Every great journey, Leo realized, starts with the courage to be clumsy for those first few inches.
Leo wasn't. "Can’t I just keep the small wheels for one more week?" Baby Steps
Leo took a breath, pushed off, and immediately wobbled. He squeezed the brakes so hard the bike jerked to a halt. He felt the familiar sting of frustration. "Again," his dad encouraged. Every great journey, Leo realized, starts with the
"You could," his dad said softly. "But you’ve already mastered the small wheels. They aren't helping you anymore; they're just holding you back. Just focus on the first ten feet. That’s all. Baby steps." He squeezed the brakes so hard the bike jerked to a halt
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.