Necessary Losses, Unexpected Wins

The day Dawson came home with a flyer for the Invention Convention, my husband and I looked at each other with hesitation. We knew this would be a big project—an undertaking that would stretch Dawson in new ways. We sat down with him to talk about the commitment involved and encouraged him to really think it through. We made it clear: if he signed up, we would hold him accountable for seeing it through to the end.

He was all in. Determined and excited, he insisted on signing up. So, we supported him fully.

Right away, we sat at the kitchen table to brainstorm. Every idea on that list was Dawson’s—some simple, some elaborate, all creative. When we asked him, “What’s something that would make your life easier?” he immediately thought of a frustration he often has while fishing: carrying all the things.

We live near a lake, and fishing is a regular part of our lives. When we head down to the water, we bring everything we need and set up in one spot. But Dawson loves to venture off and fish a bit farther away. That means he’s responsible for carrying all his own gear—his pole, his chair, his worms, everything. His biggest challenges? Worms don’t sit neatly in a tackle box, and tackle boxes are bulky and heavy. This was a real issue for him, and he was determined to solve it.

So, he got to work. We wrote down every idea he came up with, big and small, then talked through the strengths and possible struggles of each one. Then, suddenly, something clicked. I could see the light bulb go off in his mind. He ran to grab his LEGO organization box and said he wanted something like that—just smaller and able to connect to his fishing pole.

That was it. His invention was born, and from that moment on, he took the lead. We helped him gather the materials, while he was the one making the decisions. He thought through where to place the box on the pole, how it would attach, and—his favorite part—what to name it.

Tackle-Pole: the perfect mash-up of a tackle box and a fishing pole.

Over the next few weeks, we reminded him of deadlines and helped him stay organized, but every piece of research, every log entry, every design decision was his. At school, his teacher practiced his speech with him and made sure he was ready for the competition. The weekend before it was due, Dawson and I spent six grueling hours finalizing everything—with him in the lead ensuring that his vision and preferences were honored and me there for support while also making sure he had met all the requirements. Every step reflected his direction, creativity, and problem-solving.

Dawson with his finished product - The Tackle-Pole

Then came the day of the regional Invention Convention. Dawson was beaming with pride as he set up his table and displayed the Tackle-Pole. As people walked by, he confidently explained what his invention was and why he had created it. I was told he did an amazing job speaking with the judges, too.

Later, it was time for awards. I quietly slipped into the back of the room, ready to capture a proud moment. Third place—not him. Second place—not him. First place—not him. I watched his shoulders slump with disappointment as he fought back tears. One more award remained: The Innovation Award. My stomach twisted with hope.

But again—not him.

He broke down in tears, overwhelmed by disappointment. He had worked so hard and poured so much of himself into this project, and it hadn’t ended the way he imagined. I comforted him, hugged him tight, and then stepped back to let his teacher help him move on with his class. They were treated to Dairy Queen, and I hoped that treat might lift his spirits.

But big feelings don’t disappear that quickly. Especially not for Dawson. His emotions resurfaced when he got back to school. His team reached out to let me know they were supporting him as he worked through the frustration and sadness.

Thankfully, I was home when his carpool dropped him off later that day. I expected tears—but instead, he was calm.

I asked him what had helped him—really, I should have asked who helped him.

He told me that when he was upset, his teacher, behavior specialist, and classmates reassured him. They told him how much they loved his project, how hard he had worked, and how proud they were of what he had created. They gave him the time and space to reset. 

But what made the biggest impact was a small, kind moment - when his carpool driver, a family friend, told him all the things she loved about the Tackle-Pole. She said she could see how useful it was and even joked that she wished she had one. That simple encouragement? That was the moment his whole day turned around.

It was a big win for Dawson.

Many people told me they were sorry he didn’t get an award. But if I’m honest—I wasn’t sorry. Dawson, like all of us, needs to experience loss. He needs to understand that we don’t always, and rarely ever, get it right on the first try. This experience will help him show up next year more experienced, more prepared, and more aware that a win is never guaranteed—but the work still matters.

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And then, the next morning brought a surprise none of us saw coming.

While I was working, a friend showed me a message on her phone. It was a photo of the front page of our local newspaper—with Dawson and his Tackle-Pole front and center. The image showed him proudly presenting his invention to the judges. My heart swelled, and tears filled my eyes.

This was a win. A huge one.

That evening, my phone was full of messages—people congratulating him, sharing how proud they were, and telling me they were saving their copy of the paper for Dawson. The outpouring of love and encouragement was overwhelming. He was glowing.

A friend from church left him a voice message saying how special this moment was and how proud of him she was. Big win.

Our pastor brought a Sharpie to Dawson and asked him to sign his newspaper. Big win.

Within a week, we had stacks of newspapers saved by friends and family who wanted to make sure Dawson had a copy to remember it all. The sting of not winning was still there, but it had shifted. The focus had moved to his hard work, his invention—the very reason he signed up in the first place.

As I reflect on this experience, I’m incredibly grateful that Dawson took the risk of signing up and trying something new. But more than that, I’m grateful he learned something even bigger: the power in losing, the value of not getting it right the first time, and the reminder that winning doesn’t always look the way we expect. In the end, he may not have taken home a trophy—but he walked away with so much more.

Read the newspaper article here.