I was probably nine.

The envelope had my name on it. In real handwriting. From a real, actual professional bowler.

I tore it open and there she was. Jeanne Maiden. Signed photo. To me.

I stared at it like it was a relic.

A woman I had only ever seen on television had taken the time. To find a photo. To sign her name. To put it in an envelope. To mail it to a kid she had never met.

I think I forgot to breathe.

That moment shaped me more than she will ever know.

Because here’s the thing about being a little girl in this sport. You don’t just need someone to teach you how to bowl. You need someone to show you it’s possible. That women belong here. That a girl can throw a hook and watch it carry the pocket. That a woman can stand on the lanes and be soft and fierce at the same time.

I had those women.

Leanne Hulsenberg. Kim Kearney. The first time I saw them on TV, hooking the ball, I felt something click. Girls can do that, too. They didn’t just show me how I wanted to bowl. They showed me who I wanted to be.

Dana Miller Mackie. Kind to her core. Strong on the lanes. She taught me you don’t have to choose between the two. You can be the warmest person in the room and still leave nothing on the table.

Jeanne Maiden Naccarato. A signed photo I will never throw away. The first proof I had that the women I looked up to were also looking back.

That’s the sisterhood.

Years later, I would be the one signing photos.

I would walk through bowling centers and see little girls staring at me the way I once stared at Jeanne. And I’d remember every pro who didn’t look at me when I asked. Who scribbled and turned away. Who treated me like an inconvenience.

And I’d remember the ones who knelt down. Who asked me my name. Who looked me in the eyes and made me feel like I belonged in this room.

You don’t get to choose which kind of pro you’ll be remembered as.

The girl across the table decides that.

So you take the time to connect.

Here’s something I’ve noticed competing alongside women my whole career.

We are accountable. To a fault.

The men I’ve bowled around tend to move on. A bad shot is a bad shot. They reset. They throw the next one. Most of the time they blame something else. 

Women? We chew on it. We try to “throw it better” instead of moving on the lane. We carry the last frame into the next one. We let perfectionism dress up like discipline and call itself a virtue.

It isn’t.

The strongest women I have ever competed against were not the ones who threw the perfect shot. They were the ones who threw the next one without flinching.

Free is a skill. And it’s a skill more of us need to give ourselves permission to practice.

So how do we build a stronger sisterhood in this sport?

We let two things be true at the same time.

I am rooting for her. I want to beat her.

Both. Always. Without contradiction.

You can have mutual respect and hope for the best for them, while also hoping your score is higher. 

To every woman who came before me. Who signed the photo. Who knelt down. Who looked me in the eye. Who showed me you should be proud to “throw it like a girl.”

I see you. I am because of you.

To every woman bowling next to me right now. Making your spares. Picking yourself up after a rough go. Carrying your nerves. Trying to figure out how to be soft and steel at the same time.

I see you too.

And to every little girl I’m going to meet at a tournament this year. Standing there with a sharpie and a photo, hoping I’ll connect.

I will connect.

Because someone once connected with me.

That’s the sisterhood. Frame by frame. Generation by generation.

We don’t just bowl in this sport.

We pass it on.