30 Days Of Radical Honesty Journalling Challenge Day 2: What Is A Moment From My Childhood That Shaped Who I am Today?

When I first picked up a baton, I didn’t yet know that it would come to teach me more about life than almost anything else. I was five years old, shy and soft-spoken, and my mother—wise and observant—signed me up for recreational baton twirling. I think she hoped the movement would help shake the nerves out of me, that the rhythm of it might coax me into confidence. I attended weekly lessons with my friend Carly and a much younger child named Shayla, and I loved it. It was playful, low-stakes, a weekly dance with light and music.

In that first year, I didn’t compete. I twirled without pressure, without expectation, basking in the simple joy of motion and friendship. Carly and I got along like a house on fire, laughing and leaping through class with our batons catching glints of fluorescent light. I didn’t know yet that this was only the beginning.

In my second year, things changed. Carly and I joined a new class—semi-private, a step above—and we began to compete. The categories were simple: everyone started in “C.” Earn a gold medal, and you’d be promoted to “BN.” Carly soared almost immediately. I remember feeling awe and pride, watching her rise.

And I? I didn’t even place.

Not once. Not a bronze. Not even an honourable mention. My name was never called. I stood on the gymnasium floor month after month with nothing in my hands but the sticky sweat of nerves and a baton that suddenly felt heavier than it should. As the season went on, that absence began to feel like its own kind of presence—failure as a shadow, draped over every performance.

By the end of the year, I was inconsolable. I had poured all my hope into that final competition. I thought that maybe, just maybe, I’d leave with something. When I didn’t, I cried the way only a child can cry—like my heart had cracked open, like the world was fundamentally unfair, like I didn’t understand how the ground could keep turning when I was hurting so much.

And that was when my mother, in her quiet brilliance, gave me one of the greatest gifts of my life.

She didn’t tell me it was okay. She didn’t cushion me in comfort or platitudes. She didn’t make excuses or blame the judges or pretend the loss didn’t matter. Instead, she sat beside me and explained—clearly, unflinchingly—that I hadn’t earned a medal because I hadn’t worked for one. I had treated competition the same way I treated recreation. I hadn’t practiced. I hadn’t prepared. I hadn’t given it my all. And in baton, as in life, your results are tethered to your effort.

That moment was a revelation. It planted something in me that would grow like wild ivy, wrapping itself around every corner of my being. The concept that effort and outcome are inextricably linked has been a driving force in my life ever since. It’s a truth that governs everything I do.

I’ve come to believe, deeply and wholeheartedly, that grit beats talent every time (and all the research agrees). And I have never been the most talented person in the room—but I have always been the grittiest. I am relentless in my dedication. Stubborn in my pursuit of progress. Tireless in my effort. Sometimes, yes, to a fault.

That lesson shaped my friendships—many of which stretch across decades, back to the wobbly-legged wonder of kindergarten, and even to my first year of baton, though I have lost touch with Carly, I am still close with many of my other pals and coach. It shaped my marriage—thirteen years strong and luminous with mutual effort and love. It shaped the businesses my husband and I have built together—ventures forged not with luck, but with labour, commitment, and care. It shaped my writing—every word, every sentence, honed through persistence, through sitting down again and again with the page, even when it’s hard.

That one moment—my mother choosing truth over tenderness—set the foundation for everything I’ve built. It cracked something open in me. It taught me to chase what I want with unflinching resolve. It taught me that heartbreak is part of growth. And that failure, when understood and respected, can become a crucible.

So no, I didn’t win a medal that year. But I gained something far more valuable: the blueprint for my work ethic, the root of my resilience, the fierce and glowing understanding that success isn’t handed to anyone. It is earned. And I have never stopped earning it.

Peace, Love, and Inspiration,
~Britt Wolfe💚