Last weekend, we packed our bags, loaded up the car, and headed off to our very first away soccer tournament—the kind far enough from home that it required an overnight stay. For our team of 9- and 10-year-old girls, this was peak excitement. A hotel with a pool, two nights of team dinners, and a chance to travel together—what could be better? Zuzu could hardly contain herself.
In my true awesome mom style, I didn’t take even one single photo of Zuzu playing soccer so here is a picture of her at the Mars Cheese Castle in Kenosha, WI which was on our way to the tournament. It’s a MUST stop if you’re road-tripping in Wisconsin. The cheese curds are perfectly squeaky.
The girls were scheduled to play three games—two on Saturday and one on Sunday morning. And while their spirits were high, the scoreboard told a different story. They lost. All three games. And not just by a little.
But here’s the part that got me as a mom: they didn’t fall apart. Not during the games, not after. They fought hard, smiled through it, encouraged one another, and showed up for each other. Were they emotionally tough? Maybe. Or maybe they were just so tightly knit that the sting of losing couldn’t quite break through the bond they had built.
For us parents, though, it was hard. We huddled on the sidelines, watching them struggle against older, faster, more experienced teams. We questioned whether we’d made the right call letting them “play up” a level just so they could stay together. Some of our girls had just turned nine. They were playing against girls nearly two years older—a huge difference at that age. Every game was a prayer that no one would get hurt. Thankfully, they didn’t. Just bruises. And maybe a little shaken confidence.
But this tournament was more than the last of the season. It was the last time these girls—many of whom had played together for four years—would be a team. That realization hit hard. They had grown so much in that time. As athletes. As friends. As people. And they knew it. Instead of dwelling on a season filled with hard losses, they soaked up every last moment together.
Sunday morning brought bitter cold rain and one final game. When the final whistle blew, I saw it—the moment they finally let it all out. A few of the girls began to cry, the kind of quiet, shoulder-shaking tears that come only when you’ve been holding something in for a long time. I don’t know if they were tears over losing, being cold and wet, or over letting go. I feel terrible saying this but, it was heartbreakingly beautiful.
I’m so sad to see this team end—but I’m also overwhelmed with gratitude. Zuzu didn’t just play soccer these past few years. She made real friends. I did too. Some of the moms have become women I truly admire—funny, smart, generous people that I’ve learned so much from. I’ll miss this version of our weekends, our girls, and this little circle of sideline support we’ve built.