When the Odds Are Against You… But You Don’t Play by the Odds

Some lessons — okay, a lot of lessons — can’t be taught. They have to be lived. And this past weekend, I got to WATCH one of those lessons unfold right in front of me. Buckle up, because this mama went through every emotion known to humankind.

Back in November, my daughter literally jumped into something brand new. She was invited to cheer on The Selects All Star Elite Cheer Team. Mind you — this child had never cheered a day in her life. Unless you count cheering ME on at every finish line I’ve ever crossed… which honestly should count for something. But formal training? Nope. Her experience came straight from YouTube, Pinterest, and pure determination.

But she knew she wanted this. So she went from wearing a cheerleader Halloween costume one year… to wearing a real cheer uniform the next. She made her dream happen. And joining at 12 years old? Not easy. Most of these girls start in elementary school. She had a lot to learn — but she was all in.

The team was brand new. Ten girls. Big dreams. And a coach they adored. They practiced weekly, bonded fast, and were making real progress… until suddenly, they weren’t. Somewhere along the way, their cute, college-aged coach lost her spark. She still showed up, but key skills weren’t being taught, and competitions were coming fast. The girls were nervous. The parents were nervous. And honestly, it was starting to show.

Our girls were a half‑year team, six months of practice. Most of the teams they’d compete against were full‑year teams with twelve months under their belt. So not only were our girls practicing half the time… they were now falling behind. Something had to change.

By January, with the first competition set for March 8th, they had nine weeks to pull it together. A new, more seasoned coach stepped in — and she came in like a breath of fresh air. She didn’t just coach them. She believed in them. She poured into them. She rebuilt what had been slipping away. Longer practices. Extra practices. Hard work. Sweat. Tears. And slowly, we watched their confidence inflate again, like someone breathed life back into balloons that had been drooping for weeks.

They flipped. They flew. They giggled. They talked nonstop about what to expect at their competitions. And with that new confidence came a new nervousness, because now the countdown was real.

Competition #1 arrived. They did GREAT. No “deDUCKtions” (as the girls say). They came in first place for their level. Yes, they later learned they were the only team in their level… but listen — a win is a win. We celebrated that banner like it was the Olympics.

Then came the big one. The competition with all the hype. The one where they’d be up against a really good team. And this time, they knew it.

Now, I’m a glass‑half‑full girl. Always. But deep, deep, deep inside my sunshine‑and‑sparkles personality, my brain was whispering, “Okay… our girls are a first‑year, half‑year team who really only had four months of solid prep… going up against a full‑year team.” It was time to activate Miracle Mode. My daughter kept saying things like: “We’re up against a really good team.” “We’re going to lose this one.” “We’re not going to win.” And there I was: “But you never know!” “You girls have come SO far, be proud!” “You’re having fun, that’s what matters!”

The morning of the comp, while I’m hair spraying and curling her hair with what might as well be plaster of Paris (Got2B Glued… the real MVP), she says again, “We’re going to lose today.” My heart. I had two choices: Prepare her for disappointment… or encourage her to stay open. Obviously, I went full Miracle Motivation.

“Honey, you NEVER know. God can do ANYTHING. They could make mistakes. Someone could throw up on the mat. A shoe could fly off. A hairpiece could go rogue.” (And yes, a hairpiece DID fly off someone’s head that day. Not our competitor, but still. I felt validated.)

Going into a competition defeated is like going into battle carrying your own coffin. So we spent the whole morning in Miracle Mode. It was the only option.

Competition time. Their competitors went a few groups before them. We watched. They delivered. And it was clear, they were good. Really good. Then our girls took the floor. I looked at Michael, who deserves a medal for surviving 900 hours of cheer competition, and said, “Ava’s team is up. This is when you pray.” Between my hoots and hollers were silent Hail Marys. And when they finished, my heart was full. They brought it. Energy. Faces. Stunts. They HIT. I’m pretty sure people in Texas heard me cheering.

Then we waited.

And waited.

And ate $10 pretzels.

And waited some more.

Finally, awards. Two teams in their division. It was going to be us or them.

“In second place…” Wait. Did they just say the OTHER team's name? I looked at the moms next to me. “Did they really just say… the other team?” They nodded at me in shock. Which meant… OUR GIRLS WON.

I jumped. I clapped. I screamed. I smiled so hard my face hurt. The girls were hugging and crying and jumping up and down. Their coach turned around and looked up at us parents with the biggest smile, proud, relieved, glowing. She had stepped in, believed in them, and helped them rise. And rise they did.

The tiny team. The underdogs. The half‑year girls who weren’t “supposed” to win. They did it. They brought home the banner and the medals to prove it. And here’s what I learned:

You can acknowledge the odds without bowing to them. You can feel the fear and still choose Miracle Mode. You can show up unsure and still give it everything you’ve got.

This is a story about suiting up even when you’re not sure you belong. About doing your best even when you’re not convinced your best is enough. About showing up with your glass half full, even if it’s actually half empty.

Just show up. Do the thing. Forget the odds.

Because honestly? Odds are… you’re going to do just fine.