Page 62 of Pieces

Support systems for student parents.

Visibility. Representation.

The stories we don’t see.

The pen pauses, hovering over the page. My mind flashes back to the appointment at the hospital. How do mothers manage all of this and continue to be dedicated athletes?

I draw a deep breath. What if this is part of my story? Not the whole story, but a chapter worth telling?

The pen moves again, this time with purpose:#MoreThanMoms: A campaign to celebrate and support young mothers in sports and beyond.

The idea takes shape in my mind, clear and sharp in a way nothing else has been in weeks. A social media challenge, encouraging women to share their stories of balancing motherhood and ambition. Collaborations with influencers, athletes, and even student parents. A platform that doesn’t just highlight the struggle but celebrates the triumphs.

I flip back to my earlier notes, where “#WomenPlayToo” sits at the top of a page. Up until this moment, it’s felt like the cornerstone of this project, but now, it feels incomplete. As I scribble beside it, adding arrows and subheadings, something clicks. This isn’t about replacing the original idea. It’s about expanding it.

#MoreThanMomsisn’t a detour. It’s a continuation. A deeper layer of the story I’ve been trying to tell all along.

I pause, the pen hovering again, and press my hand lightly against my stomach. It’s strange how the fluttering sensation there feels so much bigger than it should, like a nudge toward the person I’m becoming. For the first time, I’m starting to see that it’s not about perfection. It’s about showing up, even when everything seems too heavy. About letting the world see the cracks and the light that shines through them.

The campaign isn’t just about other women anymore. It’s about me, too.

I sit back and take a deep breath, staring at the notebook in front of me. The ideas feel real now, like they have weight. My pulse quickens all over again as the pieces fall into place, one after another. I’m moving forward.

The planner sits open on the corner of the desk, its rigid color-coded blocks a reminder of the version of me I’ve been clinging to. I grab a pen and scribble over one of the boxes, replacing “Draft PR Notes” with “#MoreThanMoms Concept Meeting.”

It’s messy. Imperfect.

But maybe that’s the point.

***

The sleek glass doors of the CLUSports office swing open easily under my shaky hand, and I step into the buzzing space. Greeting me with a practiced smile, the receptionist motions toward the waiting area.

“Someone will be with you shortly,” she says.

I nod, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you,” as I take a seat. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see a text from Hudson.

Hudson

Go get ’em princess. Call me when you’re done xx

I exhale a whoosh of breath, not realizing that I needed someone to tell me that right now, but grateful he seemed to know anyway. My mind drifts to the other night when he said he’d wear me down. Since then, we haven’t had much time together between our schedules, but he always texts and makes sure I know he’s there. And it warms me every morning when I see a ‘Good morning’ message. My defenses are crumbling with him. One subtle breeze, and I’ll be putty in his hands. He’s too easy to fall for.

When the door to the back offices opens, my eyes snap up. A tall man in a crisp button-down shirt steps out. His stride is confident, but there’s an easy friendliness to his expression. “Daphne?” he asks, his voice warm.

I stand, smoothing my hands over my skirt. “Yes, that’s me.”

He extends a hand. “I’m Thomas, head of marketing. Thanks for coming in.”

“Thanks for having me.” I try to keep my voice steady. His handshake is firm but not intimidating, which helps…barely.

“This way,” he says, leading me past walls lined with posters of athletes in action, the kind of marketing campaigns I’ve admired from a distance. He opens a door to a smaller conference room, bright and modern, and gestures for me to sit.

“Coffee? Water?”

I shake my head politely but clutch my notebook tighter. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Alright,” he says, taking the seat of opposite me, with a casual air that does nothing to calm the nerves fluttering in my chest. “Wayne said you had a pitch or an idea you wanted to discuss?”

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