Embedded Files
When you first walked into school, it wasn’t really a school.
It was small. Familiar. Safe.
And then suddenly… it wasn’t.
A big campus. New faces. Noise. Movement.
And you—quiet, observant, careful.
You didn’t run fast. Not because you couldn’t…
but because you didn’t see the point in rushing into things.
In an obstacle race, you wouldn’t jump over the hurdle.
You’d go around it.
After all, there’s always more than one way to bell the cat.
Skating classes were… well, mostly about wearing the skates.
Tying the laces. Adjusting. Getting comfortable.
And just when you were ready… class would end.
We smiled. We assumed.
“She’ll grow out of it,” we said.
“She’ll find her way.”
What we didn’t realize then…
was that you already had a way.
It just didn’t look like everyone else’s.
Your primary years were full of laughter.
Friends came home, rooms got messy, toys disappeared into chaos.
You were always part of it… and yet, a little apart.
Happy to host the world…
while quietly building your own inside it.
In the society, there were friendships, arguments, small battles.
Sometimes we stepped in.
Often, we didn’t.
We told you—*pick your battles*.
Not because it was easy…
but because we knew we wouldn’t always be there.
And maybe… we were learning just as much as you were.
We signed you up for everything.
Dance. Music. Fitness.
If we gave you enough options, surely you’d find your “thing.”
You showed up. You tried.
And then… you let it pass.
Gently. Without resistance.
Almost as if to say—*this isn’t it… but I’ll find mine.*
And then one day, in middle school,
in the most casual way…
you said something that stayed with us.
“I sit alone in class. I don’t really have friends.”
Not because you didn’t want to.
Just… because it hadn’t happened yet.
We didn’t see it coming.
We worried. We wondered. We tried to help.
We suggested ideas, solutions, plans.
You listened. And then you said—
“I’ll figure it out.”
It’s a strange thing, being a parent.
You want to fix everything. Protect everything.
And sometimes…
you just have to stand still and trust.
Even when you can’t see how it will unfold.
There were moments we questioned everything.
You weren’t “typically” athletic.
No obvious hobby.
Average at studies.
Now… no close friends.
We told ourselves—*she’ll grow out of it.*
But quietly, we also wondered—
Will she?
And if we’re being honest…
we wondered if other parents felt this too.
Because from the outside,
everyone else always seems sorted.
And then… something shifted.
Not suddenly. Not dramatically.
But steadily.
You found athletics.
And more importantly…
you found yourself in it.
You showed up. You struggled. You stayed.
You worked when no one was watching.
And slowly… you started winning.
Not just medals.
But belief.
At school, it happened the same way.
One friend.
Then another.
Then a group.
And today… you have your people.
Your besties. Your space. Your world.
Somewhere along the way,
the quiet, careful girl…
became confident.
Strong.
And just the right amount of feisty.
(Though I may not admit that last part to you very often.)
These 12 years…
They’ve been your journey.
From a hesitant child… to a self-assured young adult.
But they’ve also been ours.
When we started, we thought parenting would be simple.
That everyone else had it figured out.
That it would be… smooth.
It wasn’t.
It was uncertain. Messy. Emotional.
Full of questions we didn’t have answers to.
A roller coaster.
And I’ve never liked roller coasters.
Never understood why anyone would choose them.
And yet… here we are.
Because of you…
we didn’t just ride it.
We learned to enjoy it.
To take it as it comes.
To grow with it.
To become better because of it.
So here’s to you.
Not so little anymore.
We’ve loved watching you become who you are.
We’re proud of how far you’ve come.
And more than anything…
we’re excited for everything that lies ahead.
Because if there’s one thing we know now—
You will find your way.
You always have.
You always found your way… even when we couldn’t see it yet.
Page updated
Report abuse