I’ve been reading a lot lately.
My latest favorite is The Anxious Generation—a book that puts words to what I’ve been seeing for years.

I guess I’m searching for answers.
Trying to make sense of why so many girls feel like they’re falling apart inside, even while everything outside looks fine.

And I keep landing on this truth:
It’s not the girls.
It’s the culture.

Abby, my daughter, is almost 13.
She’s funny and outgoing.
She’s smart, sensitive, and strong.

She has dreams that change by the hour and emotions that sometimes crash like waves.
We’re learning to swim those waves together.

She also tells me on a regular basis that she feels like she’s not good enough.
Not pretty enough.
Not thin enough.
Not cool enough.

And it guts me.

Because I remember feeling the same way.

I remember being called Roach.
I remember being called Bucky Beaver.
And the always-original “Four Eyes.”

I remember shrinking inside myself, wondering if I really was that ugly. That weird. That unwanted.
I remember pretending it didn’t matter.

But it did.
It always does.

The difference is—back then, the teasing usually ended when the school bell rang.
Now? It follows them home.
It buzzes in their pockets.
It shows up on screens with filtered faces and perfect lives.

So when Abby doubts her worth, it cuts twice.
Once as a mom, and again as the girl I used to be.

The more I read, the more it clicks.

It’s not just phones or social media.
It’s the slow unraveling of childhood itself.

According to Haidt, we’ve shifted from a play-based childhood to a phone-based childhood—and it’s been a disaster.
We’ve overprotected our kids in the real world and under protected them online.

We took away physical freedom and replaced it with online independance.
We swapped spontaneous play for structured perfection and filters.
We taught kids to perform online before we taught them how to just be.

Girls today are walking tightropes—balancing expectations, comparisons, and anxiety—while the whole world watches and judges them.

Why does this affect girls more than boys?
Because girls tend to care more about relationships. They’re more sensitive to exclusion.
They’re more likely to turn pain inward—to hide it behind a smile or a filter.

And we’re seeing the toll everywhere—from classrooms to bedrooms to mental health clinics.

That’s what I see in Abby.
That’s what I remember feeling in myself.

And if I’m being honest, I’ve been guilty of this culture too.

I want Abby to have the freedom to make mistakes, but I tend to hover.
I want her to grow strong, but I also want her to be safe.
And those two things—freedom and protection—don’t always go hand in hand.

But that’s where Girls on the Run comes in.
It gives her what I sometimes struggle to give—
a space to stretch and stumble, to grow and to lead, to speak up and be seen.

That’s why this program matters so deeply to me.
It’s not just my job.
It’s not just a nonprofit.
It’s not even just for the girls we serve.

It’s for Abby.

It’s for the version of me who needed this program at age 10.
It’s for every girl who’s been made to feel small, or weird, or too much.
It’s for the girls who’ve stopped raising their hands.
And the ones who’ve stopped looking up.

At GOTR, we tell them a different story.

We remind them their voice matters.
That movement can be joyful, not a punishment.
That their worth is never tied to a grade, a like, or a jean size.

And we do it week after week.
Through journaling and running and messy, magical conversations.
Through hugs, stickers, jelly bracelets and sweat.
Through tears sometimes too.

There’s this moment I keep coming back to from Camp GOTR this past summer.

One girl, frustrated, threw her hands up and said, “This is impossible.”
And without missing a beat, another girl looked at her and said,
“We just haven’t done it yet.”

I stood there, stunned.
Chills ran down my arms.

And I thought—this is what happens when we give girls time away from social media.
When we give them space to breathe and just be themselves.
When we remove the filters and the noise and let them discover what they’re capable of, face-to-face and heart-to-heart.

It was more than a moment.
It was a glimpse of who they are underneath the pressure.
All I could think of was that verse:
And a little child will lead them.

That’s the hope, right?

That maybe, if we create spaces for girls to be brave and messy and real,
they’ll grow into women who don’t forget how to lead with heart.
Women who change the culture instead of crumbling under it.

And maybe, just maybe, along the way, they’ll change us too.

The other day, someone looked at me and said,
“This isn’t just your job. This is your mission.”

And I felt that in my bones.
Because it is.
I didn’t plan for it to be, but here I am.
Year after year, season after season.
Still showing up.
Still fighting for girls to hear a better story than the one the world is feeding them.

Let’s Follow Them Together

If this post stirred something in you
If you’re nodding
Maybe wiping a tear (don’t worry we all get teary when speaking to the importance of these girls)
Or whispering “yes”

Then I want to invite you into something real.

We call it the Path to Possibility.

It’s not just a fundraiser.
(It is, but it’s not just that.)

It’s a movement.

To create more moments where girls say,
“I can do hard things.”

To make sure cost is never the reason a girl can’t cross the finish line.
To build a community of people who believe that small acts of courage
Shared in a circle
Shouted in a cheer
Whispered between breaths on the 5K course
Can actually heal the world.

When you give to Path to Possibility, you’re helping a girl rewrite the story the culture tells her.

You’re saying:
You are strong.
You are not alone.
And your voice matters.

I hope you’ll join us.
👉www.gotrpiedmont.org/giving/team-possible

Because the culture may be loud.
But we’re louder when we believe together.

And this path we’re building
It leads somewhere beautiful.
A place where girls grow strong, show up for each other, and start to believe in themselves.

Because Girls on the Run…
is so much fun.