I’ll be honest… my GOTR spirit feels a little dim right now.

We’re deep in the season. The 5K is just over two weeks away, buddy runner sign-ups are lagging, our GOTR for Grownups lessons haven’t had the turnout I hoped for, and the board’s been quiet. I know everyone’s tired, but truthfully, I am too.

Since my husband’s heart attack, I’ve been doing the bare minimum just to keep things moving. And that’s hard to admit. I’m usually the one cheering everyone on, believing in the impossible, tossing confetti on the hard days. But lately? It feels like I’ve run out of confetti.

Some days, it’s like captaining a small ship on a long voyage. The destination is still clear—girls gaining confidence, community growing stronger, joy at the finish line—but the crew is weary, and the passengers have gone quiet. The wind isn’t in our favor, and I’m gripping the wheel, hoping we’re still pointed in the right direction.

And part of that heaviness comes from the truth that’s hard to say out loud: everything feels harder now. The grants that once came easily have drifted away. We’re not the “hot, new, innovative” program anymore—we’re the reliable couch. The one everyone loves, trusts, and counts on to be there… but rarely notices anymore. Comfortable. Familiar. Always there, quietly holding it all together. Unseen.

But even when it’s lonely, I try to remember why I started this journey in the first place. I think about the girls’ faces as they cross the finish line. The coaches who pour their hearts into every practice. The parents who say, “This program changed her.” Those moments are like stars breaking through the fog—small lights that help me keep steering forward.

In one of our GOTR lessons, the girls create an emotions thermometer to show how feelings rise and fall in intensity. I think I’m sitting at a two right now—not quite sinking, but not soaring either. Still steady. Still moving.

And maybe that’s okay. We tell the girls all the time that doing your best doesn’t mean being your best every day. Sometimes your best is simply showing up.

A few nights ago, I had a dream that’s stayed with me. I was at the 5K, begging people to stay—to cheer for the last girl crossing the finish line. I could see her so clearly: she’d worked so hard, she was scared but brave enough to start, and when she finally reached the end… the crowd that had cheered for everyone else was gone.

She looked around, heart sinking, wondering if it even mattered that she finished.

But it does matter. It always matters.

Maybe that dream was really about me—or about all of us who are still out here showing up, even when the stands have emptied and the applause has faded. Maybe it’s a reminder that leadership, like running, isn’t about being first. It’s about finishing well, even when no one’s watching.

So if you’re tired, or lonely, or feeling like you’re cheering into the wind—stay. Stay for her. Stay for the last girl. Stay for the ones who still need to see someone holding the line, keeping the faith, and steering the ship through the fog.

Because the girls are watching.

And maybe what they need most right now isn’t a perfectly polished leader—but someone who keeps showing up, even when she’s running on empty.

This season, the path feels rougher. The sparkle has dulled, and the sails are frayed—but the destination hasn’t changed. The Path to Possibility isn’t paved with comfort or applause. It’s built on quiet faith, small steps, and the kind of steady courage that keeps the ship moving forward… even when the sea is still.

Because she’s still running.
And so am I.