To the Little Girl With Pink Flowers on Her Shoes and Courage in Her Heart

To the little girl with pink flowers on her white shoes
and lacy fold-down socks,
down and ready,
tee ball glove in hand,
teeth marks worn into the top.

The Pittsburgh Pirates hat from Uncle Dave,
a sign of camaraderie.
A part of something bigger than herself.
A too-long, locally sponsored t-shirt,
tied up with a ponytail.
Jean shorts and a belt.
The type of ordinary only childhood can be.
When ordinary is more than enough.

No one can tell in this picture that you were scared.
That you didn’t feel ready.
That behind that tiny-toothed grin
you were holding back a river.

And yet, ready.
Ready to run until your lungs ached,
to hear the crowd rise up,
cheering for everyone,
which meant cheering for you.
Ready to step onto the field
not knowing what the ball would ask of you,
and go anyway.

You were always going anyway.
Chin up, white shoes in the dirt,
heart beating in your throat.
You didn’t wait to feel brave.
You just went.
You had gumption.
Always with the gumption.
Even when there were tears in your eyes.

To the little girl crouched down and expectant,
hands on her knees,
Ready before she was ready.
Not just for the game,
but for all of it.
For the days you wouldn’t see coming.
For the rooms that felt too bright, too watched, too much.
For the moments that asked more than you thought you had.

You didn’t know it then,
but the game was really the practice.
For getting sweaty and dirty and doing the work.
For playing, and celebrating, and living out loud.
For joy. For learning.
For the thousand times after this one
that you would hesitate at the edge of something
and go anyway.

To the little girl with pink flowers on her white shoes, thank you.
For the beginning of courage.

You didn’t know it yet,
but courage was never something you had to find.
It was already yours.
It was already you.

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Articles by Jo Serna

Jo Serna

Jo Serna has lived her life in the messy middle. From middle child to middle management, she's learned that the richest life you can live is in the overlap, where motherhood meets business, fear meets faith, and the doer finally shakes hands with the dreamer. Writing is where all the parts of her integrate, and she shows up here—mostly for herself—the woman who loves the hustle but knows that real peace can only be found in the presence of something greater than herself.