Baby Steps Here

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.

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. Baby Steps

Every great journey, Leo realized, starts with the courage to be clumsy for those first few inches. Leo stared at the cracked pavement of his

Leo wasn't. "Can’t I just keep the small wheels for one more week?" This time, Leo didn’t look at the end of the street