STEPHEN CURRY’S SON SAYS ‘GOD TOLD ME A SECRET’ — WHAT HE REVEALS LEAVES STEPHEN CURRY SPEECHLESS
.
.
.
STEPHEN CURRY’S SON SAYS ‘GOD TOLD ME A SECRET’ — WHAT HE REVEALS LEAVES STEPHEN CURRY SPEECHLESS
Have you ever wondered how a six-year-old child can possess enough wisdom to completely transform an adult’s perspective on life, purpose, and happiness? This is the story of how a simple conversation between Stephen Curry and his son Canon, on a quiet Thursday afternoon in Atherton, California, changed the course of a basketball legend’s life.
The day had begun like any other, but the weight of disappointment was heavy in the Curry household. The Golden State Warriors had been eliminated early from the playoffs, and the world seemed eager to remind Steph of it. His phone wouldn’t stop ringing—agents, journalists, advisers—each call a reminder of unmet expectations and public scrutiny. Even at home, Steph felt the fog of failure clinging to him, refusing to dissipate.
Inside the house, the familiar aroma of Issha’s pancakes and morning coffee couldn’t mask the tension. Steph sat in the living room, staring at his phone, lost in a fog of doubt. He was a man who had inspired millions with his joy and positivity, but now, even his own family could feel the change. The night before, Issha had gently commented, “Steph, you barely touched your dinner.” Canon, their six-year-old son, had asked in his innocent way, “Why doesn’t Daddy laugh at my jokes anymore?” The truth hurt. Steph realized his internal struggles were starting to leak out, touching those he loved most.
Steph had spent two decades building a reputation for tireless positivity, but now he felt as if he was betraying not only his fans but also his family by failing to maintain that luminous energy. Canon, however, had inherited more than just his father’s athletic genes. Even at six, he possessed an emotional perception that surprised adults. He noticed when Steph forced a smile, when his laughter sounded hollow, when his hugs carried the extra weight of worry.
A few nights earlier, Canon had appeared in his parents’ doorway, his small face creased with concern. “Why do you keep looking at the ceiling at night, Dad? Are you sad because of basketball?” The question hit Steph like a punch to the stomach—not because it was inappropriate, but because it was perfectly appropriate. Canon was seeing through all the defenses Steph had erected, straight to the heart of the problem.
Steph Curry, the man who had changed basketball with his contagious joy, was lost in a forest of expectations and pressures that obscured what had made him exceptional. The playoff elimination hadn’t just been a sports defeat—it had been a cruel mirror, reflecting all the insecurities Steph kept hidden. At 36 years old, every mistake on the court transformed into an existential question about relevance. Every media criticism echoed as confirmation of his fears. Every worried look from Issha reminded him he was carrying too much weight alone.
That Thursday afternoon, while Steph was lost in his thoughts, Canon entered the room quietly, carrying his favorite teddy bear and an expression too serious for a six-year-old. “Dad,” Canon said, his voice small but determined, “I need to tell you something important.” Steph looked down, trying to force a smile he didn’t feel. “What is it, my champion?” Canon climbed onto the sofa next to his father and looked directly into his eyes with that intensity that sometimes made Steph forget he was talking to a child. “God told me a secret about you,” Canon said, his voice loaded with a seriousness that made Steph stop pretending he was okay.
How many times do we underestimate children’s ability to perceive truths that adults lose amid the complications we create for ourselves? Canon Curry was about to reveal something that would completely change his father’s perspective on life, purpose, and the true meaning of success.
Steph looked at Canon with a mixture of tenderness and curiosity. “A secret about me? What did God tell you, my son?” Canon adjusted his teddy bear in his lap and took a deep breath, as if he were about to share something of monumental importance. “He told me at church last Sunday when I was praying. And he also told me last night when I asked him to help you be happy again.”
Steph felt his heart race—not because he believed in a literal divine revelation, but because he recognized that Canon had been observing and worrying about him in ways he hadn’t noticed. “What did you ask God for, Canon?” Steph asked gently, pulling his son closer.
“I said, ‘God, my father forgot how to be happy. He keeps looking at the phone with a sad face and doesn’t play with me like before. Can you teach me how to help him?’” Canon paused, his big serious eyes fixed on his father’s face. “And then I felt a voice in here,” he said, touching his chest, “telling me that you just needed to remember some important things.”
Canon had transformed his concern for his father into a spiritual mission, seeking in his childish faith the answers Steph couldn’t find. “What important things, my love?” Steph asked, his voice choked with emotion.
Canon stood up on the sofa, reaching his father’s eye level, and placed his small hands on Steph’s bearded face. “First, God told me that you forgot why you started playing basketball. He said that before, you played because it made you happy—not because people on television talked about you.” The observation hit Steph like lightning. How had his six-year-old managed to identify the core of his existential crisis? Somewhere along the years, the pure pleasure he felt playing had been gradually overcome by expectations, pressures, and the need to prove his worth.
“And second,” Canon continued, his voice gaining confidence, “he told me that you get sad because you think disappointing people is worse than disappointing yourself. But God said that’s wrong.” Steph felt tears forming in his eyes—not of sadness, but of recognition. His son had diagnosed with surgical precision what he had been trying to understand for weeks.
“How did you know that, Canon?” Steph asked, genuinely impressed.
“Because I watch you, Dad,” Canon replied with childlike honesty. “You get happy when you play with me in the backyard, but you get sad when you look at the phone and see people talking about basketball. Before, you used to sing in the car. Now you stay quiet. Before, you laughed at my silly jokes. Now you only smile with your mouth, not with your eyes.”
Steph was realizing that Canon had developed an emotional observation system more sophisticated than any psychologist. “And there’s more,” Canon said, sitting back on his father’s lap. “God told me that you think you’re not a good father because you worry about adult things. But I want to tell you a secret too: you’re the best father in the whole world—even when you’re sad.”
“Why do you think that, my son?” Steph asked, his tears finally rolling down his cheeks.
“Because you always hug me when I need it. You always listen to me when I talk. You play with me even when you’re tired. And when I have nightmares, you stay with me until I’m not afraid anymore. Bad fathers don’t do those things.”
Steph realized how destructive self-criticism can be, while those who matter most see value in us that we can’t even see. “But what did God say I need to remember?” Steph asked, now completely invested in the conversation.
Canon smiled for the first time since their talk began. “You need to remember that playing basketball is the same as playing with me in the backyard. You do it because you love it, not because other people are watching.”
“And how can I remember that?” Steph asked, genuinely seeking advice from his son.
“It’s easy, Dad,” Canon said, jumping off the sofa and running to the window that overlooked the backyard. “Come play basketball with me now—not to train, not to get better, just to have fun like we used to do.”
Steph felt a lightness he hadn’t experienced in months. But before he got up, he wanted to hear the rest. “Canon, wait a minute. You said God told you a secret about me. Is there anything else he told you?” Canon ran back to the sofa, climbing up next to his father with that adorable seriousness.
“Yes, Dad, there’s the most important part of the secret.” Steph leaned forward, feeling he was about to hear something that would fundamentally change his perspective. “God told me that you forgot the most important thing about why you play basketball.”
“And what’s that?” Steph asked.
“You don’t play for the people on television, Dad. You don’t play to win trophies or for people to say you’re the best. You play because it makes you happy, and because it makes other people happy too. That’s all.”
The impact of these words hit Steph like a revelation. He realized that he had started playing out of pure love, but that love had been buried under layers of pressure and expectation. “How do you know that, Canon?”
“Because I see you smile for real when we play in the backyard. It’s the same smile you have in old photos when you were a child. Mom showed me the pictures. You had the same happy face playing basketball that I have when I play with my favorite toys.”
Canon continued, now standing on the sofa. “The part that God said is the most important of all: playing with me is more important than any basketball game. Because games end, but I’m your son forever. And when you’re old and can’t play anymore, I’ll still be here wanting to play with you.”
Steph felt as if the ground had disappeared under his feet—not in a frightening way, but liberating. Tears streamed down his face, not of sadness, but of emotional clarity. “Canon, you’re right. You’re completely right.”
“I know I am,” Canon said with the confidence of childhood. “That’s why God chose me to tell you—because sometimes daddies forget important things and need their children to remind them.”
Steph hugged Canon tightly. “Thank you for reminding me who I really am.”
“You’re welcome, Dad,” Canon replied, returning the hug. “Now can we go play basketball the fun way, not the serious way?”
For 45 minutes, Steph Curry played basketball like he hadn’t in decades—no timer, no score, no cameras. Just a father and son inventing silly games, laughing at missed shots, celebrating impossible baskets. “Look, Dad!” Canon shouted after making a three-pointer at his height. “I’m just like you!”
“No,” Steph replied, smiling in a way that made Issha stop washing dishes to look out the window. “You’re better than me. You still remember how to have fun.”
That night, after Canon was asleep, Steph called his coach. “Coach, I remembered why I started playing basketball.”
“And why was that?” Steve Kerr asked.
“Because it made me happy. And I want to go back to playing that way—not with less seriousness, but with more joy.”
Three weeks later, Steph Curry returned to the court for the new season. The difference was palpable. He smiled genuinely, played with teammates, and seemed to be having fun in a way fans hadn’t seen in a long time. He scored 42 points that night, but more important was the contagious joy that reminded everyone why they loved watching him.
After the game, a reporter asked, “Steph, you seem to have found something during the break. What changed?”
Steph smiled, thinking of Canon. “I had a very special conversation with my son. He reminded me that playing basketball should be fun. When you have fun doing something you love, everything else—excellence, success, connection—flows naturally.”
Six months later, Steph Curry was having one of the best seasons of his career, not just in statistics but in impact and influence. His renewed joy inspired a new generation to rediscover the pure pleasure of the game. In interviews, Steph often mentioned “a conversation that changed my life” with his son, though he never revealed the details.
One night, while putting Canon to bed, Steph said, “Thank you for teaching me that conversation with God, my son.”
“Dad,” Canon replied sleepily, “do you want to know a secret? God didn’t tell me anything. I just said that because you were sad and I wanted to help you. But everything I said was true—because I know you better than anyone.”
Steph laughed, hugging his son with admiration and unconditional love.
Then you’re even wiser than I thought.
“I learned by watching you, Dad,” Canon murmured, almost asleep. “When you’re happy, everyone gets happy together.”
Sometimes the deepest truths come from the purest hearts. And sometimes, when we lose our way in adult life, we just need the simple wisdom of a child to remind us that joy is not a luxury—it’s the foundation on which we build our best selves.
Canon Curry had taught his father that being extraordinary doesn’t mean sacrificing happiness, but finding a way to be happy that is, in itself, extraordinary.
play video:
