Dear Loleita,
It has taken me a long time to write this letter, but I would be remised if I didn’t do it now. I know that you are shy when it comes to displays of affections or gratitude, and that you are not particularly fond of self-praise or boasting about your achievements. But I want to personally thank you for not letting the words/phrase “You can’t do it” stop you from becoming the person who you are.
I remember one of the first times you were told “You can’t do it” was when you wanted to go down a slide at a park that you and your sisters passed every day on the way home from elementary school. The slide had a plank missing from the platform and to get to the slide, one had to jump over the missing plank. Your sisters told you, “You can’t do it, you’re too small”; but did you listen? No. You climbed the ladder, stepped on the first plank on the platform, took a deep breath, and jumped over the missing plank. You made it over the missing plank and over the slide. You fell to the ground, falling and landing on your right arm, which was later found to be broken. Not only could you do it, you over excelled. The cast on your arm was proof that you could do it. The cast and broken bone would be the first of many “awards or trophy symbolisms” that would document, acknowledge, and recognize your accomplishments that you, in fact, could do it – whatever it was.
Another “award or trophy symbolism” that signaled that you could do it, that you added to your collection, was stitches. They were “awarded” when you, your sisters, and your cousins were playing baseball in the house because it was raining outside. Even though athleticism wasn’t one of your strong attributes, you didn’t let that deter you from participating in the game. When it was your turn at bat, you confidently took the bat and stood determinately on the makeshift mound regardless of all the booing and heckling and cries of “You can’t do it”. The ball was thrown, you took a deep breath and swung. To your, and everyone else’s amazement, you hit the ball. You rounded the pillow bases while the other team scrambled to get the ball. You made it to first, second, and third base. But on the way to home plate, you had to slide to make it. You made it, but in doing so, you slid into an end table causing a gash under your right eye that required 11 stitches.

The broken bones and stitches “award or trophy symbolisms” soon turned to plastic as you grew older. When signing up for a musical instrument in junior high school, all the supposedly “girly” instruments were suggested to you, such as the flute or the clarinet. One of your best guy friends, who played the drums, told you, “You can’t play the drums, the drums are only for guys.” Right then and there, you took a deep breath, and you signed up to play the drums. You had to start at the bottom and work your way up. You played the bass drum, which was bigger than you were, joined the marching band, and carried and played the heavy bass drum for miles through the streets of your hometown. This proved that you, a girl, could in fact “do it” and play the drums. This led to being promoted to playing the snare drum – the holy grail of drums. You were also “awarded” your nickname, “Ladybug”. Ladybugs are believed to represent adaptability, positive change, resilience and metamorphosis. Ladybug signed up for band competitions and made it to the State Championships where she finished and received a second-place plastic trophy.
Eventually, the plastic trophies turned into paper: diplomas, certifications, awards, and notifications; from graduating from high school and university, to earning certifications and awards specializing in your career field, and to getting notified that you had beat cancer.
Now, I have come to the realization that the “award or trophy symbolisms” that documented, acknowledged, and recognized your accomplishments aren’t the tangible things such as the actual physical plastic trophies, paper awards, or even the visible scars from wounds, surgeries, or stitches. Instead, it is the self-assurance that you had deep with inside yourself that propelled you to accomplish sometimes the impossible or sometimes what was needed. You did not hold your breath waiting for someone else to do things for you. Instead, you breathed in the world and ignited the match that lit the determination “can do” fire from within.
As I take a deep breath, I say, “You CAN do it and thank you.”

Thankfully,
Ladybug