Steps | Baby

He didn't ride a mile that day. He didn't even make it to the end of the block. But when he parked the bike back in the garage, he wasn't the same kid who had walked out. The distance didn't matter; the fact that he had moved forward did.

Leo stared at the cracked pavement of his driveway, his heart hammering a rhythm that felt far too loud for a quiet Tuesday morning. In his hands, he gripped the handlebars of a bicycle—the training wheels finally gone, leaving two thin strips of rubber between him and the terrifying concept of balance. "Ready?" his father asked, kneeling beside him. Baby Steps

Leo wasn't. "Can’t I just keep the small wheels for one more week?" He didn't ride a mile that day

What or new habit are you thinking about taking your own baby steps toward? The distance didn't matter; the fact that he

Leo took a breath, pushed off, and immediately wobbled. He squeezed the brakes so hard the bike jerked to a halt. He felt the familiar sting of frustration. "Again," his dad encouraged.

This time, Leo didn’t look at the end of the street. He looked at a single oil stain on the concrete five feet away. He pushed. One pedal rotation. Two. The bike leaned left, and he corrected it. It leaned right, and he corrected it again. He reached the oil stain. "I did it," he whispered. "Five more feet," his dad called out.