What Cheerleading Means to Me

"This was so morose and morbid. So much for being a cheerleader!" my husband said after reading my latest essay—an honest, heavy piece on motherhood, inheritance, and near-erasure.

It was a reminder of how different our lenses are.

I didn't take offense because my essays aren't meant for him but I did think his comment was interesting, especially the fixed idea he had of a cheerleader.

Backstory: he was referring to how I usually introduce myself to my readers as a ripple maker, kindness instigator and your personal cheerleader.

Cheerleading, to him, looks like pompoms and music. Practiced routines and an endless stream of “you can do it!” delivered with megawatt smiles. It looks like optimism, encouragement and boundless energy. A pep talk on steroids, unmissable, loud, bustling with happy-only vibes.

And yes, I offer that, sometimes.

But for me, cheerleading is also about creating space for people to name their pain without rushing to fix it.

• It means modeling vulnerability.

• It acknowledges the darkness instead of always directing people to look on the bright side.

• It means holding complexity.

I'd rather cheer someone's humanity through struggle than provide toxic, false positivity and vapor-thin platitudes.

I don’t want to be the kind of cheerleader who shouts over grief or paints over struggle. I’d rather be the kind who says: You’re allowed to be here, exactly as you are.

Spreading smiles doesn’t mean denying sadness. It means making room for all of it—pompoms in one hand and silence in the other.