The Quiet Making of Strong Women
Today is International Women’s Day.
As happens every year, social media is full of opinions about what that should mean. Some celebrate enthusiastically. Others dismiss the day altogether. The conversations are often loud, passionate, and sometimes divisive.
Watching them unfold, I found myself thinking instead about something much quieter.
Yesterday my five-year-old granddaughter, Shiloh, played in the very first soccer game of her life—the first organized team sport she has ever experienced. There was no thought of winning championships or earning trophies. She simply ran after the ball with every ounce of enthusiasm she possessed, laughing with teammates, chasing the play with complete abandon, delighting in the simple joy of being outside on a beautiful morning.
Watching her stirred something deep within me.
At one point, amid the cheerful chaos of a cluster of little girls all chasing the same soccer ball, Shiloh tumbled to the ground. For just a brief moment she looked toward her father, David, who was helping coach from the field.
She didn’t need many words.
Her eyes seemed to ask the question children have asked since the beginning of time.
Am I okay?
Am I enough?
David smiled. He nodded. Whatever passed between them in that fleeting exchange was enough. Almost instantly she sprang back to her feet and raced after the ball again, her confidence restored.
Later, as the morning sun climbed higher and the extra layers she’d worn against the early chill became unnecessary, she wandered to the sidelines where her mother, Chelsea, helped peel away jackets and sweatshirts before sending her back onto the field with another smile and another hug.
Those two small moments said more about parenthood than volumes ever could.
For five years I have watched scenes like these unfold over and over again—not only in David and Chelsea’s home, but in countless families everywhere. It is the ordinary rhythm of love.
It is bedtime stories and scraped knees.
It is encouragement after disappointment and celebration after success.
It is meals prepared, tears comforted, clothes washed, prayers whispered, lessons repeated, boundaries held, and grace extended.
It is showing up.
And on this particular Saturday morning, there was no shortage of people showing up for Shiloh.
Grandparents. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins. Family friends.
An entire little community gathered along the sidelines simply because one small girl was playing her first soccer game.
As I watched them cheer every kick, every stumble, every smile, it occurred to me that this is how strong women—and strong men—are quietly formed.
Not through grand speeches.
Not through cultural slogans.
But through years of faithful love.
Confidence grows where children know they are seen.
Courage grows where they know they are safe to fail.
Character grows where they are patiently taught, gently corrected, faithfully encouraged, and deeply loved.
Anything truly worthwhile takes time.
The shape of that love changes as children grow older, but its importance never diminishes. Whether a child is five or thirty-five, there remains a profound human need to know that someone believes in you, stands beside you, and will cheer you on.
Perhaps that is what I find worth celebrating today.
Not simply women themselves, but the generations of women who quietly pour themselves into the lives of others—mothers, grandmothers, daughters, sisters, teachers, neighbors, and friends—often without applause and rarely seeking recognition.
And alongside them, the fathers, husbands, grandfathers, brothers, and friends who faithfully help nurture the same flourishing.
Strong women are rarely made in a single defining moment. They are formed, almost imperceptibly, by thousands of ordinary acts of love.
For those who came before us, for those who walk beside us today, and for the young girls whose stories are only beginning to unfold, I am deeply grateful.
Today, I celebrate them all.
