Today was day one at the academy. My uniform was stiff, my nerves worse. But then I saw her—my little sister Avery, in her white shoes and giant bow, running toward me like I was a hero. “Bubba!” she squealed, throwing herself into my arms. All my anxiety melted. Her belief in me was so pure, I felt invincible.
As the day wore on—grueling drills, sizing each other up—I kept hearing her voice in my head: “You’re gonna catch bad guys!” That thought carried me through the fatigue, through moments when I doubted I could keep going.
One tough afternoon, my legs ready to give out, I heard her shout again—this time from outside the training yard. “Come on, Bubba! You’ve got this!” Somehow, she’d snuck in. That moment gave me the push I needed to finish strong.
Months later, I got a letter—I’d been nominated for a prestigious role. My trainers saw something in me. But it wasn’t just me. It was Avery, and her unwavering belief.
Her faith taught me the most important lesson: even when you don’t believe in yourself, someone else’s love can carry you through.
