Yeah.

Our family does what I can only describe as the bedtime shuffle.

We all have designated sleeping locations. Brandon and I have the master bedroom. Kora is at the end of the hall. Bennett is just across the way. In theory, this is a beautifully organized system.

In practice, everyone lands wherever gravity—and emotional attachment—takes them.

Very often, one or both kids end up between us in the big bed. Sometimes they join me for a “sleepover” before Brandon finishes watching his nightly shows downstairs. We call this getting psyched up for bed, because that’s what Grandpa Jerry always called it.

Occasionally, Brandon comes upstairs, sees that the bed already has two occupants, and quietly returns to the couch.

Which sounds like a sacrifice until you realize our couch is insanely comfortable and he may actually be getting the better end of the deal.

Because sleeping next to a child begins exactly as you imagine it will: warm, sweet and snuggly. Their head settles against your chest and, for one fleeting moment, they feel like the tiny person you brought home from the hospital.

Then it’s 2 a.m.

There is a leg thrown over your body, something weirdly sharp drilling into your lower back, and every pillow you once owned has vanished.

So sometimes, I relocate.

Kora has a bed which is far too ginormous for a five-year-old, but it’s what we had available when her former guest room became her bedroom. Plus, if we ever have overnight guests again, they will be very comfortable—assuming they don’t mind sharing with a kindergartner and approximately 73 stuffed animals.

I have gone into Kora’s room seeking space before and somehow ended up with both kids in there beside me.

Not in my own bed.

Still squashed like a sandwich.

The bedtime shuffle has no winners.

The other night, though, it was just my girl and me.

I lay down next to her and said, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said.

Then I told her, “You are such an awesome person.” And because she had mirrored my first sentence so naturally, I expected another return compliment.

Instead, without opening her eyes beneath her sleep mask, she said:

“Yeah.”

Then she smacked her lips, released one deeply satisfied sigh and drifted off to dreamland.

I lay there staring at her.

My first thought was: Well. She certainly isn’t burdened by self-doubt.

My second was: Good.

Good.

Because she didn’t argue with me.

She didn’t ask what made me say that.

She didn’t list three recent examples of herself being decidedly less than awesome. She didn’t brush it off, make herself smaller or rush to repay the compliment so she wouldn’t appear too pleased with herself.

She simply agreed.

Not because she thinks she is better than everyone else — because it has not yet occurred to her that knowing what is good about herself might be something she needs to apologize for.

There is a difference between believing you are better than other people and believing you are good, full stop.

One requires comparison.

The other requires recognition.

Somewhere along the way, many of us learn to confuse confidence with cockiness. We soften our strengths. We deflect praise. We answer kind words with disclaimers, jokes or a quick compliment in return—as though receiving something good without immediately handing something back would reveal a terrible character flaw.

But maybe the healthiest answer to “You are an awesome person” really is:

“Yeah.”

I know Kora will have plenty of moments that make her question herself. The world will offer opinions. Mistakes will happen. Other people will sometimes fail to recognize what is extraordinary about her.

That is precisely why I’m going to keep telling her.

I’ll remind her when she is kind. When she is brave. When she is funny. When she tries again. When she makes someone feel seen. When she is wonderfully, unmistakably herself.

And I hope those words settle so deeply inside her that she never has to depend entirely on someone else to say them.

I hope she keeps that tiny, sleepy voice—the one that hears something true and doesn’t shrink away from it.

You are such an awesome person.

Yeah.

That’s the energy I want for her.

Honestly, it’s the energy I want for all of us.

Move Like It Matters.