I know sometimes you wonder if you’ll ever do normal things without me hovering over you. Double and triple-checking your snack labels and drilling you about whether your allergy meds are packed and ready. It’s a lot for you to carry, physically and emotionally.
But you’re so strong, sweet girl. Flexible, too.
You can do this because you were built for it.
And someday, someday, you’ll see it: that this story is yours because you carry it with grace. You don’t complain much, and when you do, you follow it up with a wise comment, saying this sort of thing makes you strong.
And you are. You are so strong—far stronger than I am.
Gymnastics felt like a dream I couldn’t quite hold—letting you out of my grasp and trusting you to take care of yourself down there on the competition floor while I’m up in the stands watching, cheering, and learning to let go while you learn to live out the life God gave to you.
It takes balance and tenacity, stamina and strength—gymnastics and food allergies, both.
And, gosh, you do it all so well.
All those years of training are paying off, and you keep shining. Food allergies don’t stop you. Nothing does. You teach me to be brave by fiercely chasing your dream anyway.
What if I had said no? What if I had kept you home, flicked on videos of gymnasts instead, and told you if your dream is supposed to happen, it will, all while never letting you even try? You’d have missed out on so much more than learning how to do a back handspring. All those years of quietly training for this day are paying off now.
You’re prepared, and it shows.
It’s not all about winning, of course, although you do your fair share of that. It’s about getting out there and really living, learning, bouncing back, and bravely making the best out of what you’ve got.
And you do that so well, dear daughter.
Because of you, I know how to be brave now too.
When you wonder if you’ll ever do normal things, rest assured, you won’t—and that’s what makes you beautifully you.