There is a moment at the beginning of every Girls on the Run season that most people will never see. There is no finish line, no medal, no music playing, no crowd cheering. Usually, it is just a group of girls arriving after a long school day, carrying backpacks and water bottles and whatever else happened before they got there.

Some walk straight into the middle of everything. Others hang back a little. They look for a familiar face or sit beside the one girl they already know. Some are talking before the coach can even get everyone's attention. Others are watching, trying to figure out the group and where they fit into it.

I have watched some version of this happen for more than a decade, and I still find myself watching the girls who hang back at that first practice. Maybe because I know something they don't know yet. I know how different that circle can look ten weeks from now.

We tend to tell the story of Girls on the Run from the other end. We show the finish line. It makes sense. Finish lines photograph beautifully. There are girls holding hands, coaches crying, families cheering and more glitter than any reasonable event should probably have. There are medals and hugs and that look on a girl's face when she realizes the thing she wasn't entirely sure she could do is now behind her.

I have watched girls cross our finish lines more than a thousand times. And if you have spent much time around me, you have probably heard me say that every single finish is amazing. The girl who runs the whole thing. The girl who walks it. The girl who struggles through every mile. The girl who grabs her friend's hand so they can finish together. I still watch for them. I still cheer. And somehow, it never gets old.

But lately, I have been thinking more about everything that happens before we get there.

At the first practice, a girl has no idea what the next ten weeks will hold. She doesn't know who will notice when she is having a bad day. She doesn't know which girl will make her laugh when she wants to quit. She doesn't know that a coach will remember something she mentioned two weeks ago or that someone she barely knows today may eventually be standing beside her yelling her name.

She may not even be sure she wants to come back.

So we begin with names.

A coach learns hers. Someone asks her a question and actually waits for the answer. A spot opens beside another girl in the circle. They play a game that may feel a little ridiculous at first. They move. They talk. Hopefully, they laugh.

And a few days later, they do it again.

That is the part I think we sometimes miss. So much of what eventually becomes a team happens in moments that don't seem particularly important while they are happening. Someone remembers what you said last week. Someone notices you weren't at practice. Someone asks if you're okay. Someone expects you to be there.

Over time, the girl who sat at the edge of the circle may move a little closer. She might raise her hand. She might tell the group what she really thinks instead of what she thinks everyone wants her to say. She might try something she isn't particularly good at and discover that nobody laughs. She might find out that the girl she was sure she had nothing in common with is actually pretty funny.

None of that is going to make our end-of-season highlight reel.

But after all these years, I am not convinced the highlight reel is where the biggest things happen anyway.

Girls are going to have hard days. Friendships are going to change. Someone is going to say something that hurts. There will be lunch tables and group texts and bad grades and mistakes. There will be things girls try that don't work out and days when they don't feel particularly brave or capable.

We can't keep those things from happening. And I don't think our job is to try.

But for a couple of hours every week, we can give girls a place to figure some of it out.

That is what I see differently now when I look at a Girls on the Run practice. Of course I see the curriculum. I see girls learning to recognize emotions, work through conflict, make intentional choices and set goals. I see running, walking, games and the gradual preparation for a 5K. Those things matter.

But I have learned to pay attention to the quieter things, too.

The girl who finally talks during the circle discussion. The coach who remembers to ask how the spelling test went. The teammate who slows down because another girl doesn't want to finish the lap alone. The girl who discovers that she can be good at something without being the best at it.

Practice by practice, a group of girls starts becoming a team.

Soon, another Girls on the Run season will begin across our community. There will be new teams and returning teams, new coaches trying to remember everyone's names and veteran coaches who know how quickly ten weeks will disappear. There will be girls counting down the days until the first practice.

And there will be girls standing just outside the circle, deciding.

Ten weeks later, we will gather at a finish line. There will be music and cheering and medals. A thousand people will come together to celebrate what these girls have accomplished.

We should. Crossing a finish line is powerful.

But I wonder sometimes whether one of the more important moments happened much earlier. Before the medal. Before the cheering. Before anyone knew whether she could run 3.1 miles.

A girl walked into a circle. Someone learned her name. Someone made room for her.

And then she came back.