The sea was breathing. That’s what it always seemed like to the young crab—like a living creature, its chest rising and falling with the tide. In and out, in and out, the waves came, spilling across the sand in foamy laughter before pulling back with a gentle hiss. The morning sun was painting the water in shades of gold and silver, so dazzling that even the gulls circling above paused in their cries, as if stunned by the beauty of it all.

It was the kind of day that invited adventure.

“Race you to the tide pool!” cried the little crab, who had already forgotten whatever lecture his mother had given him the evening before. He darted across the wet sand, his legs clicking in a zigzag pattern, never in a straight line, as if the beach itself were a giant puzzle and he was determined to trace every wrong answer before stumbling onto the right one.

His mother, a broad-shelled crab with a shell scratched from seasons of survival, lifted her claw in alarm. “Not so fast! Slow down, you’ll trip!”

But the young crab was already gone, scuttling sideways with wild enthusiasm. He hopped over broken shells, startled a tiny sandpiper into flight, and splashed into a pool left behind by the morning tide. Inside, schools of minnows darted like silver sparks, and a shy starfish pressed itself against a rock. The little crab squealed in delight, snapping his small claws at the rippling surface.

The mother crab sighed, dragging herself toward him at a much slower pace. She was tired. Tired of chasing, tired of scolding, tired of feeling like every word she said simply bounced off her child’s shiny little shell.

“Do you even hear me when I talk to you?” she muttered as she approached.

The little crab looked up with an innocent grin, water dripping from his legs. “Of course, Mama. You said to go slow. So I went fast before you could tell me not to.”

She groaned. “That’s not listening—that’s doing the opposite!”

He tilted his head. “But Mama… the minnows were waiting. You can’t keep minnows waiting.”

The mother crab almost laughed at his seriousness, but she held it in. Instead, she snapped her claw for attention. “Listen to me carefully. You must learn to walk properly, like the other creatures of the beach. Do you see those sandpipers?” She gestured toward a flock of tiny birds prancing neatly along the shoreline. “Straight steps, one after another. Even the turtles march straight to the sea when they hatch. But you—you always go crooked, sideways, this way and that. How do you expect to be respected if you can’t even walk properly?”

The little crab stared at her, wide-eyed. “But Mama, my legs don’t move that way. They just… go sideways.”

“That’s because you don’t try hard enough!” snapped the mother. “If you’d only practice, you could learn to walk straight. Now, watch me.”

With great dignity, she planted her legs firmly in the sand and began to move. She wanted to show him how effortless it was, how simple and noble. Yet the moment she lifted one leg, the others followed in their usual, traitorous fashion. Click-clack, zig-zag—her body swayed left, then right, her path curving like a drunken line across the beach. She clenched her claws, determined to push harder. Still, no matter how she twisted or strained, she found herself scuttling sideways just as her son had done.

The little crab’s eyes widened, then twinkled. Slowly, a giggle bubbled up from his tiny body. Then another. Until finally, he was rolling in the sand, laughing so hard his legs wiggled helplessly.

“Mama! You look just like me!” he squeaked between fits of laughter.

The mother crab froze mid-step, her claws hovering in the air. Her face flushed beneath her shell. For a moment she thought of denying it, of saying she was only pretending, or that she could walk straight if she really wanted to. But the evidence lay behind her: a crooked trail of crab prints weaving across the sand like a scribbled line.

Her pride cracked like an old shell.

“I…” she stammered, lowering her claws. “I suppose I do.”

The little crab was still giggling, his eyes bright with mischief. “See? You’re not better at it than I am.”

For the first time in a long while, the mother crab didn’t scold him for laughing. She didn’t snap her claws or raise her voice. Instead, she stood silently, watching the waves slide in and out, carrying fragments of seaweed and drifting shells. Something heavy was stirring in her heart—something she hadn’t wanted to face.

At last, she said quietly, “Perhaps I was wrong to tell you to do what I cannot do myself.”

The little crab stopped laughing and tilted his head. “So… I don’t have to walk straight?”

She gave a small, weary smile. “No. You must walk as you were made to walk. But there is something more important I want you to learn.”

He inched closer, curious. “What is it, Mama?”

She placed her claw gently on his small shell. “If you ever wish to teach someone something, you must first show them by your own example. Words are only noise unless they are lived.”

The little crab blinked, his mind struggling to wrap around the thought. He didn’t fully understand, not yet, but he felt the weight of her voice. He knew this wasn’t just about walking. It was about something bigger, something that reached beyond the sand and the waves.

And so, for the rest of that day, the mother crab stopped lecturing. She stopped snapping her claws at every zigzag he made. Instead, she simply walked beside him, sideways and all, leaving two parallel trails across the golden shore. The gulls squawked above, the tide hummed below, and for once, the world felt peaceful.

The young crab still chased minnows, still darted about with reckless joy. But when he looked at his mother beside him—accepting, honest, and no longer pretending—he carried with him a secret pride. She had shown him the greatest lesson of all: that true leaders do not just speak; they live their truth.

Because in the end, whether crab, bird, or person, no lesson shines brighter than the one taught by example.

Moral of the story: Lead by example.