Come Home to Yourself
In 1996 I started Girls on the Run. The program provides girls with the tools to, in spite of a world that might suggest otherwise, honor, embrace and celebrate their internal strengths, gifts and talents. I’ve learned so much from the 8 to 13 year old girls who share their lives with me. I am awed by their natural ability to just be—so real, open and loving. I feel safe when I am with them. Everyone is loved and accepted here, including me.
Kids are like that. Their powerful and innocent spirit-selves haven’t yet been influenced by all the rules that go along with being human…rules which frequently suggest that being our spirited and beautiful selves sometimes isn’t quite beautiful enough, smart enough, brave enough—good enough. I know that I am not alone in that experience. Every week, I receive dozens of emails from women and men who have, thanks to the program, joyfully come home to the little girl or boy they used to be…the one who danced unabashedly in the sunshine, giggled for no apparent reason, and cried freely when sad, mad, hurt and scared.
I am reminded of Paul. Beautiful, beautiful Paul.
He is 39 years old. A handsome professional man, Paul drives a BMW and wears custom suits with starched crisp white button-down shirts. He is respected and reserved. Yet little known to his friends is the hell in which he has lived. You see, eight years ago his wife, his life partner and best friend died. She died giving birth to their daughter Shelby.
Shelby’s entrance into this world wasn’t easy. For hours, over 20 innocent and vulnerable hours, Shelby and her mom worked tirelessly to take her from the warm safe waters of her mother’s womb to this world. So when Shelby was finally lifted into this world, her mother went on to the next.
Paul’s world isn’t what he had expected: the crisp starch of his collar, the million-dollar home and a daughter, who looked like every other 8-year old, but had the intellectual and conceptual understanding of a 4-year old.
His life felt like hell. It’s hard work being a single Daddy with a developmentally delayed little girl. Every morning as he would gently brush her hair, Shelby would tell him stories—stories that break a father’s heart. Stories of how she is afraid to speak sometimes, because the other students at her school make fun of her. Stories of how they call her dummy or generally disregard her as anything, but a nuisance. Paul didn’t know what else to do and so when the Girls on the Run brochure floated home in her book bag, he enrolled her. Shelby’s spirit soared at Girls on the Run. Her teammates understood her uniqueness and accepted her not in spite of it, but because of it.
Over the program-weeks, Shelby had come to trust her teammates. They didn’t make fun of her. They wrapped their little souls around her and walked her through the Girls on the Run games and activities. The Girls on the Run girls were different. They listened to her when she had something to say and they saw the humanness of her. They valued her for who she was.
On this particular day, Shelby was running in her first Girls on the Run 5k and her father was there to see her. I stood at the finish line cheering, clapping and high-fiving girls as they crossed that finish line. One hour later, every girl had finished. “No wait,” the police escort informed us, “there is one more little girl.” And so, while most folks had moved on to the after-party in the nearby park, a handful of us waited.
When off in the distance I saw a little figure walking, as if on a mission. Her arms pumping beside her like pistons. Her blonde pigtails flopped on either side. Her coaches were beside her, smiling and crying. Slowly word spread that Shelby was finishing and one by one folks returned to the finish line. As Shelby made her way up that last stretch of road, hundreds of people ran to take their place roadside.
The momentum was building and then as if directed to do so I looked to my right and there dead center in the finish line stood Paul. His starched shirt, khaki pants and polished loafers. His hair was perfectly placed. Shelby’s jacket was neatly draped across his left arm.
The man was stoic, reserved, empty eyed… and alone.
And then without warning, this man, this brave, brave man dropped to his knees…Shelby’s coat falling to the asphalt below…and with wild abandon, he lifted his arms to the heavens above and wept from the depths of his soul. Tears were flowing down his cheeks to the earth below, like small blessings on the path of his daughter’s approaching feet.
I won’t ever be able to shake the image of this man as he fell to his knees, surrendering his pain, revealing his willingness to shed the external armor of the man he had become, trapped in the box of cultural success and first impressions, to reveal the little boy he once was…unafraid and willing to share his soul, his core, his vulnerabilities… To welcome his little girl, Shelby, as she ran to him, there at the finish line. Welcome her with his arms around her small body to lift her high to the sky above. Welcome her to this new life, this new heaven, the one in which they could inhabit peacefully together.
I love how children so unabashedly share their fears, their strengths, and their vulnerabilities with the people around them. I wonder if adults like Paul…heck like me…don’t have a lot we can learn from them.