We’re always going.
Practices. Games. Quick dinners in the car. Backpacks in the trunk. Shoes we can never find.
When I saw that image on Facebook, I didn’t just relate to it. I felt it in my chest.
Because this has been our life for almost fourteen years.
Devin started soccer when he was four years old. He was so small back then. Smaller than most kids his age. His jersey swallowed him. And every game was the same. Swarm ball. Eight tiny bodies chasing one ball with absolutely no strategy. Just pure chaos and determination.
Saturday mornings felt early. Too early. I remember counting down to the end of the season because I wasn’t used to structuring our weekends around a four-year-old’s game.
But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like an interruption.
It became our rhythm.
We never took a break.
Indoor. Outdoor. Futsal. Recreational. Competitive. High school.
There were years when Mike coached. Those seasons were even fuller. Practices during the week. Games on weekends. Conversations in the car dissecting plays and positioning. Devin was always open to critique. He could take it. He could give it. Those car rides home felt sacred. Just the two of them talking through the game like it mattered, because to him, it did.
Braden played too. He was different. Powerful kicks. Naturally gifted at sweeper, even though no one really taught him how to play it. He cried before his first game and then ended up loving it. He still misses the games. Just not the practices.
Austin is in his second year now. He’s tall. Freakishly fast. I see flashes of Devin in him, but he’s carving his own way. Every season, he gets better. More aware. More confident.
And so we go.
When do we eat? What do we eat? How do we get everyone where they need to be? Do we divide and conquer? Do we stay for practice or drop off and run errands?
We stayed.
We always stayed.
We wanted to watch. We wanted to see what they were learning. Who they were becoming. Sometimes that meant sitting in freezing wind. Sometimes it meant dripping sweat in August heat. Sometimes it meant loading up for another weekend tournament instead of planning a traditional vacation.
Texas. Las Vegas. St. Louis. Arkansas. Tennessee. Kansas City. Florida.
Those were our vacations.
It cost money. It cost time. It cost sleep. It cost slower weekends and spontaneous plans.
But I wouldn’t change it for anything.
Now it’s Devin’s senior year.
He’s almost 18.
He doesn’t need us the way he used to. He gets himself to practices. He manages his gear. He doesn’t look to the sidelines as often. He doesn’t need help tying cleats or remembering shin guards.
But I still look for him.
I look at the player he’s become, and I see something bigger than soccer. He’s strong. Dependable. Coaches trust him. Teammates count on him. He sees the field in a way a lot of players don’t. He has played every position. Even goalie when the team needed him to step in. He has never once said he wanted to quit. Not after a hard loss. Not after a tough practice. Not when he was tired or frustrated.
If a game gets canceled, it still upsets him.
That kind of love for something is rare.
There’s nostalgia creeping in now. I miss the simpler days of swarm ball and oversized jerseys. But I’ve loved watching him grow into this version of himself even more.
He’ll keep playing in college.
And that’s beautiful.
But it also means I won’t be there for every game. I won’t sit on every sideline. I won’t hear every post-game breakdown in the car.
And that’s the part that catches in my throat.
This season of life is busy.
But it’s not just busy.
It’s sacred.
It’s cleats by the door.
It’s grass-stained socks in the laundry.
It’s backpacks in the trunk and quick dinners between fields.
It’s long drives to cities we’d never have visited otherwise.
It’s cold bleachers and folding chairs.
It’s watching your child run toward something they love with everything in them.
We’re always going.
And somehow, in all that going, we found something steady.
One day, the door won’t have cleats lined up beside it. The weekends will be quiet. The trunk will stay empty.
I know that day is coming.
But for now, we’re still going.
And I wouldn’t trade these sacred, busy years for anything.
