She Didn’t Need Rewards — She Needed Privacy (Part One)

For four years, potty training lived quietly in the background of our lives. It was never a straight line. It came in cycles of trying, getting frustrated, stopping, and starting again. Some days I was consistent and hopeful. Other days my mental health took over, the pressure felt unbearable, and I quit. That is my pattern when something is not working fast enough. I walk away. Not because I do not care, but because I am exhausted. For a long time, I told myself that stepping back meant I had failed her.

I watched other parents online for years, saving videos, taking notes, and trying method after method. I followed advice that promised quick results and felt defeated when it did not work for us. Eventually, I stopped trying altogether, or at least that is what I thought. What I did not realize then is that my daughter was still watching, still absorbing, still learning. Progress just was not happening on my timeline. It was happening on hers. This weekend became the clearest proof of that.

My daughter did not need rewards, screens, encouragement, countdowns, or sticker charts. She needed privacy. I know this because I tried everything first. Every trick the internet promised would work, I tried. Sitting with her. Talking her through it. Giving her my phone or the iPad. Celebrating. Clapping. High fives. Sweets. Praise. Timers. Schedules. None of it mattered to her. She never cared. After a while, I started to feel like I was failing her.

Every time I sat in the bathroom with her, she cried. Every time she sat on the toilet, nothing happened. The moment a pull up touched her waist, though, it was immediate relief. Like clockwork.

Today was different.

The night before, I had prepared my entire apartment for what I thought would be an aggressive potty-training day. I covered everything. Chux lined the living room, the kitchen, and her bedroom. The couch and floors where she usually sits and plays were layered. The kitchen island stools and the floor beneath where she eats were covered. Even her bed. I was ready for accidents, resistance, cleanup, and frustration. I went to sleep bracing myself for a long, exhausting day. As it turned out, none of it was needed. All that preparation ended up being unnecessary, almost ironic, considering what actually worked.

When she was ready to go, she sat on the toilet like she always does. Of course, she cried like she always does because on the toilet in the bathroom is the last place she wanted to be. Then she waved me off, not aggressively, not dramatically, just a clear, firm gesture telling me to go away. I did not leave the bathroom. I was not ready to let go completely. But I did something I had never done before. I stood at the doorway and I turned my back.

Then it happened. The sound I have been waiting four years to hear. Urine hitting the toilet water.

I cried instantly. I jumped. I turned around yelling “good job” and scared her half to death. She stopped immediately and started screaming. I apologized through tears, turned back around, and gave her the space she had asked for. She finished.

When she stood up, I turned around on cue and watched her try to wipe incorrectly. I gently showed her how to wipe front to back. She realized how wet she was. Half a roll of toilet paper later, she flushed, pulled up her underwear, and washed her hands.

Then something else happened. She remembered everything. The steps. The order. The routine. I stood there in awe, crying, not from relief but from happiness, watching my five year old do something I had worried would never click.

She saw my joy and felt it. She started jumping up and down, clapping with me, smiling, proud. For the first time, this was not something happening to her. It was something she owned.

That was not the end. Later, she stripped out of her underwear and went looking for a pull up. That was her way of telling me she needed to go, just not how. I took her back to the bathroom, turned around again, and she went. Again. And then again.

Three successful bathroom trips in less than twenty four hours.

After four years of training, we are finally here. This weekend is still ongoing. Tomorrow is another no pull up day. School starts again Monday, and I have already alerted her teachers so we can support her together. I will be packing extra clothes, underwear, wipes, all of it.

We have completed the urination stage. The next stage, bowel movements, has not happened yet, and yes, I am already panicking. But now I know something I did not before. My daughter knows what she needs. And when I listen, she thrives.

This is only the beginning.