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Watching Gules

  • Catherine Addor
  • Nov 23
  • 2 min read

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There’s a photo I snapped on Saturday that I can’t stop thinking about. It’s of my daughter standing at the edge of the gym floor, eyes fixed on her teammate who was out there performing her routine. It’s not the twirling, the costumes, or the lights that stand out in the picture; it’s her face. She looks happy. Proud. Deeply caring. The kind of expression you can’t stage or rehearse. The kind that emerges only when someone you love is out there giving everything they’ve got.


Moments before, the two of them (same age, same division, vying for the same first place) stood holding hands. No tension. No rivalry. Only quiet presence. As soon as her teammate finished, they wrapped each other in a hug that said everything competition can’t: I’m here for you. I want you to shine. We can both want the top spot and still want each other to rise.


Twirling is a funny mix of worlds. You are teammates in one breath, competitors in the next. You fight for team scores, you fight for solos, and through it all, you’re learning who you are in the presence of someone striving for the same thing. It could pull young athletes apart. These girls? They’ve chosen connection over comparison.


Watching them (even in that tiny moment) made me think about what real sportsmanship looks like. It isn’t politely clapping or keeping a straight face when someone else outperforms you. It isn’t hiding envy or pretending you don’t care. Sportsmanship is showing up fully for someone else’s success, even when you want it too. It’s knowing your teammate’s win doesn’t diminish your worth. It’s trusting that there’s room for both of you to grow, to excel, to be proud of yourselves and proud of each other.


Girls, especially, need this modeled and celebrated. The world teaches them early to compare, to compete socially, to shrink so someone else can shine, or to shine only when someone else shrinks. Here, in this sport, in this moment, these two showed something else entirely: Strength doesn’t require stepping on another. Confidence doesn’t require superiority. Joy multiplies when shared.


Their coaches play a quiet but powerful role in shaping this kind of connection, teaching the girls that character matters as much as skill. By modeling respect, celebrating every athlete, and fostering a culture where lifting one another is the norm, they make moments like this possible.


As parents, as coaches, as humans, we talk a lot about resilience, grit, and perseverance. We don’t talk enough about the courage it takes to root for someone who actively wants what you want. That courage is its own form of grit. Its own kind of strength. Its own quiet championship.

I hope they never lose this. The hand-holding before the performance. The hug after. The face that glows with pride for a friend who could just as easily be called a competitor. I hope they carry this into every team, every stage, every chapter of their lives.


This unscripted, heartfelt loyalty is the core of sportsmanship. Honestly? It’s the kind of world I want them to grow up building.



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