The house is quiet now, save for the soft hum of the dishwasher and the thud of the cat jumping from his perch. My youngest fell asleep in the armchair, a book half-open on his lap, his small hand still curled around a worn wooden block. Earlier today, he spent nearly an hour trying to build a tower as tall as his big sister’s. Block after block, his small frame trembling with effort, only to have it tumble.
He never cried. He’d just take a deep, determined breath, his brow furrowed, and begin again. And in those moments, my heart felt like it was sitting right in my throat. You want to rush in, to steady the blocks, to tell them that it’s okay if their tower isn’t the tallest. But you know that this isn’t about the tower. It’s about the trying. It’s about the fire in them that doesn’t know a thing about size or scale, only about the drive to build something.
It’s funny the things that stick with you. The other evening, a football game was on in the background, the familiar drone of announcers a kind of household soundtrack. They were talking about a player, I think his name was Calijah Kancey. Over and over, I heard the word ‘undersized.’ It was a label, a measurement. But on the screen, I saw someone who was just… fast. So much energy and heart in his movement. It felt familiar. It reminded me of my son and his blocks—this quiet, powerful refusal to be defined by what other people decide is big enough.
We spend so much of our time as parents whispering encouragement. ‘You are strong enough, you are smart enough, you are enough.’ We see the immense spirit in our children, the force of their will that can’t be charted or measured on a dotted line in a doctor’s office. We see their trying, their focus, their heart.
Maybe that’s the real work of caring for someone. Learning to see past the easy labels, past the noise and the measurements, and focusing on the effort. Noticing the quiet determination in a little boy building with blocks, or the flash of spirit in someone doing the thing everyone said they were too small to do. These aren’t little things at all, are they? They’re everything.
What is a time you’ve seen a strength in someone that the world might have overlooked? 🧸
He never cried. He’d just take a deep, determined breath, his brow furrowed, and begin again. And in those moments, my heart felt like it was sitting right in my throat. You want to rush in, to steady the blocks, to tell them that it’s okay if their tower isn’t the tallest. But you know that this isn’t about the tower. It’s about the trying. It’s about the fire in them that doesn’t know a thing about size or scale, only about the drive to build something.
It’s funny the things that stick with you. The other evening, a football game was on in the background, the familiar drone of announcers a kind of household soundtrack. They were talking about a player, I think his name was Calijah Kancey. Over and over, I heard the word ‘undersized.’ It was a label, a measurement. But on the screen, I saw someone who was just… fast. So much energy and heart in his movement. It felt familiar. It reminded me of my son and his blocks—this quiet, powerful refusal to be defined by what other people decide is big enough.
We spend so much of our time as parents whispering encouragement. ‘You are strong enough, you are smart enough, you are enough.’ We see the immense spirit in our children, the force of their will that can’t be charted or measured on a dotted line in a doctor’s office. We see their trying, their focus, their heart.
Maybe that’s the real work of caring for someone. Learning to see past the easy labels, past the noise and the measurements, and focusing on the effort. Noticing the quiet determination in a little boy building with blocks, or the flash of spirit in someone doing the thing everyone said they were too small to do. These aren’t little things at all, are they? They’re everything.
What is a time you’ve seen a strength in someone that the world might have overlooked? 🧸
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