Two Hats on the Touchline

A reflection on roles, expectations, and what I noticed afterwards

I noticed something about myself on the touchline this weekend.

Not straight away. Not in the moment. Only later once the noise had died down and I’d had a bit of space to replay it quietly in my own head.

I was at my daughter’s rugby game watching from the side as I often do. As usual I wasn’t just there as a parent. I was also there as a coach to my daughter and her teammates. Two roles, worn at the same time, without much thought given to how that might shape what followed.

At first nothing felt unusual. The usual buzz. The familiar nerves. The sense of wanting things to go well – for her, for them, for all the effort that’s been put in over the weeks.

And then, at some point, there was a shift.

A decision didn’t go our way. A passage of play broke down. A moment that on another day might have passed without much reaction… didn’t.

I could feel the emotion rise before I really had time to question it. The frustration. The protectiveness. The weight of expectation… some of it spoken, most of it not.

By the time I noticed, it had already spilled over.

Nothing dramatic. No big scene. Just enough edge in my reactions to know, afterwards, that it probably wasn’t my best moment. And that whatever I was feeling wasn’t helping the girls play more freely or confidently.

We’re human, of course. I know that. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t deserve a second look.

When I replayed it later what stood out wasn’t the rugby, it was the roles.

I’d turned up wearing two hats and hadn’t really noticed how tightly I was holding onto both. As a parent, I cared deeply. As a coach, I had opinions. Expectations. A sense of how things should look.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, I lost a bit of perspective.

What’s interesting is that the same afternoon offered a quiet contrast.

Earlier in the day, we’d put out a team made up largely of development players. Girls still finding their feet, still learning the rhythms of the game, still working things out in real time.

Watching that game felt different.

I noticed myself encouraging more. Smiling more. Seeing small wins where, in another context, I might have seen mistakes. The girls played with energy and freedom and I came away feeling genuinely good about what I’d seen – regardless of the scoreboard.

Then came the later game. More experienced players. More familiarity. More expectation… again, mostly unspoken.

And with that a different internal commentary.

I found myself more critical. Less patient. Reacting not just to what was happening, but to what I thought ought to be happening by now.

It didn’t take long for that to spiral, internally, at least. The game became heavier, and so did I.

Same pitch. Same sport. Same role on paper. Completely different experience.

That contrast has stayed with me.

It’s made me wonder how often our expectations quietly flavour our responses – not just in sport, but everywhere. How they can narrow what we notice, tighten how we react and pull us away from the simple enjoyment of what’s actually unfolding in front of us.

I don’t think I realised, in the moment, how much I was carrying into that second game. Or how little space I’d left for things to surprise me.

And I’m not writing this having neatly resolved it.

If anything, it’s left me more curious than certain.

About how easily we slip into roles without noticing.
About how quickly expectation turns into pressure… for ourselves and for others.
About how much lighter things feel when we allow ourselves to meet the moment as it is rather than as we think it should be.

There’s something humbling about noticing all this after the fact. About realising that insight often arrives once the whistle’s blown and everyone’s gone home.

Maybe that’s how it usually works.

We don’t spot these things while we’re in them. We notice them later when there’s a bit more quiet, a bit more honesty, a bit less need to perform a role well.

I’m still sitting with what it means to be both a parent and a coach in those moments. Still thinking about how to hold care without gripping too tightly. How to bring expectations lightly, or perhaps leave them at the gate altogether.

I don’t have an answer I’m confident in yet.

Just a growing sense that how we show up matters at least as much as what we’re showing up for.

And that noticing (even afterwards) might be a good place to start.