In India, there are families where excellence feels like a second language. Parents who have cleared the toughest exams, built remarkable careers, and climbed to the top of their professions—whether in the IAS, IIT, IIM, or other demanding fields—carry with them a code for success. They know how to work with efficiency. They know the meaning of discipline, persistence, and sacrifice. They have lived it, and it has shaped their destinies. Naturally, they want to pass on that code to their children.
There is nothing wrong with this intention. In fact, it is born out of love and a desire to give children a proven path. But what works in the world of competitive exams or high-stakes careers doesn’t always translate neatly into the rhythms of childhood. Children are not UPSC aspirants at the age of ten. They are not budding CEOs in grade school. They are children, with needs that sometimes resist the relentless march of efficiency.
I remember a boy who came to me for mathematics coaching. His parents were both IAS officers, highly successful and deeply respected. At first glance, you would think he had everything—a disciplined home, the best resources, and role models to look up to. But whenever he came for class, before touching his homework, he wanted to chat. He wanted to tell me about the odd dream he had, about something funny a friend said in the corridor, or about a little discovery he made on the way home. His eyes would light up in those moments. It was as though he had been holding back words all day, waiting for someone to simply listen.
That chatter was not distraction. It was his way of reaching for connection. And I couldn’t help but think: in a household where every hour is accounted for, perhaps he didn’t have time or space to speak freely. His parents gave him everything they thought was valuable, but the one thing he was hungry for was unstructured attention.
High-performance parents sometimes assume that time must always be purposeful. Sports are important. Academics are important. Extra classes are important. But when everything is important, something essential gets lost: the child’s sense of being valued just for who they are. Scott Peck, in The Road Less Traveled, described four pillars of discipline—delaying gratification, acceptance of responsibility, dedication to truth, and balancing. It is the last one, balancing, that often falls through the cracks. Because balance means knowing when to stop measuring time in outcomes and to allow life to simply flow.
The danger of importing the high-performance code into parenting is that it can make ordinary moments seem unworthy. Dinner conversations shrink into schedules. A weekend becomes another opportunity for structured improvement. Even leisure can feel like an agenda. But children do not just grow on structure. They grow on the ordinary—on silly jokes, shared silences, on time that seems to have no objective value.
One of the most profound lessons I’ve received came from my daughter. One day she asked me, “Mama, what if I don’t want to play football?” It was a small question but a powerful one. For weeks we had been telling her about the benefits of sport—teamwork, fitness, confidence. All true. But she was gently reminding me that activities are meant to serve her, not the other way around. I told her, “Football is for you. You are not for football.” That sentence, once said, stayed with me as a mantra. Whether it’s football or math or music, the child must come first.
High-performance parents rarely set out to pressure their children. They are driven by the best intentions. They know the cost of failure and want to protect their children from it. Yet, the very intensity that made them succeed can sometimes weigh heavily on young shoulders. I’ve seen children who excel at academics but feel unable to express fear or confusion, because in their home weakness has no space. I’ve seen children brilliant at sports who suddenly lose joy in the game because it has turned into another measure of performance.
The irony is that these parents, with all their dedication, sometimes forget that children learn the value of time not from schedules but from presence. A lazy afternoon, a meandering chat, or an unstructured playdate can give a child more resilience and joy than ten efficiently organized activities. What the IAS/IIT/IIM code misses is that children are not projects to be optimized—they are humans who need connection before they need efficiency.
It is also worth remembering that despite society’s applause for visible success, not every child is meant for the same paths. A parent who insists that their child must become a doctor, an engineer, or a civil servant because they themselves walked that road risks turning love into expectation. And expectations, when too heavy, can create fractures. I have seen children who carry unspoken guilt for not wanting what their parents want. A girl once told me, “I feel like my life is not mine. I’m just repaying debts.” That kind of burden is not what any parent truly wishes to give.
The answer is not to abandon discipline altogether. Structure matters. Habits matter. But balance matters too. Balance means saying, “Yes, math is important, but you are more important.” Balance means telling a child that even if they quit football, they are still loved. Balance means accepting that a dream of running a bakery or becoming a teacher is as worthy as cracking an exam.
High-performance parents have already proven they can win at life’s hardest challenges. But parenting is not about winning. Parenting is about raising children who are whole, who feel seen, who believe they matter outside of their achievements. If parents can bring the same wisdom they used in their careers and combine it with gentleness, balance, and presence, they will give their children not just a code for success, but a foundation for happiness.
In the end, children will not remember how efficient their schedules were. They will remember how often their parents listened. They will not carry certificates forever, but they will carry the sense of being valued. And that sense—that they mattered more than football, more than math, more than all the structures—will stay with them for life.