Grit & Grace

There’s a ruthless sting in slowly learning how harsh life can be as you morph into adulthood. You start to find a rhythm in it, but it’s jagged. As parents, our instinct is to shield our kids from pain. But the harder truth is the reality that sometimes the most loving thing we can do is not step in. We stand quietly in the wings, ready with support, love, and a soft place to land, hoping they’ll let us in.

My 14-year-old has spent the past three years working toward one goal: to make the national soccer team at her club. She has, without question, the most tenacious spirit I know. Relentless in training, laser-focused, driven. And this year, she did it. She made the team.

Fast forward to the end of the season. Tryouts again. The slate wiped clean. Over 200 girls showed up, and only 17 would earn a spot. A new coach. A fresh perspective. She was cut from the team.

I got the text. Then I saw it, the moment her heart broke. My ever-stoic eldest daughter, sobbing. She let me softly touch her. We talked about the heartbreak. It’s one thing not to make a team when you haven’t given it your all. But when you've poured your soul into it, trained endlessly, lived and breathed the challenge, being cut hits differently. It's a bitter pill. And then, just two days later, she had to get on a plane with the same team (and the coach) who had just cut her to play her final game. Her new challenge, to finish out the season with grace and grit.

There was a deep mourning present. And I couldn’t stop the pain. But I could bear witness to her courage. I could swell with pride in the quiet strength it took to board that plane. Because that, that kind of willingness, is the birthplace of resilience. And it’s gnarly. But it’s something more too.

I don’t think growing up ever really stops. I still find myself navigating the same jagged, beautiful terrain of life, just from a different vantage point. I’ve told my kids this countless times, especially in the wake of my messy divorce from their father. Their world was upended, reshaped by traumas they didn’t ask for. And through it all, I’ve reminded them of this truth: The most interesting, inspiring people, the ones I admire the most, are those who’ve been through hard things. No one gets through life unscathed. We all face heartbreak, loss, failure. But when our hard chapter arrives, and it will, we have a choice: Will you show up angry, bitter, and defeated? Or will you meet it with resilience, with curiosity, with the belief that somehow, even this is working for you, not against you?

When my daughter arrived at the airport to join her team for the final game of her season, she accidently dropped her phone. It shattered. Her only lifeline to comfort, distraction, and connection to home, gone. She was boarding a plane with a team that had just rejected her. No phone. No solace. Just her, her thoughts, and the weight of it all.

She borrowed a chaperone’s phone to call and tell me what happened, and my heart cracked open a little more. I wanted to scoop her up and fix everything, but I couldn't. So she boarded the plane. She laced up her cleats. And she played. Hard.

And then something happened. She had enough field time to prove herself, and by the end of the trip, the coach, who had cut her just days earlier, asked her to stay on the team. She’s on the team for another year. But next year, as in life, she will be challenged another time and may even face rejection again.

Her making the team again this year is not the happy ending to this story. While I shared in this fleeting joy with her, that wasn’t the part that made me swell with pride.

It was how she showed up, vulnerable, rattled, and hurting, but still willing to lean into the moment. Still willing to rise.

Because that’s the kind of growth that matters most. And it’s the kind that never really ends.