Have you ever walked onto a sports field, inside of a ballet recital, passed a grocery store during girl scout season? For most normal humans, the answer is yes. I can almost guarantee that a few feet away was a mom or dad (or multiple) making it come together.

With that said, this is a thank you letter to the most underappreciated, yet vital piece to so many success stories: the parents who never let us give up.

Your duties over these past few years has included, but has not been limited to: ensuring my homework was done, making sure I had enough snacks to get me through a match, helping with makeup backstage and somehow still finding your way to the very front row at every performance, listening to the same song countless times while I crammed it into my memory, and showing me that I was capable of balancing them all.

Now that I am becoming an adult, I recognize that there is not a single ounce of me that is not grateful of every aspect of your love and grace. While I was striving for greatness, I was building atop the strength and perseverance of you, the unsung hero.

You could have left me to fight it out on my own. You could have put off taking me to practice or paying for lessons. You could have stayed home and rested after a long day at work. You could have worried about things that “matter” like bills and adult things—which I still ask you about on a daily basis.

I am proof that you didn’t. In fact, you did anything but leave me stranded.

You cheered me on louder than anyone and made me believe that I was loved, regardless of the outcome of the day. In doing so, you showed me what it was like to live a healthy, balanced life by being a living example. And on the days that my life was not so balanced, you held me up, brushed off my wings, and let me do the best I could. How could I do anything but fly with you by my side?

The ways you have helped me succeed do not stop at the fluffy and pretty side of things. Hearing that I was wrong in an action is not my favorite thing, but knowing that it was coming out of the same breath that lifted me up was vital. You kept me humble.

So on behalf of six-year-old me throwing a tantrum while practicing because I was “tired,” the twelve-year-old me for throwing a tantrum because, well, there is nothing better to do when you’re twelve, and the maybe-sort-of almost adult me, thank you.

Thank you for the good, the bad, and the ugly.