"I compete only with myself": where seven-year-old Liza's inner backbone comes from

The series "A conversation with a champion's mother", part 3 of 6. ← Previous part

In conversations about Liza Sahalai, adults keep using a word that rarely suits a seven-year-old: backbone. We asked her mother Anna where it comes from — and how the family handles it. Because it turns out that a child's strong character is not only a gift but a separate piece of parenting work.

Not against someone — for herself

"She never competes with anyone else. That was there from the very start," says Anna. "She always said: I compete with myself. When something didn't work out for me, I do it better than it was then."

The mechanics of that "better" are entirely grown-up. After a poor performance Liza may burst into tears like any child. And when the emotion subsides, she takes the video of her performance and watches how it looked from the outside. "She used to understand where the mistake was but couldn't put it into words. Now she calmly analyses herself," Anna says.

There is a caveat: the debrief is with professionals only. With Yuniia and the teachers, as much as you like. From family, no: "It doesn't come across as selfishness, more as: you're not professionals, please don't get involved here." Her father has a role of his own, which Anna describes with a smile: "Dad is the 'praise me' one. I'm your little flower, so admire me. My mistakes I know perfectly well myself."

Tired or being lazy: an honest conversation instead of pressure

What does the family do when Liza says "I'm tired, I don't want to go to training"? They neither cajole nor force — they ask direct questions.

"I ask: do you want to go out and play, or are you genuinely tired? If you're tired, I'll message the teachers right now to say you won't be there. What reason should I give? Saying Liza went out with her friends — you realise that's not a serious one," Anna recounts a typical exchange. "A minute's silence while she works it all through: 'Can we go out and play another day?' — We can. — 'All right then, let's go to training.'"

Liza makes the decision herself every time. But the reverse situation happens too — when a child needs not urging on but stopping.

Teaching her to say "I can't"

"She gives herself no let-up. If she's going for a goal, she goes for it — she's ready to go to training even when she's ill," Anna admits. "And that's probably the downside we're working on. We talk to her: if you're tired, if you feel unwell, you have to allow yourself not to go. To learn to say 'I can't'."

Kateryna Badikova, IDC's founder, remembers an episode she witnessed herself: a few months before Dublin, Liza came to training with earache. "In the moments when she was upside down, I could see how much it hurt. She would stop, cry — and carry on. I haven't seen that kind of determination even in adults." Admiration is one thing — but it is exactly why the adults around Liza have agreed among themselves: strength of character needs a counterweight, and that counterweight is permission to be weak.

Fear can be drawn

There was a period when nerves got in Liza's way before performances: she would start to "wobble" and lose focus. A simple technique the family was recommended helped: draw your fear on a sheet of paper — and leave it there.

Anna later saw a similar mechanism in the studio, at the Friday improvisations: "At first the children were very frightened — they'd go out in pairs, even though they were dancing among their own. And then they were counting the days to that Friday. Each of them put their own mood into the dance. I'd compare dance myself to that sheet of paper where she drew her fear out."

These children know perfectly well what is happening in the country. "They train when there's no electricity, and they run to the studio," says Anna. "There they're among their own, there the interests are the same. All the worry can be left outside the door — and lived out on the dance floor." Kateryna puts it this way: when a child's thoughts are occupied by a dream — the next routine, the next trip — rather than by the aftermath of shelling, it helps protect a child's mind. Probably dance's most important function right now.

Big falls before a big rise

And one last thing. Instead of lecturing, this family works through stories. "My husband and I try to hold up as examples not ourselves but the athletes she's soaking up right now," says Anna. "We watched a film about Simone Biles together — about her losses and her unbeatable spells. We talked about Hanna Rizatdinova, about how she had to claw her way to victory. Sometimes there are very, very big falls before there is a big rise."

Next in the series: the dream that was bigger than a medal — how Liza came to want to hear the Ukrainian anthem on a world stage. Read part 4 →

Quotes lightly edited for readability. On how dance teaches a child to be the author of their own life, see "The director of their own life".