The other day, Abby apologized.
She hadn't done anything wrong. She wasn't interrupting me or being disrespectful. She simply asked me a question...and then apologized for asking it.
I smiled and said, "Honey, you don't have to apologize."
Then I stopped.
Because I realized something uncomfortable.
She learned that from me.
If you've spent much time around me, you've probably heard me apologize far more often than I need to. "I'm sorry I'm late." "I'm sorry to bother you." "I'm sorry to ask." Somewhere along the way, apologizing became my default response. I don't think I ever consciously decided to become someone who over-apologizes, but like so many habits, it happened quietly.
It's still something Abby and I are both working on. We catch ourselves apologizing for things that don't require an apology. Sometimes I'll gently remind her, "You don't have to apologize." Other times she'll smile and remind me of the very same thing.
We're getting better, but we're not there yet.
Then one day, I realized something. She hadn't learned to over-apologize on her own.
She learned it from me.
It made me wonder what other invisible lessons our children are learning from us.
People hear the name Girls on the Run and naturally picture girls running laps around a track. They're not wrong. There is movement. There is running. There is a joyful, celebratory 5K at the end of every season.
But those aren't the laps that keep me up at night.
The only laps I really care about are the ones happening inside a girl's head.
Those are the laps that determine whether she'll raise her hand, try something new, speak up when something feels wrong...or quietly convince herself she's better off disappearing into the group.
Am I good enough?
Do I fit in?
What if I fail?
Does anyone even like me?
Those are the laps that can wear a girl out long before she ever crosses a finish line.
Every season, I watch girls arrive carrying those questions. Some do everything they can to disappear into the group. Some hesitate before raising their hand. Some apologize before they've even made a mistake. They aren't lacking ability. They're carrying stories they've started believing about themselves.
Then something beautiful begins to happen.
A coach notices she's trying to disappear...and gently invites her in.
A teammate saves her a spot.
Someone notices her kindness.
Someone says, "I'm so glad you're here."
Week after week, those invisible laps begin to slow down. Not because someone told her to "be more confident," but because she starts to believe she belongs.
I've come to believe that's where confidence actually begins.
Not at the finish line.
Not after achieving something impressive.
Not after finally getting everything right.
Confidence grows in the soil of belonging.
This past year has reminded me of that in ways I never expected.
After my husband's stroke, I found myself running plenty of laps inside my own head.
Can I do this?
Can I care for my family, lead an organization, and still be the mom Abby needs?
Am I enough?
Those thoughts can become relentless if we let them.
Ironically, I found myself leaning on the very lessons we've been teaching girls for years.
- Recognize your emotions.
- Pay attention to your inner voice.
- Ask for help.
- Don't believe every thought that passes through your mind.
That's when I realized something.
These aren't just lessons for ten-year-old girls.
They're lessons for all of us.
Maybe that's why this work still changes me after more than a decade. I'm not just watching girls learn these lessons.
I'm still learning them myself.
And maybe that's part of being a parent.
Our children don't simply hear what we say. They watch how we respond to mistakes. They notice whether we extend ourselves grace. They learn how to speak to themselves by listening to how we speak about ourselves.
Because if we're going to change the conversation happening inside our daughters' heads, we may have to begin by changing the one happening inside our own.
That's why the only laps I really care about aren't the ones around a track.
They're the ones happening inside a girl's head.
And maybe...
Inside her mother's too.
Know Someone Who Needs to Hear This?
If this story resonated with you, please consider sharing it with a parent, coach, teacher, mentor, or someone who is helping shape the next generation.
Sometimes changing the conversation begins with a single story.
Before you go, I hope you'll take a moment to ask yourself one question:
What invisible laps are you running?
If you'd like to share your story, I'd love to hear from you. Feel free to send me an email at kathyb@gotrpiedmont.org or connect with me on LinkedIn.
I'd love to continue the conversation.