There’s a phrase in the endurance world that makes perfect sense once you’ve lived it: Type 2 fun.
For those that don’t know what it is, in short – it’s the kind of fun that usually doesn’t feel very fun while it’s happening, but then afterwards you are so happy you did it.
It’s the long hike with whining, wet socks, and snacks gone too early.
It’s the camp setup in the rain after a big day.
It’s the long and never ending paddle into a headwind.
It’s the road trip detour that turns into a meltdown.
It’s the race, the tears , the exhaustion… and then somehow, later, the story everyone tells over and over again with a smile.
As athletes, many of us actively choose this kind of discomfort. We sign up for it. We train for it. We know that the things that stretch us, humble us, and sometimes completely wreck us are often the same things that teach us stay with us the longest.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about it in a different kind of way though.
What if type 2 fun is one of the best things we can give our kids?
After weeks of helping put on the Magnificent in New Zealand, solo parenting, and holding all the moving pieces together, Jason and I finally had a little space to exhale. Naturally, instead of resting like sensible people, we decided to go have some big adventure days with the boys.
One of those days was a mission up The Monument in Manapouri — a paddle-trek-paddle adventure that Jason and I had done before with our Acro Yoga and adventure students, but never with our own kids.
It started out great. The energy was high. Everyone, including our guests, Guillermo and Darren were excited. And the boys were 100% into it. It was the kind of start that made me think, Yes. This is it. We are those people. We are raising tiny adventurers and this is going to be magical.
And then we got to the put-in. White caps, strong winds and spurts of rain were coming at us at the wrong angle – in the face. It was not exactly the dreamy family paddle I had pictured.
But because we had four stoked, strong and willing adults, we made the call to go for it. We knew we could handle the conditions. However, that also meant both boys had to stay tucked in the middle of the packrafts while us adults paddled our butts off through wind and rain.
They were cold, they couldn’t really help and they just had to sit there and endure it. And honestly, that is a hard ask for a kid. Revel kept himself busy by singing and asking questions. But Max was absolutely miserable.
At one point he looked at Jason and said:
“This is the worst day of my life.”
And in that moment, we started questioning everything.
Was this a terrible idea? Were we ruining them?
Was this building resilience… or just becoming a core memory for all the wrong reasons?
The Rule We Borrowed from Adventure Racing
In adventure racing, when one of us wants to quit or having a terrible time, we have a rule:
You set your watch and you give it an hour. And if, during that hour, you smile or have one genuinely good thought, your time starts over. So, we used that rule with Max.
We told him to set his watch for an hour. If in that hour he smiled, or had one nice thought, his time started over. A little while later — after a few gummies and once we got out to a short portage — he looked up and said:
“Well Mama… maybe this is actually a tiny bit fun.”
Time started over. He set his watch again. Then we got back on the water, and he was miserable again.
And Honestly? I would have been too if I had to sit in the middle of a packraft, cold and wet, while everyone else got to paddle. But then, with about 25 minutes to spare on his “quit clock,” we were off the water again, and suddenly he was happily chatting and scrambling his way up toward the Monument.
At the top, in one exposed section, he paused and said something I don’t think I’ll ever forget:
“Mama, I really am scared, but I also really like this.”
That was it. That’s the whole thing right there. That is the magic.
The Best Lessons Don’t Usually Come Wrapped in Comfort
Later, back at home, after several more waves of loving it, hating it, being done, rallying, and repeating the cycle, Max looked at us and said:
“That was a really fun day.”
And Jason laughed and said: “And that, Max, is the definition of type 2 fun.”
Revel, for the record, had a completely different experience. He loved it… as long as he received his hourly intake of gummies. Which is totally fair and what I need as well when I’m out adventuring.
But Max? Max lived the full spectrum of feelings and loved to tell us when ever it changed (which I really appreciate AND is also hard for me when I’m not in the right headspace).
He hated it. He loved it. He was cold. He was scared. He was happy. He was miserable. He was exhilarated.
And in the end, he owned it. That’s what I keep coming back to. And not because I want my kids to suffer for the sake of suffering nor because I think every family outing should be a test.
But because I think there is something incredibly valuable in letting our kids discover, in their own bodies, (not just in our pep talks ) that they can be uncomfortable and still be okay.
Kids Don’t Need Everything to Be Easy
I think a lot about the tension so many of us feel as parents.
We want our kids to be happy and to feel safe and -we want to protect the magic of childhood. Of course we do.
But somewhere along the way, modern parenting can quietly convince us that our job is to remove every inconvenience, solve every discomfort, and smooth every rough edge before our kids even feel it.
Even though I find myself doing this, I don’t believe that’s what helps them grow.
I think kids need:
Long walks, waiting in lines, weather, effort, boredom, disappointment, scraped knees, dirty clothes, carrying their own valuable things, getting hungry before lunch, helping out with daily chores and learning that the fun sometimes comes after the hard bits.
Not because we’re trying to make them tougher for toughness’ sake but because resilience isn’t taught in a lecture. It’s built in lived experience.
The Real Gift of Type 2 Fun
What I want my boys to learn isn’t that they have to enjoy every hard thing.
I don’t need them to love every adventure.
I don’t need every outing to become some epic family memory.
And I definitely don’t need them to smile through every miserable moment.
But I do want them to learn:
That hard doesn’t automatically mean bad, that discomfort isn’t an emergency, that plans change and they can adapt, that fear and joy can exist in the same moment, that they are so much stronger and capable than they realize and that many times the best parts don’t reveal themselves until later.
Because the kids who learn to move through discomfort become adults who trust themselves – and that is awesome.
Also… I Need This Reminder Too
Here’s the funny part: I somehow still get this wrong almost every single time.
Before the big day, I imagine the best version of it. The smiling kids. The beautiful summit photo. The meaningful family memory. The wind in our hair, everyone thriving and me effortlessly crushing motherhood and logistics at the same time.
And then real life blasts me in the face: someone is cold, someone wants to bring two pairs of sweats *just* in case one gets dirty, someone is too tired, someone wants to wear crocks on a 3 mile uphill and technical hike, someone is always asking how much farther, the weather turns, and I start questioning my entire parenting philosophy.
The whole cycle is on repeat, but after a while it has calmed down. I have *almost* grown to welcome it now.
So, for the record – I’m not just writing this for you, I’m writing this for myself too.
As a reminder to read before the next big adventure day… and probably after it too.
To remember that the middle often looks and feels messy.
That discomfort can masquerade as disaster.
That I will probably wonder if I’m ruining my children somewhere between the put-in and the summit.
And that, more often than not, the story changes by the end.
When I think back on that day in Manapouri, I don’t remember a “perfect” family outing.
I remember white caps, wind in our faces, a soggy packraft, a child declaring its the worst day of his life, many handfuls of gummies, and a scared and earnest little voice at the top of an exposed ridge saying:
“I really am scared, but I also really like this.”
Honestly, I can’t think of a better summary of adventure… or parenting.
And if I forget that on the next windy, snack-depleted, slightly-questionable family mission… feel free to send me back here.
