Loving What You Love

The last few weeks have carried a particular kind of buzz in our house. The T20 Cricket World Cup has been underway, and with it has come early morning matches, score checks, win probabilities, and the thrill of an unexpected upset.

At the same time, the Winter Olympics have been unfolding across the world, and not long ago the Super Bowl held its own spotlight. It’s felt as though the world has been moving in rhythm with big moments — collective excitement humming in the background of everyday life.

For many people, that means easy conversation and shared enthusiasm. The big games everyone’s talking about. The moments that feel universally understood.

But in our house, it highlighted something else.

My daughters aren’t particularly interested in sports. My son and I, on the other hand, are — just not in the most popular American ways.

My son has loved cricket for years. Not casually, but deeply. He follows the warm-up games, the qualifiers, the build-up long before the tournament officially begins. When the T20 World Cup arrived, he was over the moon. It’s one of his favourite times every couple of years.

And yet, he lives in a place where cricket barely registers. It’s not the sport people talk about in hallways or at lunch tables. His dad doesn’t enjoy it. Most people around him are focused on other games entirely.

He does have an Indian friend at school who likes cricket — though not with the same intensity — and sometimes that small point of connection matters more than it seems.

I love cricket too. I enjoy the Winter Olympics, but cricket is my jam. It feels grounding, familiar — something that connects me to other places and rhythms. So when my son is absorbed in it, I’m right there with him — not just watching, but seeing him.

There are moments when being different like this can feel a little lonely. When everyone around you is buzzing about something else — the latest game, the latest medal, the latest headline — and you’re quietly holding joy that doesn’t quite fit the room.

But I love that my son is happy being who he is. That he doesn’t need his interests to be popular in order for them to matter. I love that he can be deeply invested in something simply because it lights him up.

And I love that I can model that too — not by explaining or justifying what we like, but by enjoying it openly.

The world becomes a far more interesting place when we let ourselves be real — when our differences are allowed to stand without explanation. Our uniqueness adds texture, colour, and depth. It reminds us that there isn’t one right way to belong.

Maybe the invitation isn’t to follow what everyone else is following.

Maybe it’s simply this:
Notice what lights you up.
Stand beside someone else in what lights them up.
And trust that difference is not distance — it’s richness.