Watching my daughter learn to ride a bike was a mix of teetering starts and bursts of confidence, like the time she wobbled forward a few metres, only to tumble onto the soft grass, laughing despite the fall. It wasn’t just about teaching her to balance and pedal. It was about helping her see what she could do once she started trusting herself.

It started with a balance bike. My wife insisted on getting one. I was skeptical. Balance bikes didn’t exist when I was growing up. We learned on bikes with training wheels, leaning the wrong way, and developing bad habits that had to be unlearned later. The balance bike seemed too simple, almost like skipping a step.

But she was right. For months, my daughter rode it with ease, gliding along without even realising how much she was improving. She didn’t know she was learning. She thought she was just riding.

When it was time for a pedal bike, we visited several shops until she found one she loved. It was pink and fit her perfectly. One spring Saturday at Attika Grove, we set out to try it for the first time. The park spreads across Tourkovounia Hill, one of the few green spaces left in Athens, with pine trees, open trails, and panoramic views of the city.

We had decided to skip training wheels, trusting that her time on the balance bike had already taught her how to stay upright. Our plan was simple: run behind her, ready to catch her if she fell, but never hold on.

She was excited but nervous. Balancing on a normal bike was a different challenge, and she lacked the confidence to start. “What if I fall?” she asked, her wide eyes looking up at me. “You might,” I said. “But that’s okay. You’ll get back up.” With a deep breath, she tried. The bike wobbled, tilted, and stopped. My wife and I cheered. Then she tried again.

The first tries were shaky. She would sometimes refuse to move, nervous and unsure. I stayed close, arms spread, near enough that she could see me in her peripheral vision. Not holding on. Just there.

With every stumble and word of support, she grew bolder. Then, she did it. One pedal forward. Then another. Before I knew it, she was riding, truly riding, on her own for the very first time. It must have been a funny sight: a bear of a man loping behind a pink fury, arms spread like he could catch the wind itself.

She did fall once, and I caught her, barely. But she got back up and tried again.

I swapped with my wife several times, one of us running behind her, the other cheering her on. We shifted between proximity and distance, reading what she needed without asking. When she wobbled badly, one of us stayed close. When she found her rhythm, we gave her space.

We never grabbed the bike, never steadied her when she could steady herself. She needed to know we were there. She also needed the freedom to figure it out.

Until finally, she didn’t need either of us anymore. She pedaled away, steady and sure, the wobbles smoothing into rhythm. I stood there watching her disappear down the path and felt a swell of pride.

I wondered if this is what it always looks like when someone crosses from uncertain to capable. Staying close enough that they feel supported, but far enough back that the success is theirs. I’m still not sure I always get the distance right.