I am fairly certain my 12-year-old daughter, Sydney, made Little League history last week.
She stole home.
By walking.
To be clear, that is not typically how stealing home works. Most stolen bases involve speed, strategy, timing, maybe a little daring. Sydney’s involved confusion, commitment, and what I can only describe as an impressive misunderstanding of the rules.
Sydney is in her second year of softball, which is a relatively late start at 12 years old. A lot of the girls she plays with have been doing this for years. They know the rhythm of the game. They know what to do when the ball is hit, when to run, when to hold, when to slide, and when to listen to the coach yelling something that may or may not be helpful from across the field.
Sydney is still learning.
And honestly, that is one of the things I love most about watching her play. There is courage in being new at something when everyone around you seems to have already figured it out.
This particular game had a lot of walks. A lot.
In her first at-bat, Sydney walked. Then the next four batters walked too, which meant she made her way around the bases and scored without the bat ever really becoming part of the story.
Her second at-bat was a strikeout.
Her third at-bat, she walked again.
The next batter walked too, which moved Sydney to second. Then a catcher’s mistake created just enough chaos for the runner on third to steal home, and Sydney stole third.
So there she was, standing on third base.
A runner was on second. Someone was at bat. First base was open.
Then the batter walked.
In Sydney’s mind, this meant she should walk too. She saw a runner on second. She saw the batter walk. She understood, based on the general theme of the game, that people were walking places.
So she started walking home.
Not sprinting.
Not stealing.
Walking.
At first, no one really understood what she was doing. Which, honestly, may have been the key to the whole operation.
The players were confused. The coaches were confused. The parents on our team were yelling. The parents on the other team were yelling. At some point, everyone seemed to realize what was happening at the exact same time, including Sydney.
And there she was.
About eight feet from home plate.
She had a choice.
She could turn around and try to go back to third.
She could freeze.
Or she could commit to the mistake.
She chose to keep going.
There was a little scurrying, a little sliding, and somehow, she made it home.
Safe.
A run scored.
A stolen base, technically.
A leadership lesson, unexpectedly.
Here is the thing. I have thought about that moment more than I expected to.
Not because it was a flawless play. It was absolutely not a flawless play. It was probably not even a good idea.
But the recovery was fascinating.
Sydney realized midway through that she may have misunderstood the situation. She was already moving in the wrong direction. Everyone was suddenly aware of it. The easy thing would have been to panic. The understandable thing would have been to retreat.
Instead, she assessed the moment she was actually in, not the one she wished she were in.
That is leadership.
Not the mistake itself. Not pretending the mistake was brilliant all along. Not stubbornly insisting the original plan was perfect.
The leadership lesson is in the recovery.
We like to talk about decision-making as if good leaders always have a clean map. As if the right answer is obvious if you are strategic enough, experienced enough, or prepared enough. But real leadership rarely feels that tidy.
Sometimes you make a call with incomplete information.
Sometimes you misunderstand the assignment.
Sometimes you move too quickly.
Sometimes you realize, about eight feet from home plate, that the thing you are doing is not exactly what you thought you were doing.
And in that moment, perfection is no longer available.
Recovery is.
That is where leadership gets interesting.
Because what we do next often matters more than the mistake that got us there.
Do we freeze?
Do we blame someone else?
Do we retreat without thinking?
Do we keep going simply because we do not want to admit we were wrong?
Or do we pause just long enough to ask, “Given where I am now, what is the best next move?”
That is the part I want to remember.
Committing to the mistake does not mean refusing to learn from it. It does not mean doubling down on a bad decision just because your ego is already on base.
It means recognizing that once something has happened, your job is no longer to create a perfect version of the past. Your job is to respond well in the present.
Sometimes that means going back.
Sometimes that means stopping.
Sometimes that means apologizing, resetting, and choosing a different path.
And sometimes, apparently, it means sliding into home while two sets of parents yell and no one on the field knows quite what just happened.
There is something powerful about watching a kid learn this in real time.
Especially a kid who started later than many of her teammates.
It reminded me that confidence does not always come before action. Sometimes confidence shows up after you have already started moving. Sometimes courage looks less like certainty and more like, “Well, I guess we are doing this now.”
I have felt that in leadership more times than I can count.
Walking into a hard conversation.
Making a decision without every answer.
Trying something new and realizing halfway through that the plan has changed.
Stepping into a role where everyone assumes you know exactly what you are doing, while internally wondering if anyone else noticed you are still learning too.
Sydney did not steal home because she had a perfect plan.
She stole home because once she realized where she was, she adapted.
As a parent, I was laughing.
As a leader, I was taking notes.
Because the people who grow, the teams that thrive, and the leaders worth following are rarely the ones who never make mistakes.
They are the ones who know how to recover when they do.
Gratefully,