I know this is not where you want to be, in the batting cage warming up a relief pitcher while the game is going on without you. I know you would rather be right over that fence in right field, running, and catching, and feeling that outfield grass beneath your feet. I know that you would rather be in the batter’s box, doing whatever you can to help the team. I know that you have so much to offer. I am just as proud of you, a kid who has never caught in her life, jumping in to catch bullpens and earning the trust of pitchers. I love that you are willing to do whatever you can for the team, even if it isn’t you in the game.

As much as my heart breaks when I know you are unhappy. I want to solve all of your problems. I want to tell you to go talk to the coach, to show that you have skills that the coach is not seeing or to learn what you need to change to get in the game. But, I have realized in this first year of your college career, that I need to stop telling you what to do. I need to start letting you solve your own problems. You have this under control. You know how best to handle yourself. And ONLY you know how you want to present yourself in this world. I should respect you enough to listen to you, sympathize, reassure you and tell you that you are loved.

I know that this is not where you want to be, but I am so proud of how far you have already come to get here. I have watched you from the time you were playing tee ball in a purple shirt with your hair in wild curly pigtails. Never, in a million years, could I have seen then what an amazing player you would become. That little girl would be so excited for you! But, she may have passed up a chance to play right field for a slushie (red and blue mix of course) and a pretzel.

I will always feel like that mom of a 10U player, whose heart dropped into her chest every single time a ball was hit high into that outfield. I was praying quietly that you would catch the ball, but also that it wouldn’t hit you in the face and knock your teeth out. I really hate teeth and could hardly imagine dealing with a bloody mouth. I will never forget the smiles and laughs when you made the final catch to end the big game. You had gotten a taste of competition. You also had that chip placed permanently on your shoulder by a coach who put you in the outfield because he thought he knew the limits to your game. Even then, that girl didn’t have any idea what she could become.

I watched you sit on the bench for a whole season, your first season on the “big club”, while you were quizzed on strategy and plays. I watched you keep the book, learning about every pitch and every play as you did it. I have seen players who were offended by sitting on that bucket in the dugout or being asked to record every pitch and play. But that season on the bench taught you (and me) just how much that right of passage teaches about the game. I listened as you were used as an example, and not always an example of good things! I heard your stories about nerves making you throw up before your first practice and bunting until you couldn’t possibly forget how to get that bunt down. I have marveled at the ice in your veins when you executed that bunt time after time when it was asked of you. It was a rough year, for sure, but you are better for it, and so am I. That season is the one that I truly believe made you. It made you a competitor. It taught you about hard work. It taught you about sacrifice for your team. That season made you decide that you wanted to use your sport not just to win games, but to go to college.

High school was fun. A chance to be a leader. I saw the quiet girl who lacked confidence bloom into a young woman who could lead a team by example. I will forever be grateful for your freshman year coach for giving you a chance when you told her you could play varsity and for showing you that sometimes you can walk away, when there are things that are just more important than softball. I will always regret not being more thankful for your next coach for teaching you how to be a genuinely good person with a love of the Lord. The awards and accolades were earned, and appreciated, but the friendships are what I believe you will always treasure.

I was panicked when you sadly told me your Junior Year that you had no friends because “mom, when you say ‘I can’t. I have practice’ that many times, people stop asking.” Was my daughter one of the ones who would be harmed by cruel expectations in high school? No. You found your tribe. You found those kids that had goals similar to yours. You found those kids who understood and encouraged you in your dreams.

And now, here you are. You have achieved your first big goal. Softball at the college level is no joke. You hear it over and over again, that college is just another level. But no one can quite explain why, until you experience it. Hours of training, watching film, team meetings and practices. Concentration on every aspect of the game in ways you were never asked to work before. All of this while also being told that school is the REALLY important part of your days. Add the academic meetings, classes and tutoring sessions and there are no longer enough hours in your day. You are told that what you do in class is what will decide your whole life. I can tell you that, with more perspective, you will realize that your life will be a series of important steps, but none is the beginning or the end. Your future will not be determined by your batting average, number of starts, or your grade in your Freshman macro-economics class. There is a woman that the statistics show that women CEOs and C-Suite members are more often than not athletes.

I know that you are not where you want to be. I know that Freshman Year has been the toughest year yet. You have survived. And you will, over time, be better for it. Keep your head up. You are an amazing player, just earning the privilege to wear the uniform puts you in the amazing company of the very small percentage of little T-ball girls with pigtails and red and blue mouths from slushies who made it to Division I ball. I know it hurts right now, not being able to be where you want to be, but look how far you have come. I hope that you can look back on the good things (always pick out the best thing that comes from every day) and the lessons learned and know that you were better for the hard times.

I love you. I may not be able to solve all of your problems like you thought I could when you were a toddler. I cannot make every pain go away with a kiss and a band-aid. But I will always be here for you and I will always be proud knowing that you are handling each challenge with grace.