She’s all of four,
chin to the sky,
ponytail down her back
hands on her hips—
a stubborn storm in her eye.

A brewing force,
make no mistake:
feet firm on the ground,
spine of steel,
staking her space.

No house or kitchen play,
for her, she scoffs at dolls.
Forget ribbons and dresses
her attire— tee’s, jean overalls
she's all scuffed sneakers,
a ball at her feet,
hair wild in the wind.

Years slip by.
She grows her game,
and grows herself.
Her world expands—
As does her heart.

Still strong-willed?
For sure.
She withstands the wind,
outlasts the hottest sun.
Some call it stubborn—
but it’s something deeper:
a fire that says,
I will not be shaped
by anyone but myself.

She learned the game,
but also the grace.
A captain’s badge not pinned, but earned—
through bruises, through lessons,
through leading with more than words.

She cuts the field with fearless pace,
a fire burning in her face.
Whatever the game—
Or in her life
she dares, she dives,
a warrior’s heart,
fiercely alive.

But inside that iron will,
a gentler rhythm pulses still.
She laughs with light,
she loves with heat.
She is fierce—
but she is soft.

There’s power in the way she stands:
not clenched fists,
but open hands.
She leads with warmth,
fights with grace.
She is tough—
not just in battle,
but in how she holds space.

And when she smiles—
quiet, sure, unshaken—
it rises deep from the heart.
The world softens.
The world leans in.

Because there is nothing stronger,
nothing more free,
than a woman who dares to simply be.
Who knows her worth,
and wears it well—
a force,
a light,
a rising swell.

And in that woman—
the child still lives.
Fierce. Free.

Unstoppable.

Originally written: 12/20/2024- 5/1/2025