parents, coaches, and caretakers, create a foundation strong enough to help children cross the threshold of resistance and return to the mat with confidence?
The answer lies in collaborative, developmentally informed, and emotionally intelligent support. We don’t solve resistance by overpowering it—we solve it by helping the child build a bridge back to self-efficacy.
It starts with recognizing that returning to class isn’t just a physical act—it’s a cognitive and emotional process. A child’s decision to re-engage requires internal narrative shift. They need to go from "This is too hard for me" to "Hard is where I grow." That shift doesn’t happen through lectures—it happens through small wins, patient guidance, and authentic relationships.
Researchers like Dr. Edward Deci and Dr. Richard Ryan, the developers of Self-Determination Theory, remind us that optimal motivation in children grows when three needs are met: autonomy, competence, and relatedness. This means we must:
Offer choice and agency ("Would you like to come help today or just watch?")
Highlight small successes ("I saw how hard you worked on your guard pass—amazing effort!")
Maintain strong relational ties ("Coach James really missed you and saved you a spot on the mat.")
Returning to sport or training after emotional withdrawal is not a moment—it’s a process. And it requires that we honor the child’s pace while gently expanding their capacity.
With this in mind, here are five concrete ways we can co-create that process:
When your child says they want to quit, or seems distressed about coming to class, here’s how we can work together as coaches and parents to support their growth without forcing their compliance:
1. Acknowledge the Challenge
Saying, “I know this feels really hard right now,” helps children feel seen. It lowers defensiveness and opens the door for curiosity. We can say, “Tell me more about what feels tough,” instead of “You need to go.”
2. Shift the Metric from Winning to Growing
We remind students (and parents) that we don’t measure progress by taps or medals—but by courage shown in hard moments. That might mean showing up. That might mean trying one technique. That might mean cheering for a teammate even when they feel discouraged.
3. Create Low-Stakes Reentry Points
If a student is resistant, we can invite them back on their terms. Watch a class. Be a helper. Come stretch. Connection precedes participation. Participation precedes performance.
4. Frame the Struggle as Normal and Noble
We use stories—real and relatable—about coaches, older students, even black belts who wanted to quit but didn’t. We frame quitting not as failure, but as a pause. And we make return feel like a choice, not a punishment.
5. Make Their Role Bigger Than Themselves
Adlerian theory reminds us: contribution builds confidence. When a student helps a younger teammate, assists in class, or simply brings the team together with a kind word, they feel needed. And when you feel needed, you feel powerful.
A Final Word: This Is the Work
It’s tempting to view a child’s reluctance to train as a detour from progress—a sign of disinterest or regression. But in truth, these moments of resistance are not interruptions to development. They are development.
What unfolds in these emotionally charged moments is the heart of the martial arts journey: not just discipline and technique, but emotional literacy, identity formation, and the practice of re-engaging after rupture. These are not lessons taught in drills or belt tests, but in the quiet work of returning when returning feels hard.
As adults guiding children through these challenges—whether as parents, coaches, or educators—we are shaping not only their athletic capacity, but their inner world: their resilience, their beliefs about effort, and their trust in others during discomfort. Every invitation back to the mat is an invitation back to themselves.
The Stoics taught us that the obstacle becomes the way. The field of child psychology teaches us that the rupture—when met with repair—is what builds stronger neural pathways and deeper emotional capacity. In that spirit, let us remember: helping a child through a moment of doubt, fear, or resistance is not ancillary to their training—it is the essence of it.
Let us meet our young students with structure and softness, accountability and empathy, and the wisdom to know that every "I don't want to go" moment holds the seed of a lifelong lesson: that courage is not the absence of struggle, but the willingness to return.
Summary: When a child resists returning to the mat, it’s not a sign that something’s wrong—it’s a signal that something real is unfolding. These moments are rich opportunities for growth. With the right support, children don’t just return to sport—they return to themselves, better equipped to navigate both the mat and life with strength, clarity, and confidence.
It’s tempting to see these weeks of resistance as backsliding. They’re not. They’re the real curriculum. Not just for the child—but for all of us guiding them.
What we practice on the mats is what we practice in life: discomfort, doubt, and re-engagement. Children don’t need to be perfect martial artists. They need to be brave learners. And brave learners stumble.
Let’s give them the grace to do so—and the courage to return.