But I 39-m. Cheerleader (2025)

After class, she asked what I wanted to write my final paper on. I said I didn’t know. She said: “Write about the magic. Write about what it costs to be the one who makes everyone else feel brave.”

We are not a series of contradictions. We are a routine: each move flowing into the next, the high-energy chant making space for the quiet huddle, the fall making the recovery mean something.

I mean: you see a skirt. I see armor.

These days, when someone tries to dismiss me with a smirk and a “but you’re a cheerleader,” I don’t get defensive. I don’t explain. I just smile—full, bright, the kind of smile that says I know something you don’t —and I say:

“Yes. And?”

She’s used to it. And she’s already counted you in.

I mean: I have spent years training my body to be a megaphone. I know how to rally a crowd that is losing faith. I know that the difference between chaos and a routine is the breath between the count of seven and the count of eight. I know that spirit is not a fluffy word—it is the decision to keep your arms sharp and your voice bright when every muscle in you wants to quit. but i 39-m. cheerleader

Because the and is the whole point. The and is where the power lives. The and is the basket toss you stick after a hundred falls. The and is the girl who leads the chant, then leads the classroom discussion, then leads the movement to change the rules entirely.