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My youngest has been trying to learn to tie his own shoes this week. It’s a slow, clumsy dance of fingers and laces. He gets tangled, frustrated, and sometimes throws the shoe across the room with a sigh that feels enormous coming from such a small body. I don’t rush in to fix it. I just sit with him on the floor, the afternoon sun warming a patch of the rug, and say, “It’s tricky, isn’t it? Let’s try again when you’re ready.”
It’s in these small, quiet moments of effort that I’m reminded how much we celebrate the finish line, and how little we speak of the long, winding path to get there. It had me thinking about the tennis I sometimes have on in the background of our days. The commentators often get swept up in the meteoric rise of a new young star, the explosive talent that seems to arrive fully formed. But my heart has always been drawn to the other stories.
The ones that feel more like ours. More like learning to tie your shoes.
I found myself watching a match with Magda Linette the other day. She has this incredible focus, a kind of grounded determination that feels so real. Her career hasn't been a firework display; it’s been a masterclass in resilience. She was a professional for nearly a decade before she won her first major tour title. Think of that. Ten years of showing up. Of packing the bags, getting on the plane, stepping onto the court. Ten years of wins and losses, of quiet practice sessions, of believing in your own potential when the world is looking somewhere else.
There’s a different kind of victory in that, isn’t there? It’s not about the flash of sudden fame, but the deep, steady strength built over time. It’s the kind of success that feels earned and solid, like the foundation of a house built brick by brick. It’s a quiet power, a testament to the simple, profound act of not giving up.
Watching her play, you see the years of work in the fluid motion of her feet, in the way she resets between points, in the calm she holds in the face of pressure. It feels like a mirror to the unseen work we all do. The patient repetition of parenting, the slow nurturing of a dream, the commitment to just keep trying, even on the days our efforts feel clumsy and tangled. 🧸
It’s not always the sprint that matters most. Sometimes, the real story is in the marathon—the long, steady work of simply showing up for yourself, for your family, for your life. Again and again.
Who is someone you admire not just for their victories, but for their beautiful, unwavering persistence?
It’s in these small, quiet moments of effort that I’m reminded how much we celebrate the finish line, and how little we speak of the long, winding path to get there. It had me thinking about the tennis I sometimes have on in the background of our days. The commentators often get swept up in the meteoric rise of a new young star, the explosive talent that seems to arrive fully formed. But my heart has always been drawn to the other stories.
The ones that feel more like ours. More like learning to tie your shoes.
I found myself watching a match with Magda Linette the other day. She has this incredible focus, a kind of grounded determination that feels so real. Her career hasn't been a firework display; it’s been a masterclass in resilience. She was a professional for nearly a decade before she won her first major tour title. Think of that. Ten years of showing up. Of packing the bags, getting on the plane, stepping onto the court. Ten years of wins and losses, of quiet practice sessions, of believing in your own potential when the world is looking somewhere else.
There’s a different kind of victory in that, isn’t there? It’s not about the flash of sudden fame, but the deep, steady strength built over time. It’s the kind of success that feels earned and solid, like the foundation of a house built brick by brick. It’s a quiet power, a testament to the simple, profound act of not giving up.
Watching her play, you see the years of work in the fluid motion of her feet, in the way she resets between points, in the calm she holds in the face of pressure. It feels like a mirror to the unseen work we all do. The patient repetition of parenting, the slow nurturing of a dream, the commitment to just keep trying, even on the days our efforts feel clumsy and tangled. 🧸
It’s not always the sprint that matters most. Sometimes, the real story is in the marathon—the long, steady work of simply showing up for yourself, for your family, for your life. Again and again.
Who is someone you admire not just for their victories, but for their beautiful, unwavering persistence?
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