Meta Ad Library · GB,DE,FR,BR
What competitors are running.
Active Facebook + Instagram + Messenger ads from this app’s developer (and lookalike pages). Spend and impressions only show for EU/UK/BR-targeted ads under DSA disclosure.
Active Facebook + Instagram + Messenger ads from this app’s developer (and lookalike pages). Spend and impressions only show for EU/UK/BR-targeted ads under DSA disclosure.
"I wake up every day to 40+ piping hot, ‘ready-to-buy’ leads… and have never posted a single piece of content on YouTube." I did over $1m/month BEFORE I ever uploaded a single video to YouTube. Started with $50. A $30 headset and $15 in a VoIP account. No followers. No personal brand. No "content strategy." Just an offer so good people would've been idiots to say no. Meanwhile, every guru on your feed is telling you to post every day… To become the "face" of your business… And grind out reels until the algorithm blesses you. These are all “personal brand influencers”... selling you a course on how to start a personal brand. Not people that have actually run a real business. Cos here's the dirty little secret… organic content is a slot machine. Algorithms change every month. Every post is a coin flip. I'd rather have my soul carried away by an eagle demon than bet my business on that. And look, we don't know you. We don't know your company. We don't know what you sell. But we DO know… CPMs are higher than Snoop at a Bali pool party. Competition is crazy. And "build a personal brand" is the slowest scale plan ever invented. What actually moves the money needle? 🌶️ A "Godfather Offer" so sharp it keeps you up at night 🔥 An ads engine that prints customers on demand 💰 A wall of proof (bullets, not bombs) 🐻 A system that lets you sleep like a Siberian brown bear at night That's how our clients have done $7.8B across 1,067 niches. Personal brand isn't the foundation. It's a multiplier… and multipliers only work when there's something to multiply. So if you're sick of posting 3 times a day for 11 likes and zero leads… And you actually want to scale your sales each and every month… Click the link and book a call. 👉 https://go.kingkong.co/strategy P.S. We let our numbers do the talkin'… 💰 $7.8B generated. 🔑 1,067 niches. 💵 75 millionaires created. 🤑 6x 8-figure clients. P.P.S. Zuck will love you long time for clicking ❤️ Watch it. Click. Then scale. 🚀🌕 👉 https://go.kingkong.co/strategy
"I wake up every day to 40+ piping hot, ‘ready-to-buy’ leads… and have never posted a single piece of content on YouTube." I did over $1m/month BEFORE I ever uploaded a single video to YouTube. Started with $50. A $30 headset and $15 in a VoIP account. No followers. No personal brand. No "content strategy." Just an offer so good people would've been idiots to say no. Meanwhile, every guru on your feed is telling you to post every day… To become the "face" of your business… And grind out reels until the algorithm blesses you. These are all “personal brand influencers”... selling you a course on how to start a personal brand. Not people that have actually run a real business. Cos here's the dirty little secret… organic content is a slot machine. Algorithms change every month. Every post is a coin flip. I'd rather have my soul carried away by an eagle demon than bet my business on that. And look, we don't know you. We don't know your company. We don't know what you sell. But we DO know… CPMs are higher than Snoop at a Bali pool party. Competition is crazy. And "build a personal brand" is the slowest scale plan ever invented. What actually moves the money needle? 🌶️ A "Godfather Offer" so sharp it keeps you up at night 🔥 An ads engine that prints customers on demand 💰 A wall of proof (bullets, not bombs) 🐻 A system that lets you sleep like a Siberian brown bear at night That's how our clients have done $7.8B across 1,067 niches. Personal brand isn't the foundation. It's a multiplier… and multipliers only work when there's something to multiply. So if you're sick of posting 3 times a day for 11 likes and zero leads… And you actually want to scale your sales each and every month… Click the link and book a call. 👉 https://go.kingkong.co/strategy P.S. We let our numbers do the talkin'… 💰 $7.8B generated. 🔑 1,067 niches. 💵 75 millionaires created. 🤑 6x 8-figure clients. P.P.S. Zuck will love you long time for clicking ❤️ Watch it. Click. Then scale. 🚀🌕 👉 https://go.kingkong.co/strategy
GT Sensor Carbon Elite ST (Offers/Trades) - £1,234.00 Great bike, minimal use used a couple times slight paint chips and slight scratches due to light use all components working perfectly will come lubed if bought/traded SPECS: MEDIUM FRAME (fits like a large) carbon frame (very light and sturdy) 29’ inch wheels Front Tire: Maxxis Dissector EXO Rear Tire: Maxxis Rekon EXO Formula Hubs WTB ST i25 TSC tubeless ready rims Fox DPS Rear Shock Marzocchi Bomber Z2 forks SRAM NX Eagle shifter + Derailleur SRAM Guide T hydraulic breaks with 180mm rotors GT DropKick dropper post WTB Silverado saddle GT riser bar comes with lights COMES WITH DMR V11 Pedals great bike send offers and trades and PM if any questions ! Facebook Marketplace | GT Sensor Carbon Elite ST (Offers/Trades) - £1,234.00 Great bike, minimal use used a couple times slight paint chips and slight scratches due to light use all components working perfectly will come lubed if bought/traded SPECS: MEDIUM FRAME (fits like a large) carbon frame (very light and sturdy) 29’ inch wheels Front Tire: Maxxis Dissector EXO Rear Tire: Maxxis Rekon EXO Formula Hubs WTB ST i25 TSC tubeless ready rims Fox DPS Rear Shock Marzocchi Bomber Z2 forks SRAM NX Eagle shifter + Derailleur SRAM Guide T hydraulic breaks with 180mm rotors GT DropKick dropper post WTB Silverado saddle GT riser bar comes with lights COMES WITH DMR V11 Pedals great bike send offers and trades and PM if any questions ! Facebook Marketplace
Hey Doc, have you tried our IPR burs yet? Save chair time and increase your patient satisfaction with our IPR super burs. Manufactured through a unique process, these burs come in sizes ranging from 0.3 to 0.65 mm, allowing you to achieve effortless interproximal reduction and optimal treatment outcomes. ✔️ Aligners procedures ✔️ Anterior teeth ✔️ Vertical IPR ✔️ Post IPR smoothing ✔️ Zirconia teeth We ship worldwide, shop now to try! 👇
I got to train with Khabib "the Eagle" Nurmagomedov yesterday. This was an honor of a lifetime for me. He's a great fighter & leader and a great human being. From a grappling perspective, I don't think I've ever experienced this much top pressure in my life. I'll post the footage of the training in a few days. And also we'll do a long podcast (and dub it in multiple languages). In general, it was an incredible experience to train with the team and get to know many of the fighters from Dagestan. All are great people.
Lin Ran and his black cat transmigrated to a beast-taming world where a system forces him to complete tasks or die. His cat awakened as an XR-grade beast. Lin Ran avenges the original owner, battles dark forces, and attracts beauties: an ice phoenix, a nine-tailed fox, and a mermaid who kissed him.
Lin Ran and his black cat transmigrated to a beast-taming world where a system forces him to complete tasks or die. His cat awakened as an XR-grade beast. Lin Ran avenges the original owner, battles dark forces, and attracts beauties: an ice phoenix, a nine-tailed fox, and a mermaid who kissed him.
Santa Cruz 5010c - V3 - Large - £1,750.00 2020 Santa Cruz 5010c - Large Carbon Frame 140mm Rockshox Pike Ultimate front fork 120mm Fox Float DPX2 rear shock SRAM RSC Code Brakes SRAM GX Eagle 12 speed group set and derailleur 27.5” DT Swiss E532 Wheels Schwalbe tubeless Hans Dampf rear and Magic Mary front Lappierre Dropper Post Gusset S2 50mm riser bars Level Components Stem DMR Oioi seat DMR Deathgrips TAG nylon pedals Few scratches and marks but nothing noteworthy. Really fun and playful bike, light and very whippy. Open to reasonable offers. Collection Woodbridge or Twisted Oaks Facebook Marketplace | Santa Cruz 5010c - V3 - Large - £1,750.00 2020 Santa Cruz 5010c - Large Carbon Frame 140mm Rockshox Pike Ultimate front fork 120mm Fox Float DPX2 rear shock SRAM RSC Code Brakes SRAM GX Eagle 12 speed group set and derailleur 27.5” DT Swiss E532 Wheels Schwalbe tubeless Hans Dampf rear and Magic Mary front Lappierre Dropper Post Gusset S2 50mm riser bars Level Components Stem DMR Oioi seat DMR Deathgrips TAG nylon pedals Few scratches and marks but nothing noteworthy. Really fun and playful bike, light and very whippy. Open to reasonable offers. Collection Woodbridge or Twisted Oaks Facebook Marketplace
Giant stance 29 1 - £650.00 GIANT STANCE 29 1 Mountain bike Good condition Frame size large Wheels 29 inch Brakes - Tektro HRD-M285 Drivetrain - SRAM SX eagle Fork - Crest 34 SL RCL Rear shock - RockShox Monarch R Seat- dropper post fitted Any question just ask! Facebook Marketplace | Giant stance 29 1 - £650.00 GIANT STANCE 29 1 Mountain bike Good condition Frame size large Wheels 29 inch Brakes - Tektro HRD-M285 Drivetrain - SRAM SX eagle Fork - Crest 34 SL RCL Rear shock - RockShox Monarch R Seat- dropper post fitted Any question just ask! Facebook Marketplace
EZEKIEL’S VISIONS Merkabah and the Cherubim Ezekiel was one of those who was carried as a captive to Babylonia during the reign of Nebuchadnezzar. Little is known of him other than that he was the son of Buzi the priest. He lived for years at Tel abib on the banks of a river or canal called the Chebar. He received his call to prophecy in the fifth year of the captivity, about 592 B. C. The name Ezekiel means “God will strengthen him,” and he was one of the four great prophets. There is a report that he was murdered in Babylon by a Jewish prince whom he had convicted of idolatry. He seems to have been buried in a tomb on the banks of the Euphrates a few days’ journey from Bagdad. Ezekiel makes very few references to himself, and according to the opinions of scholars, he is not quoted in the New Testament directly or indirectly, except for certain parallels in the Apocalypse. —— MERKABAH Out of the whirlwind from the northern region, there appeared an extraordinary instrument of power. The Bible does not actually describe this vehicle, but in the commentaries it is called the Merkabah, the Chariot of Majesty. This Merkabah was so sacred that it might be spoken of only with the greatest veneration, and only in the presence of, or among, the elders. It is written that the Merkabah shall not be named if there be two and one is not wise. The Merkabah is described as one of the deepest mysteries of Cabalism. The chariot of righteousness, the seat of the Most High, the mystery of “the wheels that go all ways and are filled with eyes,” is thus interpreted by the wisest of the ages. The chariot consisted of four creatures called cherubs, each going a different way, each with four heads, six wings, and the hoofs of a calf. Each of the cherubs bore the face of a man, a bull, a lion, and an eagle, and their wings met at the corners of the Merkabah. These mysterious creatures rode on wheels filled with eyes, and above them was a throne chair, and upon the throne was an awesome presence in white, surrounded by light and power and accompanied by a rainbow. So numerous and complicated are the interpretations of this vision that we can mention only a few of them. The Merkabah is the world or universe as the body or vehicle of the Creator. It is beneath his feet, for the earth is his footstool. The Merkabah is therefore this footstool, wherein God is manifested only in his lesser parts. We may thus expect to discover an astronomical significance in the form and structure of the Merkabah. The cherubs are the symbols of the four cardinal angels, the equinoxes, and the solstices. It should be remembered that at the time this vision was described, the equinoxes fell, according to popular belief, in Taurus and Scorpio, and the solstices in Aquarius and Leo. These four signs are the bull, the eagle, the man, and the lion respectively. The four fixed signs, as they are called in astro theology, occur not only in Jewish metaphysics and in the sacred sciences of the Greeks and Egyptians, but reappear in the Christian Mysteries in the forms of the symbols attributed to the four Evangelists. ——— THE CHERUBIM, or living creatures, are the four great guardians of the four corners of the earth or sky. They return in Buddhism as the Lokapalas, or the four guardian kings of the hollow square. They also find parallel in the mythology of the American Indians. Ancient astronomers on the plains of Chaldea established four great stars which appeared in the four constellations, Taurus, Scorpio, Aquarius, and Leo, and called them the guardian angels. Each of the four guardians had six wings, which were said to make up the twenty four hours of the day. These angels also referred to the zodiacal galaxies of stars, for it is written in the Caba. It is interesting that four headed creatures occur in many religions with similar or identical meanings. In India, the lord of the material universe is Shiva, frequently represented with four heads. Brahma, brought into manifestation through the Saivistic principle manifesting in the material universe, is likewise depicted with four heads. He had a fifth head which was cut off during a battle in heaven. The story of the fifth head of Brahma conceals the mystery of the fifth element, the azoth or quintessentia of alchemy. The four heads of Brahma are also symbolized by the four Vedas, or Books of the Law. There is also a concealed, or fifth, Veda, to correspond with Brahma’s missing head. In the Ezekiel account, the four creatures or elements carry in their midst the golden throne, or the fifth element. Paracelsus says there is no greater mystery than that of the hypothetical medium, ether, for it is truly a connective energy binding the material and spiritual worlds, and making possible the action of superphysical principles upon material organisms. —— Thank you for taking the time to read my post. Wishing you all a great day. Source: Manly Palmer Hall, Old Testament Wisdom: Keys to Bible Interpretation (Los Angeles: Philosophical Research Society, 1957) Image edited and adapted from the book’s original illustration.
Wie ein obdachloses Genie meinen Konzern rettete " Vor fünfzehn Jahren wusch er Autos mit drei Dollar in der Tasche 🧹 Ein Fremder reichte ihm Wasser und sagte: „Du verdienst Besseres.“ 💧 Er erinnerte sich an dieses Gesicht. Fünfzehn Jahre später kehrt er als Luft- und Raumfahrtmagnat zurück, um ihn zu finden ✈️ Doch was er vorfindet, ist ein alter Mann, von seinen Adoptivkindern verstoßen, der sich die Arztrechnungen nicht mehr leisten kann 😢 Er steht schweigend vor der Tür der heruntergekommenen Wohnung und tätigt dann einen Anruf: „Übernehmt diese Firma, noch heute!“ 📞 Drei Tage später betreten die Adoptivkinder den Sitzungssaal und sehen, wie der Mann am Chefsessel langsam den Blick hebt 🖤 „Erinnert ihr euch nicht an mich?“ Alles klar, ich gebe dir Zeit. 👑 Jetzt ansehen 👉 🔥Ein obdachloses Genie rettet meine Firma!🔥 #GuterKurzfilm #RacheKommt #FreundlichkeitVergisstNie #Firmenübernahme #GerechtigkeitVerzögert" #GoodShort
Two tiny new arrivals have landed at Swinton Estate! Meet Apex, our 3-week-old European Eagle Owl, and Azarah, our adorable 3-week-old Great Horned Owl. Over the next few weeks, these fluffy youngsters will be joining all of our bird of prey experiences while we help socialise and train them - giving you the chance to meet them up close during their earliest adventures! Expect plenty of personality, fluff, and giant owl feet! 🎉 LIKE & SHARE COMPETITION 🎉 To celebrate their arrival, we’re giving one lucky winner the chance to enjoy an unforgettable Owl Experience for 2 To enter: 👍 Like this post 🔁 Share this post Find out more about our bird of prey experiences here: Swinton Estate Birds of Prey Experiences Winner will be announced in a couple of weeks. Good luck!
🚗 Top Quality Bodyshop Services in Stoke-on-Trent! 🚗 Whether you've had a minor scrape or a major bump, M&A Repairs Bodyshop is here to get your vehicle looking showroom-ready again! We pride ourselves on top-tier workmanship and competitive prices right here in Stoke. We offer a complete range of services to suit your needs: ✅ Small Repairs ✅ Large Repairs ✅ Polish & Paint Correction ✅ Plastic Repair ✅ Bumper Scuffs ✅ Headlight Restoration ✅ Full Resprays ✅ Non-Fault Accident Assistance Don't let car damage stress you out. Drop us a message or bring your car down to the workshop for a FREE QUOTE! 📋✨ 📍 Where to find us: Unit 7, Eagle Works Leek New Road Stoke-on-Trent ST6 2LE 📲 Contact us today: Message us on @WhatsApp: +447405902386 🌐 Visit our website: Www.marepairsstoke.co.uk #MARepairs #StokeOnTrent #BodyshopStoke #CarRepair #BumperScuffs #HeadlightRestoration #AutoBodyRepair #ST6 #Staffordshire #CarRespray #LocalBusiness @reper @fallowers @everyone @Staffordshire
If your product‑based business has some sales… but you’re still under $100K/year and can’t pay yourself every month, this is for you. Most founders in your position are doing everything “right”: Posting on social non‑stop Running random promos when cash feels tight Hoping “next month will be better” The problem isn’t your work ethic. It’s that there’s no math‑backed sales plan behind what you’re doing. In this free live workshop, I’ll show you how to: Run the simple profit math every store needs but almost no one does Turn random promos into a repeatable 90‑day sales calendar Plug the 3 biggest profit leaks in product‑based businesses If you’ve been in business at least a year and you’re tired of guessing, grab a seat. 👉 Click Learn More to save your spot.
If your product‑based business has some sales… but you’re still under $100K/year and can’t pay yourself every month, this is for you. Most founders in your position are doing everything “right”: Posting on social non‑stop Running random promos when cash feels tight Hoping “next month will be better” The problem isn’t your work ethic. It’s that there’s no math‑backed sales plan behind what you’re doing. In this free live workshop, I’ll show you how to: Run the simple profit math every store needs but almost no one does Turn random promos into a repeatable 90‑day sales calendar Plug the 3 biggest profit leaks in product‑based businesses If you’ve been in business at least a year and you’re tired of guessing, grab a seat. 👉 Click Learn More to save your spot.
If your product‑based business has some sales… but you’re still under $100K/year and can’t pay yourself every month, this is for you. Most founders in your position are doing everything “right”: Posting on social non‑stop Running random promos when cash feels tight Hoping “next month will be better” The problem isn’t your work ethic. It’s that there’s no math‑backed sales plan behind what you’re doing. In this free live workshop, I’ll show you how to: Run the simple profit math every store needs but almost no one does Turn random promos into a repeatable 90‑day sales calendar Plug the 3 biggest profit leaks in product‑based businesses If you’ve been in business at least a year and you’re tired of guessing, grab a seat. 👉 Click Learn More to save your spot.
Hey Doc, have you tried our IPR burs yet? Save chair time and increase your patient satisfaction with our IPR super burs. Manufactured through a unique process, these burs come in sizes ranging from 0.3 to 0.65 mm, allowing you to achieve effortless interproximal reduction and optimal treatment outcomes. ✔️ Aligners procedures ✔️ Anterior teeth ✔️ Vertical IPR ✔️ Post IPR smoothing ✔️ Zirconia teeth We ship worldwide, shop now to try! 👇
Hey Doc, have you tried our IPR burs yet? Save chair time and increase your patient satisfaction with our IPR super burs. Manufactured through a unique process, these burs come in sizes ranging from 0.3 to 0.65 mm, allowing you to achieve effortless interproximal reduction and optimal treatment outcomes. ✔️ Aligners procedures ✔️ Anterior teeth ✔️ Vertical IPR ✔️ Post IPR smoothing ✔️ Zirconia teeth We ship worldwide, shop now to try! 👇
After 1,400 hours on my kids' soccer sidelines, no parent had asked my name in 8 years. Then I bought the pink-orange bag. I'm Yasmin. I'm 39. I'm a financial advisor at a small firm in Indianapolis. I work part-time, three days a week, because the rest of my life is the lives of three children — Cyrus, who is 12 and plays basketball and baseball; Layla, who is 9 and does competitive gymnastics; and Darius, who is 6 and just started his first season of soccer this spring. My husband Kasra is a software engineer. We met in college at Indiana University. His parents came from Tehran in 1981. My parents came from Shiraz in 1982. We are second-generation Iranian-Americans, which is a thing about us that does not, particularly, come up at the soccer field — although it has, occasionally, in ways I'll get to. I want to start with the math, because the math is the entire reason I am writing this. I sat down at my kitchen table on a Tuesday night in late April with a small notebook and a glass of red wine and I added up the hours. Cyrus has been playing organized sports since he was 5. That is seven years. Two seasons a year — basketball in winter, baseball in spring-summer. Each season averages 12 to 16 games plus weekly practices, plus 2 to 4 tournaments. I attend most games and roughly one in four practices. Layla has been doing gymnastics since she was 4. That is five years. Gymnastics meets are different from team sports — fewer events, but each event is a six-to-eight-hour Saturday in a hotel ballroom or convention center. She has competed in 22 meets in five years. Darius starts his first season of soccer this spring. He has practiced exactly twice as of the night I am writing this. He has not played a game yet. I added up the hours I had spent, in my own physical body, in the bleachers, on the sidelines, in the bouncy-spring chairs at gymnastics meets, in the hotel-conference-room folding chairs, in the back-of-the-soccer-field grass, watching my children do organized sports. The number was approximately 1,400 hours. Fourteen hundred hours is thirty-five forty-hour work weeks. It is, in raw clock time, about eight months of full-time employment. I sat with the number for a few minutes. Then I sat with the second number, which I had not been planning to add up but which the first number had pulled out of me. In those 1,400 hours, on seven different teams across three different sports, with seven different sets of parents, I had been called Yasmin by exactly one other parent. Her name is Karissa. Her son Theo plays on the same basketball team as Cyrus. She has been on the same parent group with me for two seasons. She had asked me my name in November of last year. She had been the first. The other roughly 240 parents I had stood next to on sidelines, sat next to in bleachers, and slept down the hall from at out-of-town tournaments — the parents whose own kids' names I knew, whose own jobs I knew, whose own minivan models I had ridden in for carpool — had, in eight years, never asked me my name. I had been Cyrus's mom on the basketball sideline. I had been Cyrus's mom on the baseball sideline. I had been Layla's mom at the gymnastics meets. I had been, in the parent group chats that were organized by team, the brown one with the dark hair — a sentence I am writing here because it was a thing another mom had once said about me at a baseball tournament in Carmel, with me three feet away, when she was trying to identify which mom was bringing the orange slices. I had been a function for eight years. I had not been a person. I want to write the next part carefully because the next part is the part that has been hardest for me to admit out loud. I had not, in those eight years, told anyone — not Kasra, not my mother, not my sister Soraya, not my best friend Mahnaz from college — that the sideline thing had been wearing on me. Sideline parenting is supposed to be the thing American mothers love. The bleachers, the orange slices, the team snack rotation, the post-game smoothies, the parent group chat. It is supposed to be the texture of a good life. I had been, by every external measure, having the texture of a good life. I had also been, every Saturday and Tuesday and Thursday for eight years, standing in the company of forty other adults on a soccer field or a basketball gymnasium or a baseball diamond, and I had been the brown woman in the back, and I had been called Cyrus's mom and Layla's mom by adults who saw me as a function and who did not, at any point, decide that I was a person worth knowing. I had told myself for eight years that this was just sports parenting. That this was just how it was. That my Iranian face and my brown skin and the slight accent that had been with me since I was six years old when I had moved from Shiraz to Carmel were not, particularly, the reason. That this was just the way it went. I had been telling myself something. I do not, even at 39, know exactly how much of what I had been telling myself had been true. I know that on a Tuesday night in late April, after I added up the 1,400 hours and the one parent named Karissa, I was no longer willing to keep telling it to myself. Karissa is the reason this ad exists. She is 42. She has three kids. Her oldest plays basketball with Cyrus. She is white. She grew up in a small town in southern Indiana and moved to Indianapolis after college. She is, by every measure I have access to, the kind of woman the other sideline moms in our parent group have always called by her first name. She had been wearing a particular bag at every basketball game I had seen her at since November of last year. The bag was a hot-pink-and-orange checkered crossbody. The pink was bright, the orange was bright, the pattern was confident. The bag was visible at fifty yards. It was the kind of bag that announced its wearer in a way I had spent eight years trying not to do. I had been admiring it from across the gym for four months without saying anything. In late March, at a basketball tournament in Avon, the boys had been playing the third game of a three-game day. The other parents were tired. Karissa and I had ended up next to each other in the bleachers during the second quarter. I was watching Cyrus. Karissa was watching Theo. The boys were on the court. I said, finally: "Karissa. I have been wanting to ask you for four months. Where did you find that bag." Karissa turned to me. She looked at me for a second. Then she said: "Yasmin." I said: "Yes?" She said: "Yasmin. I am about to tell you something, and I want you to listen because the last person who told it to me was a woman named Janelle who used to be on this same parent group three years ago and who moved to Indianapolis North side. She told me at a baseball game in 2022. I am going to tell you the same thing she told me. Are you listening?" I said: "I'm listening." She said: "I have been on the sidelines of my three kids' sports for eleven years. In my first eight years, no parent on a sideline ever asked me my first name. I was Theo's mom for eight years. I am also kind of a quiet person. I figured out, around year seven, that the system of sideline parenting in this country is set up to keep you nameless if you do not have a thing about you that another parent wants to know about. So in the fall of 2022, after Janelle told me what I am about to tell you, I bought the loudest bag I could find. The bag is, on purpose, hot pink and orange. It is loud. It is visible at fifty yards. It is, in the language of sideline parenting, a thing about me that another parent might decide to know about. Three weeks after I started wearing it, the first parent on the sidelines asked me where I got the bag. Then she asked me my name. Then she asked me what I did for work. By the end of basketball season that year, six other parents had asked me my name. I am now in year three of being Karissa on the sidelines instead of Theo's mom. The brand is small. They run a buy-one-get-one. Add two to the cart. The second is free. Order yours before Darius's spring season starts. Do not get the cognac one. Do not get the navy one. Get the pink-and-orange. The whole point is that it is loud. The whole point is that the loudness is the variable that the sideline parents respond to. It is not subtle. The system we are inside is also not subtle. The bag is the way out." I said: "Karissa." She said: "Yasmin. I am Karissa. I have known you for two seasons. I have known your name since the parent group chat from October of last year. I have not used your name on the sideline because I figured out, with you, the same thing Janelle figured out with me — which was that you had been being called Cyrus's mom by the other parents for so long that calling you Yasmin in front of them would have felt strange. So I have been waiting. I am waiting for you to give the other parents a reason to learn your name. Order the bag tonight." I sat in the bleachers with Karissa for the rest of the third quarter not saying anything. I went home that night. I ordered the bag at 10:17 PM from my kitchen counter. Add two to the cart. The second one was free. I picked the same hot-pink-and-orange checkered colorway that Karissa had been wearing. I told Kasra what I was doing while I was checking out. He looked at the screen with me. He said: "Babe. Karissa is right. Order it." He said it without elaboration. He had been on those sidelines too, every weekend for eight years, although he had been, as a man, in a slightly different version of the same problem. He had been Cyrus's dad. The dads, at least, all called each other by last name on the sidelines. Kasra had been called Hosseini on the basketball sideline since 2018. He had figured out long before I had that the sideline naming system did not work for everyone equally. The bag arrived on a Wednesday. I unboxed it on the kitchen counter. The pink was brighter than I had expected. The orange was brighter than I had expected. The pattern was, in person, exactly as loud as Karissa had warned. I stood in our kitchen for about ten minutes wearing it before I took it off, because I could not, even in my own kitchen, get used to the visibility of it. Layla, my nine-year-old, walked through the kitchen on her way to the back porch. She stopped. She looked at me. She said: "Mom. That bag is loud." I said: "I know, baby." She said: "Are you going to wear it places." I said: "I'm going to wear it to Darius's first soccer game on Saturday." Layla said: "Mom. The other moms are going to look at you." I said: "I know." She said: "Mom. That's the point, right?" I said: "Yes baby. That's the point." Layla said: "Mom. I think the bag is great. I want one when I am older." She walked out to the back porch. She sat with her book. I packed the bag for Saturday on Friday night. My phone, my wallet, my keys, a tube of lip balm, a small bottle of sunscreen, a packet of fruit snacks for Darius, a small water bottle, the printed roster of Darius's team, Darius's birth certificate copy because Indiana youth soccer requires it for the first match of the season, the team's parent group chat phone numbers in my phone, a small bottle of hand sanitizer, a packet of tissues, a tin of mints, a folded white linen handkerchief. The bag closed. Saturday morning. May 17th. First match of Darius's spring U7 soccer season at Eagle Creek Park, field 4, 9 AM. Kasra was at home with Cyrus and Layla — Cyrus had a baseball game at 1 PM that Kasra would take him to, and Layla had a gymnastics practice that Kasra would take her to before the baseball game. Saturday mornings in our family are tetrised an hour at a time. I was, that morning, the parent assigned to Darius. I drove Darius to the park. I parked at 8:42 AM. I unloaded him from his booster seat. He had on his yellow team jersey, black shorts, the new soccer cleats Kasra and I had bought him two weeks earlier, and his hair done in the careful side-part Kasra had given him at 7:45 AM. He held my hand walking from the parking lot to field 4. The field 4 sideline already had about fifteen sets of parents on it — some standing, some in the blue and green folding chairs they had brought from home. The parents were a mix I recognized from preschool — five or six families I knew vaguely, ten more I did not know. The U7 soccer parent group is fresh. Most of these parents were doing this for the first time, the way I had done basketball with Cyrus seven years ago. I took my place on the sideline at 8:51 AM. I was wearing leggings, a grey athletic quarter-zip, white sneakers, and the hot-pink-and-orange checkered GoFree across my body. My hair was in a high bun. The first thing that happened was that the team mom for Darius's group, a woman named Brittany whom I had met at the registration meeting two weeks earlier, walked up to me from the dugout area. Brittany had been the only parent who had taken the time at the registration meeting to introduce herself to me by name. She had been kind in the way Brittany clearly was kind to everyone, with a slight extra warmth toward the moms she could tell were new. She saw me on the sideline. She walked over. She said: "Yasmin! Hey! How are you holding up — first soccer game! Oh my gosh — your bag. Where did you find that?" I told her. I told her about Karissa. I told her about the BOGO. I did not tell her about the 1,400 hours. The 1,400 hours did not, on this sideline at this moment, need to be brought up. Brittany said: "Oh my god. I love it. Can I see the brand name? I'm going to text it to my sister-in-law in Carmel." She wrote it down on her phone. She looked back up at me. She said: "Hey, by the way — I'm gonna grab Hannah Schultz over here. She lives two streets over from you, I think — she's been wanting to meet you because Darius and her son Aiden have been at the same preschool for two years and she said you guys have never officially met." She walked off. She came back two minutes later with Hannah Schultz. Hannah Schultz was 40, blonde, in a Lululemon zip-up. Aiden was on the field warming up. Hannah said: "Yasmin. So nice to finally meet you. Brittany says we've been at the same preschool for two years and I am embarrassed I have never come up and said hi." I said: "Hannah. Don't be embarrassed. Same." Hannah said: "Also — your bag is incredible. Where is it from." I told her. She wrote it down on her phone. Aiden's first match was about to start. We got our small folding chairs out. We sat next to each other on the sideline. Hannah told me that her older daughter played gymnastics at the same gym as Layla, and that we had probably been in the same observation hallway every Tuesday for two years. The first half of the match was 25 minutes. The boys ran around. Darius scored a goal in the 18th minute by accident — he had been kicking the ball away from his own goal and it had bounced off another kid's leg and gone into the opposite net. He was thrilled. The whole sideline cheered. At halftime I stood up to walk to the cooler and refill my water. A third mom approached me. I had not seen her at preschool. She was Black, mid-thirties, in a navy windbreaker. She said: "Hey. I'm Tiana — Jaylen's mom. He's number 14 on your team. I've been trying to figure out your name since the registration meeting because I saw you across the room and you were wearing this absolutely ridiculous bag and I told my husband I had to know who that woman was. Where did you get this bag?" I said: "I'm Yasmin. Cyrus's mom — and Darius's, now. Darius is the one who scored. The bag is from a small brand." I told her. I told her the same thing I had told Brittany and Hannah. I told her about the BOGO. Tiana wrote it down. She said: "Yasmin, I don't have a sister but I have a best friend in Atlanta who is going to scream when I tell her about this. We have been on each other's sidelines for fifteen years and we have never figured out how to be the moms the other moms know by name." She and I had a ten-minute conversation at the cooler between halves. I learned that she was a pediatric occupational therapist. I learned that she had grown up in Gary. I learned that her husband Marcus was a high school principal. I learned that Jaylen, her son, had been in the same preschool class as my Darius for two years. I had been at the same preschool as Tiana Williams for two years. We had not, in those two years, ever spoken. The bag had, on a Saturday morning in May, gotten us into a ten-minute conversation at a Gatorade cooler. I sat down for the second half next to Hannah. The boys ran around. Darius did not score again, but he intercepted a pass in the 41st minute and he ran with it about ten yards before passing it to a teammate, and the whole sideline cheered. He looked over at me. He waved. I waved back. The bag was on my body. Hannah Schultz was on my left. Tiana Williams was on my right. Brittany was at the team bench. Three other moms whose names I now knew were on the sideline within twenty feet of me. The match ended at 10:14 AM. Darius's team won 4-2. The boys got little Capri Suns. The parents started packing up. Hannah hugged me before she left. Hannah Schultz, who had lived two streets from me for three years and who I had walked past at preschool drop-off forty times, hugged me. Tiana hugged me. Brittany hugged me. I had been on a sideline for two hours. I had been hugged by three other parents. I had been called Yasmin by three other parents. I had been asked where my bag was from by three other parents. I walked Darius back to the car at 10:42 AM. He was holding my hand. He was telling me about the goal he had scored by accident. I buckled him into his booster seat. I closed his door. I walked around to the driver's side. I got in. I sat in the driver's seat at 10:46 AM with the bag on the passenger seat next to me and I cried for about three minutes. Darius did not notice. He was looking at his Capri Sun. He was telling the Capri Sun about the goal. I cried because Karissa had been right. I cried because for eight years I had been telling myself that the sideline naming thing was just sports parenting, and Karissa had told me three weeks ago that it was the bag, and the bag — a hot-pink-and-orange checkered crossbody from a small brand — had, in two hours on a sideline at Eagle Creek Park field 4 on a Saturday in May, gotten three other moms to ask me my name. Three. In two hours. In eight previous years, on seven previous teams, across three previous sports, in roughly 1,400 previous hours of sideline parenting, the count had been one. The math had been the bag. The math had been the bag the entire time. Karissa had figured it out in 2022. Janelle had figured it out before her. I had figured it out at 10:46 AM on a Saturday in May 2026. Tiana, who I had told about Karissa and Janelle that morning at the cooler, was going to figure it out for her own sister-in-law in Atlanta the following week, because she had ordered the bag from her phone in the parking lot before driving home. I texted Karissa from the parking lot at 10:51 AM. "Three asked me my name in two hours. The bag is the entire problem." Karissa wrote back at 10:53 AM. "Yasmin. Welcome to year three of being Yasmin instead of Cyrus's mom. It only gets better from here." I want to tell you what has happened on the sidelines since. I have been to nine more soccer games of Darius's. I have been called Yasmin by, at this point, fourteen different parents on the U7 sideline. I am, in the U7 parent group chat, Yasmin (Darius's mom) — listed by my own first name first, with my son's name in parentheses. The parenthetical is the thing that has changed. I had been Cyrus's mom in seven previous group chats. I am Yasmin (Darius's mom) in this one. The difference is the parenthesis. I have been to four basketball games of Cyrus's since the soccer season started. I have been wearing the bag to those too. Three of the basketball moms — moms I had been on a sideline with for seven years — asked me my name in March, April, and May. They had known Cyrus for seven years. They had not, in seven years, asked me my name. In three months, with the bag, they did. I want to write the next sentence carefully because the next sentence is the part of this ad that I have been thinking about every day for the last three weeks. The basketball moms had been waiting for me to give them a reason to ask me my name, the same way Karissa had told me back in March. I had thought, for seven years, that I had been waiting for them to decide I was worth asking. I had been wrong. They had been waiting for me to walk onto the sideline carrying something that gave them a way in. The bag had been the way in. The way in had not, in seven years, been my Iranian face, my brown skin, my slight accent, my last name. The way in had been a hot-pink-and-orange checkered crossbody from a small brand. I do not, even now, know if I think this is good news or bad news. I know that it is news, and that the news has changed the texture of my Saturdays. I gave the second BOGO bag to my sister Soraya. Soraya is 36. She has two daughters in suburban Detroit. Soraya had been on her own sidelines for six years. I shipped her the bag with a handwritten note that read: "Soraya. The sidelines are sideline-able. Karissa was right. Order Layla's gymnastics meet schedule and wear it to the next one. — Yasmin." Soraya called me from a gymnastics meet in Troy three Saturdays after the bag arrived. She said: "Yasmin." I said: "Yes." She said: "I am at the meet. Two moms have asked me my name in the last hour. I was Mahsa's mom for six years. I am Soraya now. I am sitting in a folding chair in a hotel ballroom in Troy and I am crying." I said: "I know." She said: "Yasmin. Why is this the thing. Why is this how this works." I said: "I don't know. Karissa said Janelle figured it out first. Janelle said somebody else figured it out before her. I think it is just how the sidelines have always worked. We just did not know."* Soraya said: "We are going to tell every Iranian-American mom we know." I said: "We are going to tell every mom we know." I want to be clear about who I am writing this for. I am writing this for the sideline mom of any background — Iranian, Lebanese, Indian, Mexican, Black, Korean, Vietnamese, white, Jewish, Catholic, anything — who has been on a sideline for five or eight or eleven years and who has been called Cyrus's mom or Aiden's mom or the gymnastics mom by the same forty other parents the entire time, and who has not yet figured out that the sideline naming system rewards visibility and not virtue. I am writing this for the woman of color in particular who has been telling herself for eight years that the sideline naming thing is just sports parenting, and who has been not entirely sure if it is just sports parenting, and who has not had a Karissa or a Janelle in her life yet to tell her plainly that the variable is the bag. I am writing this for the Iranian-American daughter of immigrants who, like me, was raised by a mother who had been the kind of mother nobody saw in Tehran and Shiraz in the 1970s, and who carried, in her own American adult life, a series of midmarket totes for forty years because she had assumed that the not-being-seen was just how it worked. It is not how it works. There is a bag. If you are about to start a new sports season with one of your kids — fall soccer, fall basketball, fall volleyball, fall cross country, fall band, fall anything that has parents on the side of a field for two hours at a time — If you have been on the sideline of three or four or five teams already and you have been Cyrus's mom or Aiden's mom the entire time — If you have a Karissa in your parent group chat already — a woman who has been on these sidelines longer than you have, who has figured out something you have not, and who is waiting for you to ask her — go ask her on the next sideline you stand on this week. She will tell you. The answer will, if she is being honest, be the bag. They're running a buy-one-get-one right now. Add two to the cart, the second one is free. Karissa told me to order it on a Saturday afternoon in March in the bleachers in Avon. I shipped the second to my sister in Detroit. The way most of us figure out the math of the sideline is that another mom on a sideline tells us, plainly, that the variable is the bag. Get two. Wear one to the next sideline. Send the second to a sister, a cousin, a sister-in-law, a college friend who has been on her own sidelines for eight years and who has been Theo's mom the entire time. She will be Soraya, Mahnaz, Tara, Tina, Marcia, Chioma, Yoon, Aditi, by the third game. So will you. Your move. emmafy.com/bumbag
After 1,400 hours on my kids' soccer sidelines, no parent had asked my name in 8 years. Then I bought the pink-orange bag. I'm Yasmin. I'm 39. I'm a financial advisor at a small firm in Indianapolis. I work part-time, three days a week, because the rest of my life is the lives of three children — Cyrus, who is 12 and plays basketball and baseball; Layla, who is 9 and does competitive gymnastics; and Darius, who is 6 and just started his first season of soccer this spring. My husband Kasra is a software engineer. We met in college at Indiana University. His parents came from Tehran in 1981. My parents came from Shiraz in 1982. We are second-generation Iranian-Americans, which is a thing about us that does not, particularly, come up at the soccer field — although it has, occasionally, in ways I'll get to. I want to start with the math, because the math is the entire reason I am writing this. I sat down at my kitchen table on a Tuesday night in late April with a small notebook and a glass of red wine and I added up the hours. Cyrus has been playing organized sports since he was 5. That is seven years. Two seasons a year — basketball in winter, baseball in spring-summer. Each season averages 12 to 16 games plus weekly practices, plus 2 to 4 tournaments. I attend most games and roughly one in four practices. Layla has been doing gymnastics since she was 4. That is five years. Gymnastics meets are different from team sports — fewer events, but each event is a six-to-eight-hour Saturday in a hotel ballroom or convention center. She has competed in 22 meets in five years. Darius starts his first season of soccer this spring. He has practiced exactly twice as of the night I am writing this. He has not played a game yet. I added up the hours I had spent, in my own physical body, in the bleachers, on the sidelines, in the bouncy-spring chairs at gymnastics meets, in the hotel-conference-room folding chairs, in the back-of-the-soccer-field grass, watching my children do organized sports. The number was approximately 1,400 hours. Fourteen hundred hours is thirty-five forty-hour work weeks. It is, in raw clock time, about eight months of full-time employment. I sat with the number for a few minutes. Then I sat with the second number, which I had not been planning to add up but which the first number had pulled out of me. In those 1,400 hours, on seven different teams across three different sports, with seven different sets of parents, I had been called Yasmin by exactly one other parent. Her name is Karissa. Her son Theo plays on the same basketball team as Cyrus. She has been on the same parent group with me for two seasons. She had asked me my name in November of last year. She had been the first. The other roughly 240 parents I had stood next to on sidelines, sat next to in bleachers, and slept down the hall from at out-of-town tournaments — the parents whose own kids' names I knew, whose own jobs I knew, whose own minivan models I had ridden in for carpool — had, in eight years, never asked me my name. I had been Cyrus's mom on the basketball sideline. I had been Cyrus's mom on the baseball sideline. I had been Layla's mom at the gymnastics meets. I had been, in the parent group chats that were organized by team, the brown one with the dark hair — a sentence I am writing here because it was a thing another mom had once said about me at a baseball tournament in Carmel, with me three feet away, when she was trying to identify which mom was bringing the orange slices. I had been a function for eight years. I had not been a person. I want to write the next part carefully because the next part is the part that has been hardest for me to admit out loud. I had not, in those eight years, told anyone — not Kasra, not my mother, not my sister Soraya, not my best friend Mahnaz from college — that the sideline thing had been wearing on me. Sideline parenting is supposed to be the thing American mothers love. The bleachers, the orange slices, the team snack rotation, the post-game smoothies, the parent group chat. It is supposed to be the texture of a good life. I had been, by every external measure, having the texture of a good life. I had also been, every Saturday and Tuesday and Thursday for eight years, standing in the company of forty other adults on a soccer field or a basketball gymnasium or a baseball diamond, and I had been the brown woman in the back, and I had been called Cyrus's mom and Layla's mom by adults who saw me as a function and who did not, at any point, decide that I was a person worth knowing. I had told myself for eight years that this was just sports parenting. That this was just how it was. That my Iranian face and my brown skin and the slight accent that had been with me since I was six years old when I had moved from Shiraz to Carmel were not, particularly, the reason. That this was just the way it went. I had been telling myself something. I do not, even at 39, know exactly how much of what I had been telling myself had been true. I know that on a Tuesday night in late April, after I added up the 1,400 hours and the one parent named Karissa, I was no longer willing to keep telling it to myself. Karissa is the reason this ad exists. She is 42. She has three kids. Her oldest plays basketball with Cyrus. She is white. She grew up in a small town in southern Indiana and moved to Indianapolis after college. She is, by every measure I have access to, the kind of woman the other sideline moms in our parent group have always called by her first name. She had been wearing a particular bag at every basketball game I had seen her at since November of last year. The bag was a hot-pink-and-orange checkered crossbody. The pink was bright, the orange was bright, the pattern was confident. The bag was visible at fifty yards. It was the kind of bag that announced its wearer in a way I had spent eight years trying not to do. I had been admiring it from across the gym for four months without saying anything. In late March, at a basketball tournament in Avon, the boys had been playing the third game of a three-game day. The other parents were tired. Karissa and I had ended up next to each other in the bleachers during the second quarter. I was watching Cyrus. Karissa was watching Theo. The boys were on the court. I said, finally: "Karissa. I have been wanting to ask you for four months. Where did you find that bag." Karissa turned to me. She looked at me for a second. Then she said: "Yasmin." I said: "Yes?" She said: "Yasmin. I am about to tell you something, and I want you to listen because the last person who told it to me was a woman named Janelle who used to be on this same parent group three years ago and who moved to Indianapolis North side. She told me at a baseball game in 2022. I am going to tell you the same thing she told me. Are you listening?" I said: "I'm listening." She said: "I have been on the sidelines of my three kids' sports for eleven years. In my first eight years, no parent on a sideline ever asked me my first name. I was Theo's mom for eight years. I am also kind of a quiet person. I figured out, around year seven, that the system of sideline parenting in this country is set up to keep you nameless if you do not have a thing about you that another parent wants to know about. So in the fall of 2022, after Janelle told me what I am about to tell you, I bought the loudest bag I could find. The bag is, on purpose, hot pink and orange. It is loud. It is visible at fifty yards. It is, in the language of sideline parenting, a thing about me that another parent might decide to know about. Three weeks after I started wearing it, the first parent on the sidelines asked me where I got the bag. Then she asked me my name. Then she asked me what I did for work. By the end of basketball season that year, six other parents had asked me my name. I am now in year three of being Karissa on the sidelines instead of Theo's mom. The brand is small. They run a buy-one-get-one. Add two to the cart. The second is free. Order yours before Darius's spring season starts. Do not get the cognac one. Do not get the navy one. Get the pink-and-orange. The whole point is that it is loud. The whole point is that the loudness is the variable that the sideline parents respond to. It is not subtle. The system we are inside is also not subtle. The bag is the way out." I said: "Karissa." She said: "Yasmin. I am Karissa. I have known you for two seasons. I have known your name since the parent group chat from October of last year. I have not used your name on the sideline because I figured out, with you, the same thing Janelle figured out with me — which was that you had been being called Cyrus's mom by the other parents for so long that calling you Yasmin in front of them would have felt strange. So I have been waiting. I am waiting for you to give the other parents a reason to learn your name. Order the bag tonight." I sat in the bleachers with Karissa for the rest of the third quarter not saying anything. I went home that night. I ordered the bag at 10:17 PM from my kitchen counter. Add two to the cart. The second one was free. I picked the same hot-pink-and-orange checkered colorway that Karissa had been wearing. I told Kasra what I was doing while I was checking out. He looked at the screen with me. He said: "Babe. Karissa is right. Order it." He said it without elaboration. He had been on those sidelines too, every weekend for eight years, although he had been, as a man, in a slightly different version of the same problem. He had been Cyrus's dad. The dads, at least, all called each other by last name on the sidelines. Kasra had been called Hosseini on the basketball sideline since 2018. He had figured out long before I had that the sideline naming system did not work for everyone equally. The bag arrived on a Wednesday. I unboxed it on the kitchen counter. The pink was brighter than I had expected. The orange was brighter than I had expected. The pattern was, in person, exactly as loud as Karissa had warned. I stood in our kitchen for about ten minutes wearing it before I took it off, because I could not, even in my own kitchen, get used to the visibility of it. Layla, my nine-year-old, walked through the kitchen on her way to the back porch. She stopped. She looked at me. She said: "Mom. That bag is loud." I said: "I know, baby." She said: "Are you going to wear it places." I said: "I'm going to wear it to Darius's first soccer game on Saturday." Layla said: "Mom. The other moms are going to look at you." I said: "I know." She said: "Mom. That's the point, right?" I said: "Yes baby. That's the point." Layla said: "Mom. I think the bag is great. I want one when I am older." She walked out to the back porch. She sat with her book. I packed the bag for Saturday on Friday night. My phone, my wallet, my keys, a tube of lip balm, a small bottle of sunscreen, a packet of fruit snacks for Darius, a small water bottle, the printed roster of Darius's team, Darius's birth certificate copy because Indiana youth soccer requires it for the first match of the season, the team's parent group chat phone numbers in my phone, a small bottle of hand sanitizer, a packet of tissues, a tin of mints, a folded white linen handkerchief. The bag closed. Saturday morning. May 17th. First match of Darius's spring U7 soccer season at Eagle Creek Park, field 4, 9 AM. Kasra was at home with Cyrus and Layla — Cyrus had a baseball game at 1 PM that Kasra would take him to, and Layla had a gymnastics practice that Kasra would take her to before the baseball game. Saturday mornings in our family are tetrised an hour at a time. I was, that morning, the parent assigned to Darius. I drove Darius to the park. I parked at 8:42 AM. I unloaded him from his booster seat. He had on his yellow team jersey, black shorts, the new soccer cleats Kasra and I had bought him two weeks earlier, and his hair done in the careful side-part Kasra had given him at 7:45 AM. He held my hand walking from the parking lot to field 4. The field 4 sideline already had about fifteen sets of parents on it — some standing, some in the blue and green folding chairs they had brought from home. The parents were a mix I recognized from preschool — five or six families I knew vaguely, ten more I did not know. The U7 soccer parent group is fresh. Most of these parents were doing this for the first time, the way I had done basketball with Cyrus seven years ago. I took my place on the sideline at 8:51 AM. I was wearing leggings, a grey athletic quarter-zip, white sneakers, and the hot-pink-and-orange checkered GoFree across my body. My hair was in a high bun. The first thing that happened was that the team mom for Darius's group, a woman named Brittany whom I had met at the registration meeting two weeks earlier, walked up to me from the dugout area. Brittany had been the only parent who had taken the time at the registration meeting to introduce herself to me by name. She had been kind in the way Brittany clearly was kind to everyone, with a slight extra warmth toward the moms she could tell were new. She saw me on the sideline. She walked over. She said: "Yasmin! Hey! How are you holding up — first soccer game! Oh my gosh — your bag. Where did you find that?" I told her. I told her about Karissa. I told her about the BOGO. I did not tell her about the 1,400 hours. The 1,400 hours did not, on this sideline at this moment, need to be brought up. Brittany said: "Oh my god. I love it. Can I see the brand name? I'm going to text it to my sister-in-law in Carmel." She wrote it down on her phone. She looked back up at me. She said: "Hey, by the way — I'm gonna grab Hannah Schultz over here. She lives two streets over from you, I think — she's been wanting to meet you because Darius and her son Aiden have been at the same preschool for two years and she said you guys have never officially met." She walked off. She came back two minutes later with Hannah Schultz. Hannah Schultz was 40, blonde, in a Lululemon zip-up. Aiden was on the field warming up. Hannah said: "Yasmin. So nice to finally meet you. Brittany says we've been at the same preschool for two years and I am embarrassed I have never come up and said hi." I said: "Hannah. Don't be embarrassed. Same." Hannah said: "Also — your bag is incredible. Where is it from." I told her. She wrote it down on her phone. Aiden's first match was about to start. We got our small folding chairs out. We sat next to each other on the sideline. Hannah told me that her older daughter played gymnastics at the same gym as Layla, and that we had probably been in the same observation hallway every Tuesday for two years. The first half of the match was 25 minutes. The boys ran around. Darius scored a goal in the 18th minute by accident — he had been kicking the ball away from his own goal and it had bounced off another kid's leg and gone into the opposite net. He was thrilled. The whole sideline cheered. At halftime I stood up to walk to the cooler and refill my water. A third mom approached me. I had not seen her at preschool. She was Black, mid-thirties, in a navy windbreaker. She said: "Hey. I'm Tiana — Jaylen's mom. He's number 14 on your team. I've been trying to figure out your name since the registration meeting because I saw you across the room and you were wearing this absolutely ridiculous bag and I told my husband I had to know who that woman was. Where did you get this bag?" I said: "I'm Yasmin. Cyrus's mom — and Darius's, now. Darius is the one who scored. The bag is from a small brand." I told her. I told her the same thing I had told Brittany and Hannah. I told her about the BOGO. Tiana wrote it down. She said: "Yasmin, I don't have a sister but I have a best friend in Atlanta who is going to scream when I tell her about this. We have been on each other's sidelines for fifteen years and we have never figured out how to be the moms the other moms know by name." She and I had a ten-minute conversation at the cooler between halves. I learned that she was a pediatric occupational therapist. I learned that she had grown up in Gary. I learned that her husband Marcus was a high school principal. I learned that Jaylen, her son, had been in the same preschool class as my Darius for two years. I had been at the same preschool as Tiana Williams for two years. We had not, in those two years, ever spoken. The bag had, on a Saturday morning in May, gotten us into a ten-minute conversation at a Gatorade cooler. I sat down for the second half next to Hannah. The boys ran around. Darius did not score again, but he intercepted a pass in the 41st minute and he ran with it about ten yards before passing it to a teammate, and the whole sideline cheered. He looked over at me. He waved. I waved back. The bag was on my body. Hannah Schultz was on my left. Tiana Williams was on my right. Brittany was at the team bench. Three other moms whose names I now knew were on the sideline within twenty feet of me. The match ended at 10:14 AM. Darius's team won 4-2. The boys got little Capri Suns. The parents started packing up. Hannah hugged me before she left. Hannah Schultz, who had lived two streets from me for three years and who I had walked past at preschool drop-off forty times, hugged me. Tiana hugged me. Brittany hugged me. I had been on a sideline for two hours. I had been hugged by three other parents. I had been called Yasmin by three other parents. I had been asked where my bag was from by three other parents. I walked Darius back to the car at 10:42 AM. He was holding my hand. He was telling me about the goal he had scored by accident. I buckled him into his booster seat. I closed his door. I walked around to the driver's side. I got in. I sat in the driver's seat at 10:46 AM with the bag on the passenger seat next to me and I cried for about three minutes. Darius did not notice. He was looking at his Capri Sun. He was telling the Capri Sun about the goal. I cried because Karissa had been right. I cried because for eight years I had been telling myself that the sideline naming thing was just sports parenting, and Karissa had told me three weeks ago that it was the bag, and the bag — a hot-pink-and-orange checkered crossbody from a small brand — had, in two hours on a sideline at Eagle Creek Park field 4 on a Saturday in May, gotten three other moms to ask me my name. Three. In two hours. In eight previous years, on seven previous teams, across three previous sports, in roughly 1,400 previous hours of sideline parenting, the count had been one. The math had been the bag. The math had been the bag the entire time. Karissa had figured it out in 2022. Janelle had figured it out before her. I had figured it out at 10:46 AM on a Saturday in May 2026. Tiana, who I had told about Karissa and Janelle that morning at the cooler, was going to figure it out for her own sister-in-law in Atlanta the following week, because she had ordered the bag from her phone in the parking lot before driving home. I texted Karissa from the parking lot at 10:51 AM. "Three asked me my name in two hours. The bag is the entire problem." Karissa wrote back at 10:53 AM. "Yasmin. Welcome to year three of being Yasmin instead of Cyrus's mom. It only gets better from here." I want to tell you what has happened on the sidelines since. I have been to nine more soccer games of Darius's. I have been called Yasmin by, at this point, fourteen different parents on the U7 sideline. I am, in the U7 parent group chat, Yasmin (Darius's mom) — listed by my own first name first, with my son's name in parentheses. The parenthetical is the thing that has changed. I had been Cyrus's mom in seven previous group chats. I am Yasmin (Darius's mom) in this one. The difference is the parenthesis. I have been to four basketball games of Cyrus's since the soccer season started. I have been wearing the bag to those too. Three of the basketball moms — moms I had been on a sideline with for seven years — asked me my name in March, April, and May. They had known Cyrus for seven years. They had not, in seven years, asked me my name. In three months, with the bag, they did. I want to write the next sentence carefully because the next sentence is the part of this ad that I have been thinking about every day for the last three weeks. The basketball moms had been waiting for me to give them a reason to ask me my name, the same way Karissa had told me back in March. I had thought, for seven years, that I had been waiting for them to decide I was worth asking. I had been wrong. They had been waiting for me to walk onto the sideline carrying something that gave them a way in. The bag had been the way in. The way in had not, in seven years, been my Iranian face, my brown skin, my slight accent, my last name. The way in had been a hot-pink-and-orange checkered crossbody from a small brand. I do not, even now, know if I think this is good news or bad news. I know that it is news, and that the news has changed the texture of my Saturdays. I gave the second BOGO bag to my sister Soraya. Soraya is 36. She has two daughters in suburban Detroit. Soraya had been on her own sidelines for six years. I shipped her the bag with a handwritten note that read: "Soraya. The sidelines are sideline-able. Karissa was right. Order Layla's gymnastics meet schedule and wear it to the next one. — Yasmin." Soraya called me from a gymnastics meet in Troy three Saturdays after the bag arrived. She said: "Yasmin." I said: "Yes." She said: "I am at the meet. Two moms have asked me my name in the last hour. I was Mahsa's mom for six years. I am Soraya now. I am sitting in a folding chair in a hotel ballroom in Troy and I am crying." I said: "I know." She said: "Yasmin. Why is this the thing. Why is this how this works." I said: "I don't know. Karissa said Janelle figured it out first. Janelle said somebody else figured it out before her. I think it is just how the sidelines have always worked. We just did not know."* Soraya said: "We are going to tell every Iranian-American mom we know." I said: "We are going to tell every mom we know." I want to be clear about who I am writing this for. I am writing this for the sideline mom of any background — Iranian, Lebanese, Indian, Mexican, Black, Korean, Vietnamese, white, Jewish, Catholic, anything — who has been on a sideline for five or eight or eleven years and who has been called Cyrus's mom or Aiden's mom or the gymnastics mom by the same forty other parents the entire time, and who has not yet figured out that the sideline naming system rewards visibility and not virtue. I am writing this for the woman of color in particular who has been telling herself for eight years that the sideline naming thing is just sports parenting, and who has been not entirely sure if it is just sports parenting, and who has not had a Karissa or a Janelle in her life yet to tell her plainly that the variable is the bag. I am writing this for the Iranian-American daughter of immigrants who, like me, was raised by a mother who had been the kind of mother nobody saw in Tehran and Shiraz in the 1970s, and who carried, in her own American adult life, a series of midmarket totes for forty years because she had assumed that the not-being-seen was just how it worked. It is not how it works. There is a bag. If you are about to start a new sports season with one of your kids — fall soccer, fall basketball, fall volleyball, fall cross country, fall band, fall anything that has parents on the side of a field for two hours at a time — If you have been on the sideline of three or four or five teams already and you have been Cyrus's mom or Aiden's mom the entire time — If you have a Karissa in your parent group chat already — a woman who has been on these sidelines longer than you have, who has figured out something you have not, and who is waiting for you to ask her — go ask her on the next sideline you stand on this week. She will tell you. The answer will, if she is being honest, be the bag. They're running a buy-one-get-one right now. Add two to the cart, the second one is free. Karissa told me to order it on a Saturday afternoon in March in the bleachers in Avon. I shipped the second to my sister in Detroit. The way most of us figure out the math of the sideline is that another mom on a sideline tells us, plainly, that the variable is the bag. Get two. Wear one to the next sideline. Send the second to a sister, a cousin, a sister-in-law, a college friend who has been on her own sidelines for eight years and who has been Theo's mom the entire time. She will be Soraya, Mahnaz, Tara, Tina, Marcia, Chioma, Yoon, Aditi, by the third game. So will you. Your move. emmafy.com/bumbag
After 1,400 hours on my kids' soccer sidelines, no parent had asked my name in 8 years. Then I bought the pink-orange bag. I'm Yasmin. I'm 39. I'm a financial advisor at a small firm in Indianapolis. I work part-time, three days a week, because the rest of my life is the lives of three children — Cyrus, who is 12 and plays basketball and baseball; Layla, who is 9 and does competitive gymnastics; and Darius, who is 6 and just started his first season of soccer this spring. My husband Kasra is a software engineer. We met in college at Indiana University. His parents came from Tehran in 1981. My parents came from Shiraz in 1982. We are second-generation Iranian-Americans, which is a thing about us that does not, particularly, come up at the soccer field — although it has, occasionally, in ways I'll get to. I want to start with the math, because the math is the entire reason I am writing this. I sat down at my kitchen table on a Tuesday night in late April with a small notebook and a glass of red wine and I added up the hours. Cyrus has been playing organized sports since he was 5. That is seven years. Two seasons a year — basketball in winter, baseball in spring-summer. Each season averages 12 to 16 games plus weekly practices, plus 2 to 4 tournaments. I attend most games and roughly one in four practices. Layla has been doing gymnastics since she was 4. That is five years. Gymnastics meets are different from team sports — fewer events, but each event is a six-to-eight-hour Saturday in a hotel ballroom or convention center. She has competed in 22 meets in five years. Darius starts his first season of soccer this spring. He has practiced exactly twice as of the night I am writing this. He has not played a game yet. I added up the hours I had spent, in my own physical body, in the bleachers, on the sidelines, in the bouncy-spring chairs at gymnastics meets, in the hotel-conference-room folding chairs, in the back-of-the-soccer-field grass, watching my children do organized sports. The number was approximately 1,400 hours. Fourteen hundred hours is thirty-five forty-hour work weeks. It is, in raw clock time, about eight months of full-time employment. I sat with the number for a few minutes. Then I sat with the second number, which I had not been planning to add up but which the first number had pulled out of me. In those 1,400 hours, on seven different teams across three different sports, with seven different sets of parents, I had been called Yasmin by exactly one other parent. Her name is Karissa. Her son Theo plays on the same basketball team as Cyrus. She has been on the same parent group with me for two seasons. She had asked me my name in November of last year. She had been the first. The other roughly 240 parents I had stood next to on sidelines, sat next to in bleachers, and slept down the hall from at out-of-town tournaments — the parents whose own kids' names I knew, whose own jobs I knew, whose own minivan models I had ridden in for carpool — had, in eight years, never asked me my name. I had been Cyrus's mom on the basketball sideline. I had been Cyrus's mom on the baseball sideline. I had been Layla's mom at the gymnastics meets. I had been, in the parent group chats that were organized by team, the brown one with the dark hair — a sentence I am writing here because it was a thing another mom had once said about me at a baseball tournament in Carmel, with me three feet away, when she was trying to identify which mom was bringing the orange slices. I had been a function for eight years. I had not been a person. I want to write the next part carefully because the next part is the part that has been hardest for me to admit out loud. I had not, in those eight years, told anyone — not Kasra, not my mother, not my sister Soraya, not my best friend Mahnaz from college — that the sideline thing had been wearing on me. Sideline parenting is supposed to be the thing American mothers love. The bleachers, the orange slices, the team snack rotation, the post-game smoothies, the parent group chat. It is supposed to be the texture of a good life. I had been, by every external measure, having the texture of a good life. I had also been, every Saturday and Tuesday and Thursday for eight years, standing in the company of forty other adults on a soccer field or a basketball gymnasium or a baseball diamond, and I had been the brown woman in the back, and I had been called Cyrus's mom and Layla's mom by adults who saw me as a function and who did not, at any point, decide that I was a person worth knowing. I had told myself for eight years that this was just sports parenting. That this was just how it was. That my Iranian face and my brown skin and the slight accent that had been with me since I was six years old when I had moved from Shiraz to Carmel were not, particularly, the reason. That this was just the way it went. I had been telling myself something. I do not, even at 39, know exactly how much of what I had been telling myself had been true. I know that on a Tuesday night in late April, after I added up the 1,400 hours and the one parent named Karissa, I was no longer willing to keep telling it to myself. Karissa is the reason this ad exists. She is 42. She has three kids. Her oldest plays basketball with Cyrus. She is white. She grew up in a small town in southern Indiana and moved to Indianapolis after college. She is, by every measure I have access to, the kind of woman the other sideline moms in our parent group have always called by her first name. She had been wearing a particular bag at every basketball game I had seen her at since November of last year. The bag was a hot-pink-and-orange checkered crossbody. The pink was bright, the orange was bright, the pattern was confident. The bag was visible at fifty yards. It was the kind of bag that announced its wearer in a way I had spent eight years trying not to do. I had been admiring it from across the gym for four months without saying anything. In late March, at a basketball tournament in Avon, the boys had been playing the third game of a three-game day. The other parents were tired. Karissa and I had ended up next to each other in the bleachers during the second quarter. I was watching Cyrus. Karissa was watching Theo. The boys were on the court. I said, finally: "Karissa. I have been wanting to ask you for four months. Where did you find that bag." Karissa turned to me. She looked at me for a second. Then she said: "Yasmin." I said: "Yes?" She said: "Yasmin. I am about to tell you something, and I want you to listen because the last person who told it to me was a woman named Janelle who used to be on this same parent group three years ago and who moved to Indianapolis North side. She told me at a baseball game in 2022. I am going to tell you the same thing she told me. Are you listening?" I said: "I'm listening." She said: "I have been on the sidelines of my three kids' sports for eleven years. In my first eight years, no parent on a sideline ever asked me my first name. I was Theo's mom for eight years. I am also kind of a quiet person. I figured out, around year seven, that the system of sideline parenting in this country is set up to keep you nameless if you do not have a thing about you that another parent wants to know about. So in the fall of 2022, after Janelle told me what I am about to tell you, I bought the loudest bag I could find. The bag is, on purpose, hot pink and orange. It is loud. It is visible at fifty yards. It is, in the language of sideline parenting, a thing about me that another parent might decide to know about. Three weeks after I started wearing it, the first parent on the sidelines asked me where I got the bag. Then she asked me my name. Then she asked me what I did for work. By the end of basketball season that year, six other parents had asked me my name. I am now in year three of being Karissa on the sidelines instead of Theo's mom. The brand is small. They run a buy-one-get-one. Add two to the cart. The second is free. Order yours before Darius's spring season starts. Do not get the cognac one. Do not get the navy one. Get the pink-and-orange. The whole point is that it is loud. The whole point is that the loudness is the variable that the sideline parents respond to. It is not subtle. The system we are inside is also not subtle. The bag is the way out." I said: "Karissa." She said: "Yasmin. I am Karissa. I have known you for two seasons. I have known your name since the parent group chat from October of last year. I have not used your name on the sideline because I figured out, with you, the same thing Janelle figured out with me — which was that you had been being called Cyrus's mom by the other parents for so long that calling you Yasmin in front of them would have felt strange. So I have been waiting. I am waiting for you to give the other parents a reason to learn your name. Order the bag tonight." I sat in the bleachers with Karissa for the rest of the third quarter not saying anything. I went home that night. I ordered the bag at 10:17 PM from my kitchen counter. Add two to the cart. The second one was free. I picked the same hot-pink-and-orange checkered colorway that Karissa had been wearing. I told Kasra what I was doing while I was checking out. He looked at the screen with me. He said: "Babe. Karissa is right. Order it." He said it without elaboration. He had been on those sidelines too, every weekend for eight years, although he had been, as a man, in a slightly different version of the same problem. He had been Cyrus's dad. The dads, at least, all called each other by last name on the sidelines. Kasra had been called Hosseini on the basketball sideline since 2018. He had figured out long before I had that the sideline naming system did not work for everyone equally. The bag arrived on a Wednesday. I unboxed it on the kitchen counter. The pink was brighter than I had expected. The orange was brighter than I had expected. The pattern was, in person, exactly as loud as Karissa had warned. I stood in our kitchen for about ten minutes wearing it before I took it off, because I could not, even in my own kitchen, get used to the visibility of it. Layla, my nine-year-old, walked through the kitchen on her way to the back porch. She stopped. She looked at me. She said: "Mom. That bag is loud." I said: "I know, baby." She said: "Are you going to wear it places." I said: "I'm going to wear it to Darius's first soccer game on Saturday." Layla said: "Mom. The other moms are going to look at you." I said: "I know." She said: "Mom. That's the point, right?" I said: "Yes baby. That's the point." Layla said: "Mom. I think the bag is great. I want one when I am older." She walked out to the back porch. She sat with her book. I packed the bag for Saturday on Friday night. My phone, my wallet, my keys, a tube of lip balm, a small bottle of sunscreen, a packet of fruit snacks for Darius, a small water bottle, the printed roster of Darius's team, Darius's birth certificate copy because Indiana youth soccer requires it for the first match of the season, the team's parent group chat phone numbers in my phone, a small bottle of hand sanitizer, a packet of tissues, a tin of mints, a folded white linen handkerchief. The bag closed. Saturday morning. May 17th. First match of Darius's spring U7 soccer season at Eagle Creek Park, field 4, 9 AM. Kasra was at home with Cyrus and Layla — Cyrus had a baseball game at 1 PM that Kasra would take him to, and Layla had a gymnastics practice that Kasra would take her to before the baseball game. Saturday mornings in our family are tetrised an hour at a time. I was, that morning, the parent assigned to Darius. I drove Darius to the park. I parked at 8:42 AM. I unloaded him from his booster seat. He had on his yellow team jersey, black shorts, the new soccer cleats Kasra and I had bought him two weeks earlier, and his hair done in the careful side-part Kasra had given him at 7:45 AM. He held my hand walking from the parking lot to field 4. The field 4 sideline already had about fifteen sets of parents on it — some standing, some in the blue and green folding chairs they had brought from home. The parents were a mix I recognized from preschool — five or six families I knew vaguely, ten more I did not know. The U7 soccer parent group is fresh. Most of these parents were doing this for the first time, the way I had done basketball with Cyrus seven years ago. I took my place on the sideline at 8:51 AM. I was wearing leggings, a grey athletic quarter-zip, white sneakers, and the hot-pink-and-orange checkered GoFree across my body. My hair was in a high bun. The first thing that happened was that the team mom for Darius's group, a woman named Brittany whom I had met at the registration meeting two weeks earlier, walked up to me from the dugout area. Brittany had been the only parent who had taken the time at the registration meeting to introduce herself to me by name. She had been kind in the way Brittany clearly was kind to everyone, with a slight extra warmth toward the moms she could tell were new. She saw me on the sideline. She walked over. She said: "Yasmin! Hey! How are you holding up — first soccer game! Oh my gosh — your bag. Where did you find that?" I told her. I told her about Karissa. I told her about the BOGO. I did not tell her about the 1,400 hours. The 1,400 hours did not, on this sideline at this moment, need to be brought up. Brittany said: "Oh my god. I love it. Can I see the brand name? I'm going to text it to my sister-in-law in Carmel." She wrote it down on her phone. She looked back up at me. She said: "Hey, by the way — I'm gonna grab Hannah Schultz over here. She lives two streets over from you, I think — she's been wanting to meet you because Darius and her son Aiden have been at the same preschool for two years and she said you guys have never officially met." She walked off. She came back two minutes later with Hannah Schultz. Hannah Schultz was 40, blonde, in a Lululemon zip-up. Aiden was on the field warming up. Hannah said: "Yasmin. So nice to finally meet you. Brittany says we've been at the same preschool for two years and I am embarrassed I have never come up and said hi." I said: "Hannah. Don't be embarrassed. Same." Hannah said: "Also — your bag is incredible. Where is it from." I told her. She wrote it down on her phone. Aiden's first match was about to start. We got our small folding chairs out. We sat next to each other on the sideline. Hannah told me that her older daughter played gymnastics at the same gym as Layla, and that we had probably been in the same observation hallway every Tuesday for two years. The first half of the match was 25 minutes. The boys ran around. Darius scored a goal in the 18th minute by accident — he had been kicking the ball away from his own goal and it had bounced off another kid's leg and gone into the opposite net. He was thrilled. The whole sideline cheered. At halftime I stood up to walk to the cooler and refill my water. A third mom approached me. I had not seen her at preschool. She was Black, mid-thirties, in a navy windbreaker. She said: "Hey. I'm Tiana — Jaylen's mom. He's number 14 on your team. I've been trying to figure out your name since the registration meeting because I saw you across the room and you were wearing this absolutely ridiculous bag and I told my husband I had to know who that woman was. Where did you get this bag?" I said: "I'm Yasmin. Cyrus's mom — and Darius's, now. Darius is the one who scored. The bag is from a small brand." I told her. I told her the same thing I had told Brittany and Hannah. I told her about the BOGO. Tiana wrote it down. She said: "Yasmin, I don't have a sister but I have a best friend in Atlanta who is going to scream when I tell her about this. We have been on each other's sidelines for fifteen years and we have never figured out how to be the moms the other moms know by name." She and I had a ten-minute conversation at the cooler between halves. I learned that she was a pediatric occupational therapist. I learned that she had grown up in Gary. I learned that her husband Marcus was a high school principal. I learned that Jaylen, her son, had been in the same preschool class as my Darius for two years. I had been at the same preschool as Tiana Williams for two years. We had not, in those two years, ever spoken. The bag had, on a Saturday morning in May, gotten us into a ten-minute conversation at a Gatorade cooler. I sat down for the second half next to Hannah. The boys ran around. Darius did not score again, but he intercepted a pass in the 41st minute and he ran with it about ten yards before passing it to a teammate, and the whole sideline cheered. He looked over at me. He waved. I waved back. The bag was on my body. Hannah Schultz was on my left. Tiana Williams was on my right. Brittany was at the team bench. Three other moms whose names I now knew were on the sideline within twenty feet of me. The match ended at 10:14 AM. Darius's team won 4-2. The boys got little Capri Suns. The parents started packing up. Hannah hugged me before she left. Hannah Schultz, who had lived two streets from me for three years and who I had walked past at preschool drop-off forty times, hugged me. Tiana hugged me. Brittany hugged me. I had been on a sideline for two hours. I had been hugged by three other parents. I had been called Yasmin by three other parents. I had been asked where my bag was from by three other parents. I walked Darius back to the car at 10:42 AM. He was holding my hand. He was telling me about the goal he had scored by accident. I buckled him into his booster seat. I closed his door. I walked around to the driver's side. I got in. I sat in the driver's seat at 10:46 AM with the bag on the passenger seat next to me and I cried for about three minutes. Darius did not notice. He was looking at his Capri Sun. He was telling the Capri Sun about the goal. I cried because Karissa had been right. I cried because for eight years I had been telling myself that the sideline naming thing was just sports parenting, and Karissa had told me three weeks ago that it was the bag, and the bag — a hot-pink-and-orange checkered crossbody from a small brand — had, in two hours on a sideline at Eagle Creek Park field 4 on a Saturday in May, gotten three other moms to ask me my name. Three. In two hours. In eight previous years, on seven previous teams, across three previous sports, in roughly 1,400 previous hours of sideline parenting, the count had been one. The math had been the bag. The math had been the bag the entire time. Karissa had figured it out in 2022. Janelle had figured it out before her. I had figured it out at 10:46 AM on a Saturday in May 2026. Tiana, who I had told about Karissa and Janelle that morning at the cooler, was going to figure it out for her own sister-in-law in Atlanta the following week, because she had ordered the bag from her phone in the parking lot before driving home. I texted Karissa from the parking lot at 10:51 AM. "Three asked me my name in two hours. The bag is the entire problem." Karissa wrote back at 10:53 AM. "Yasmin. Welcome to year three of being Yasmin instead of Cyrus's mom. It only gets better from here." I want to tell you what has happened on the sidelines since. I have been to nine more soccer games of Darius's. I have been called Yasmin by, at this point, fourteen different parents on the U7 sideline. I am, in the U7 parent group chat, Yasmin (Darius's mom) — listed by my own first name first, with my son's name in parentheses. The parenthetical is the thing that has changed. I had been Cyrus's mom in seven previous group chats. I am Yasmin (Darius's mom) in this one. The difference is the parenthesis. I have been to four basketball games of Cyrus's since the soccer season started. I have been wearing the bag to those too. Three of the basketball moms — moms I had been on a sideline with for seven years — asked me my name in March, April, and May. They had known Cyrus for seven years. They had not, in seven years, asked me my name. In three months, with the bag, they did. I want to write the next sentence carefully because the next sentence is the part of this ad that I have been thinking about every day for the last three weeks. The basketball moms had been waiting for me to give them a reason to ask me my name, the same way Karissa had told me back in March. I had thought, for seven years, that I had been waiting for them to decide I was worth asking. I had been wrong. They had been waiting for me to walk onto the sideline carrying something that gave them a way in. The bag had been the way in. The way in had not, in seven years, been my Iranian face, my brown skin, my slight accent, my last name. The way in had been a hot-pink-and-orange checkered crossbody from a small brand. I do not, even now, know if I think this is good news or bad news. I know that it is news, and that the news has changed the texture of my Saturdays. I gave the second BOGO bag to my sister Soraya. Soraya is 36. She has two daughters in suburban Detroit. Soraya had been on her own sidelines for six years. I shipped her the bag with a handwritten note that read: "Soraya. The sidelines are sideline-able. Karissa was right. Order Layla's gymnastics meet schedule and wear it to the next one. — Yasmin." Soraya called me from a gymnastics meet in Troy three Saturdays after the bag arrived. She said: "Yasmin." I said: "Yes." She said: "I am at the meet. Two moms have asked me my name in the last hour. I was Mahsa's mom for six years. I am Soraya now. I am sitting in a folding chair in a hotel ballroom in Troy and I am crying." I said: "I know." She said: "Yasmin. Why is this the thing. Why is this how this works." I said: "I don't know. Karissa said Janelle figured it out first. Janelle said somebody else figured it out before her. I think it is just how the sidelines have always worked. We just did not know."* Soraya said: "We are going to tell every Iranian-American mom we know." I said: "We are going to tell every mom we know." I want to be clear about who I am writing this for. I am writing this for the sideline mom of any background — Iranian, Lebanese, Indian, Mexican, Black, Korean, Vietnamese, white, Jewish, Catholic, anything — who has been on a sideline for five or eight or eleven years and who has been called Cyrus's mom or Aiden's mom or the gymnastics mom by the same forty other parents the entire time, and who has not yet figured out that the sideline naming system rewards visibility and not virtue. I am writing this for the woman of color in particular who has been telling herself for eight years that the sideline naming thing is just sports parenting, and who has been not entirely sure if it is just sports parenting, and who has not had a Karissa or a Janelle in her life yet to tell her plainly that the variable is the bag. I am writing this for the Iranian-American daughter of immigrants who, like me, was raised by a mother who had been the kind of mother nobody saw in Tehran and Shiraz in the 1970s, and who carried, in her own American adult life, a series of midmarket totes for forty years because she had assumed that the not-being-seen was just how it worked. It is not how it works. There is a bag. If you are about to start a new sports season with one of your kids — fall soccer, fall basketball, fall volleyball, fall cross country, fall band, fall anything that has parents on the side of a field for two hours at a time — If you have been on the sideline of three or four or five teams already and you have been Cyrus's mom or Aiden's mom the entire time — If you have a Karissa in your parent group chat already — a woman who has been on these sidelines longer than you have, who has figured out something you have not, and who is waiting for you to ask her — go ask her on the next sideline you stand on this week. She will tell you. The answer will, if she is being honest, be the bag. They're running a buy-one-get-one right now. Add two to the cart, the second one is free. Karissa told me to order it on a Saturday afternoon in March in the bleachers in Avon. I shipped the second to my sister in Detroit. The way most of us figure out the math of the sideline is that another mom on a sideline tells us, plainly, that the variable is the bag. Get two. Wear one to the next sideline. Send the second to a sister, a cousin, a sister-in-law, a college friend who has been on her own sidelines for eight years and who has been Theo's mom the entire time. She will be Soraya, Mahnaz, Tara, Tina, Marcia, Chioma, Yoon, Aditi, by the third game. So will you. Your move. emmafy.com/bumbag
After 1,400 hours on my kids' soccer sidelines, no parent had asked my name in 8 years. Then I bought the pink-orange bag. I'm Yasmin. I'm 39. I'm a financial advisor at a small firm in Indianapolis. I work part-time, three days a week, because the rest of my life is the lives of three children — Cyrus, who is 12 and plays basketball and baseball; Layla, who is 9 and does competitive gymnastics; and Darius, who is 6 and just started his first season of soccer this spring. My husband Kasra is a software engineer. We met in college at Indiana University. His parents came from Tehran in 1981. My parents came from Shiraz in 1982. We are second-generation Iranian-Americans, which is a thing about us that does not, particularly, come up at the soccer field — although it has, occasionally, in ways I'll get to. I want to start with the math, because the math is the entire reason I am writing this. I sat down at my kitchen table on a Tuesday night in late April with a small notebook and a glass of red wine and I added up the hours. Cyrus has been playing organized sports since he was 5. That is seven years. Two seasons a year — basketball in winter, baseball in spring-summer. Each season averages 12 to 16 games plus weekly practices, plus 2 to 4 tournaments. I attend most games and roughly one in four practices. Layla has been doing gymnastics since she was 4. That is five years. Gymnastics meets are different from team sports — fewer events, but each event is a six-to-eight-hour Saturday in a hotel ballroom or convention center. She has competed in 22 meets in five years. Darius starts his first season of soccer this spring. He has practiced exactly twice as of the night I am writing this. He has not played a game yet. I added up the hours I had spent, in my own physical body, in the bleachers, on the sidelines, in the bouncy-spring chairs at gymnastics meets, in the hotel-conference-room folding chairs, in the back-of-the-soccer-field grass, watching my children do organized sports. The number was approximately 1,400 hours. Fourteen hundred hours is thirty-five forty-hour work weeks. It is, in raw clock time, about eight months of full-time employment. I sat with the number for a few minutes. Then I sat with the second number, which I had not been planning to add up but which the first number had pulled out of me. In those 1,400 hours, on seven different teams across three different sports, with seven different sets of parents, I had been called Yasmin by exactly one other parent. Her name is Karissa. Her son Theo plays on the same basketball team as Cyrus. She has been on the same parent group with me for two seasons. She had asked me my name in November of last year. She had been the first. The other roughly 240 parents I had stood next to on sidelines, sat next to in bleachers, and slept down the hall from at out-of-town tournaments — the parents whose own kids' names I knew, whose own jobs I knew, whose own minivan models I had ridden in for carpool — had, in eight years, never asked me my name. I had been Cyrus's mom on the basketball sideline. I had been Cyrus's mom on the baseball sideline. I had been Layla's mom at the gymnastics meets. I had been, in the parent group chats that were organized by team, the brown one with the dark hair — a sentence I am writing here because it was a thing another mom had once said about me at a baseball tournament in Carmel, with me three feet away, when she was trying to identify which mom was bringing the orange slices. I had been a function for eight years. I had not been a person. I want to write the next part carefully because the next part is the part that has been hardest for me to admit out loud. I had not, in those eight years, told anyone — not Kasra, not my mother, not my sister Soraya, not my best friend Mahnaz from college — that the sideline thing had been wearing on me. Sideline parenting is supposed to be the thing American mothers love. The bleachers, the orange slices, the team snack rotation, the post-game smoothies, the parent group chat. It is supposed to be the texture of a good life. I had been, by every external measure, having the texture of a good life. I had also been, every Saturday and Tuesday and Thursday for eight years, standing in the company of forty other adults on a soccer field or a basketball gymnasium or a baseball diamond, and I had been the brown woman in the back, and I had been called Cyrus's mom and Layla's mom by adults who saw me as a function and who did not, at any point, decide that I was a person worth knowing. I had told myself for eight years that this was just sports parenting. That this was just how it was. That my Iranian face and my brown skin and the slight accent that had been with me since I was six years old when I had moved from Shiraz to Carmel were not, particularly, the reason. That this was just the way it went. I had been telling myself something. I do not, even at 39, know exactly how much of what I had been telling myself had been true. I know that on a Tuesday night in late April, after I added up the 1,400 hours and the one parent named Karissa, I was no longer willing to keep telling it to myself. Karissa is the reason this ad exists. She is 42. She has three kids. Her oldest plays basketball with Cyrus. She is white. She grew up in a small town in southern Indiana and moved to Indianapolis after college. She is, by every measure I have access to, the kind of woman the other sideline moms in our parent group have always called by her first name. She had been wearing a particular bag at every basketball game I had seen her at since November of last year. The bag was a hot-pink-and-orange checkered crossbody. The pink was bright, the orange was bright, the pattern was confident. The bag was visible at fifty yards. It was the kind of bag that announced its wearer in a way I had spent eight years trying not to do. I had been admiring it from across the gym for four months without saying anything. In late March, at a basketball tournament in Avon, the boys had been playing the third game of a three-game day. The other parents were tired. Karissa and I had ended up next to each other in the bleachers during the second quarter. I was watching Cyrus. Karissa was watching Theo. The boys were on the court. I said, finally: "Karissa. I have been wanting to ask you for four months. Where did you find that bag." Karissa turned to me. She looked at me for a second. Then she said: "Yasmin." I said: "Yes?" She said: "Yasmin. I am about to tell you something, and I want you to listen because the last person who told it to me was a woman named Janelle who used to be on this same parent group three years ago and who moved to Indianapolis North side. She told me at a baseball game in 2022. I am going to tell you the same thing she told me. Are you listening?" I said: "I'm listening." She said: "I have been on the sidelines of my three kids' sports for eleven years. In my first eight years, no parent on a sideline ever asked me my first name. I was Theo's mom for eight years. I am also kind of a quiet person. I figured out, around year seven, that the system of sideline parenting in this country is set up to keep you nameless if you do not have a thing about you that another parent wants to know about. So in the fall of 2022, after Janelle told me what I am about to tell you, I bought the loudest bag I could find. The bag is, on purpose, hot pink and orange. It is loud. It is visible at fifty yards. It is, in the language of sideline parenting, a thing about me that another parent might decide to know about. Three weeks after I started wearing it, the first parent on the sidelines asked me where I got the bag. Then she asked me my name. Then she asked me what I did for work. By the end of basketball season that year, six other parents had asked me my name. I am now in year three of being Karissa on the sidelines instead of Theo's mom. The brand is small. They run a buy-one-get-one. Add two to the cart. The second is free. Order yours before Darius's spring season starts. Do not get the cognac one. Do not get the navy one. Get the pink-and-orange. The whole point is that it is loud. The whole point is that the loudness is the variable that the sideline parents respond to. It is not subtle. The system we are inside is also not subtle. The bag is the way out." I said: "Karissa." She said: "Yasmin. I am Karissa. I have known you for two seasons. I have known your name since the parent group chat from October of last year. I have not used your name on the sideline because I figured out, with you, the same thing Janelle figured out with me — which was that you had been being called Cyrus's mom by the other parents for so long that calling you Yasmin in front of them would have felt strange. So I have been waiting. I am waiting for you to give the other parents a reason to learn your name. Order the bag tonight." I sat in the bleachers with Karissa for the rest of the third quarter not saying anything. I went home that night. I ordered the bag at 10:17 PM from my kitchen counter. Add two to the cart. The second one was free. I picked the same hot-pink-and-orange checkered colorway that Karissa had been wearing. I told Kasra what I was doing while I was checking out. He looked at the screen with me. He said: "Babe. Karissa is right. Order it." He said it without elaboration. He had been on those sidelines too, every weekend for eight years, although he had been, as a man, in a slightly different version of the same problem. He had been Cyrus's dad. The dads, at least, all called each other by last name on the sidelines. Kasra had been called Hosseini on the basketball sideline since 2018. He had figured out long before I had that the sideline naming system did not work for everyone equally. The bag arrived on a Wednesday. I unboxed it on the kitchen counter. The pink was brighter than I had expected. The orange was brighter than I had expected. The pattern was, in person, exactly as loud as Karissa had warned. I stood in our kitchen for about ten minutes wearing it before I took it off, because I could not, even in my own kitchen, get used to the visibility of it. Layla, my nine-year-old, walked through the kitchen on her way to the back porch. She stopped. She looked at me. She said: "Mom. That bag is loud." I said: "I know, baby." She said: "Are you going to wear it places." I said: "I'm going to wear it to Darius's first soccer game on Saturday." Layla said: "Mom. The other moms are going to look at you." I said: "I know." She said: "Mom. That's the point, right?" I said: "Yes baby. That's the point." Layla said: "Mom. I think the bag is great. I want one when I am older." She walked out to the back porch. She sat with her book. I packed the bag for Saturday on Friday night. My phone, my wallet, my keys, a tube of lip balm, a small bottle of sunscreen, a packet of fruit snacks for Darius, a small water bottle, the printed roster of Darius's team, Darius's birth certificate copy because Indiana youth soccer requires it for the first match of the season, the team's parent group chat phone numbers in my phone, a small bottle of hand sanitizer, a packet of tissues, a tin of mints, a folded white linen handkerchief. The bag closed. Saturday morning. May 17th. First match of Darius's spring U7 soccer season at Eagle Creek Park, field 4, 9 AM. Kasra was at home with Cyrus and Layla — Cyrus had a baseball game at 1 PM that Kasra would take him to, and Layla had a gymnastics practice that Kasra would take her to before the baseball game. Saturday mornings in our family are tetrised an hour at a time. I was, that morning, the parent assigned to Darius. I drove Darius to the park. I parked at 8:42 AM. I unloaded him from his booster seat. He had on his yellow team jersey, black shorts, the new soccer cleats Kasra and I had bought him two weeks earlier, and his hair done in the careful side-part Kasra had given him at 7:45 AM. He held my hand walking from the parking lot to field 4. The field 4 sideline already had about fifteen sets of parents on it — some standing, some in the blue and green folding chairs they had brought from home. The parents were a mix I recognized from preschool — five or six families I knew vaguely, ten more I did not know. The U7 soccer parent group is fresh. Most of these parents were doing this for the first time, the way I had done basketball with Cyrus seven years ago. I took my place on the sideline at 8:51 AM. I was wearing leggings, a grey athletic quarter-zip, white sneakers, and the hot-pink-and-orange checkered GoFree across my body. My hair was in a high bun. The first thing that happened was that the team mom for Darius's group, a woman named Brittany whom I had met at the registration meeting two weeks earlier, walked up to me from the dugout area. Brittany had been the only parent who had taken the time at the registration meeting to introduce herself to me by name. She had been kind in the way Brittany clearly was kind to everyone, with a slight extra warmth toward the moms she could tell were new. She saw me on the sideline. She walked over. She said: "Yasmin! Hey! How are you holding up — first soccer game! Oh my gosh — your bag. Where did you find that?" I told her. I told her about Karissa. I told her about the BOGO. I did not tell her about the 1,400 hours. The 1,400 hours did not, on this sideline at this moment, need to be brought up. Brittany said: "Oh my god. I love it. Can I see the brand name? I'm going to text it to my sister-in-law in Carmel." She wrote it down on her phone. She looked back up at me. She said: "Hey, by the way — I'm gonna grab Hannah Schultz over here. She lives two streets over from you, I think — she's been wanting to meet you because Darius and her son Aiden have been at the same preschool for two years and she said you guys have never officially met." She walked off. She came back two minutes later with Hannah Schultz. Hannah Schultz was 40, blonde, in a Lululemon zip-up. Aiden was on the field warming up. Hannah said: "Yasmin. So nice to finally meet you. Brittany says we've been at the same preschool for two years and I am embarrassed I have never come up and said hi." I said: "Hannah. Don't be embarrassed. Same." Hannah said: "Also — your bag is incredible. Where is it from." I told her. She wrote it down on her phone. Aiden's first match was about to start. We got our small folding chairs out. We sat next to each other on the sideline. Hannah told me that her older daughter played gymnastics at the same gym as Layla, and that we had probably been in the same observation hallway every Tuesday for two years. The first half of the match was 25 minutes. The boys ran around. Darius scored a goal in the 18th minute by accident — he had been kicking the ball away from his own goal and it had bounced off another kid's leg and gone into the opposite net. He was thrilled. The whole sideline cheered. At halftime I stood up to walk to the cooler and refill my water. A third mom approached me. I had not seen her at preschool. She was Black, mid-thirties, in a navy windbreaker. She said: "Hey. I'm Tiana — Jaylen's mom. He's number 14 on your team. I've been trying to figure out your name since the registration meeting because I saw you across the room and you were wearing this absolutely ridiculous bag and I told my husband I had to know who that woman was. Where did you get this bag?" I said: "I'm Yasmin. Cyrus's mom — and Darius's, now. Darius is the one who scored. The bag is from a small brand." I told her. I told her the same thing I had told Brittany and Hannah. I told her about the BOGO. Tiana wrote it down. She said: "Yasmin, I don't have a sister but I have a best friend in Atlanta who is going to scream when I tell her about this. We have been on each other's sidelines for fifteen years and we have never figured out how to be the moms the other moms know by name." She and I had a ten-minute conversation at the cooler between halves. I learned that she was a pediatric occupational therapist. I learned that she had grown up in Gary. I learned that her husband Marcus was a high school principal. I learned that Jaylen, her son, had been in the same preschool class as my Darius for two years. I had been at the same preschool as Tiana Williams for two years. We had not, in those two years, ever spoken. The bag had, on a Saturday morning in May, gotten us into a ten-minute conversation at a Gatorade cooler. I sat down for the second half next to Hannah. The boys ran around. Darius did not score again, but he intercepted a pass in the 41st minute and he ran with it about ten yards before passing it to a teammate, and the whole sideline cheered. He looked over at me. He waved. I waved back. The bag was on my body. Hannah Schultz was on my left. Tiana Williams was on my right. Brittany was at the team bench. Three other moms whose names I now knew were on the sideline within twenty feet of me. The match ended at 10:14 AM. Darius's team won 4-2. The boys got little Capri Suns. The parents started packing up. Hannah hugged me before she left. Hannah Schultz, who had lived two streets from me for three years and who I had walked past at preschool drop-off forty times, hugged me. Tiana hugged me. Brittany hugged me. I had been on a sideline for two hours. I had been hugged by three other parents. I had been called Yasmin by three other parents. I had been asked where my bag was from by three other parents. I walked Darius back to the car at 10:42 AM. He was holding my hand. He was telling me about the goal he had scored by accident. I buckled him into his booster seat. I closed his door. I walked around to the driver's side. I got in. I sat in the driver's seat at 10:46 AM with the bag on the passenger seat next to me and I cried for about three minutes. Darius did not notice. He was looking at his Capri Sun. He was telling the Capri Sun about the goal. I cried because Karissa had been right. I cried because for eight years I had been telling myself that the sideline naming thing was just sports parenting, and Karissa had told me three weeks ago that it was the bag, and the bag — a hot-pink-and-orange checkered crossbody from a small brand — had, in two hours on a sideline at Eagle Creek Park field 4 on a Saturday in May, gotten three other moms to ask me my name. Three. In two hours. In eight previous years, on seven previous teams, across three previous sports, in roughly 1,400 previous hours of sideline parenting, the count had been one. The math had been the bag. The math had been the bag the entire time. Karissa had figured it out in 2022. Janelle had figured it out before her. I had figured it out at 10:46 AM on a Saturday in May 2026. Tiana, who I had told about Karissa and Janelle that morning at the cooler, was going to figure it out for her own sister-in-law in Atlanta the following week, because she had ordered the bag from her phone in the parking lot before driving home. I texted Karissa from the parking lot at 10:51 AM. "Three asked me my name in two hours. The bag is the entire problem." Karissa wrote back at 10:53 AM. "Yasmin. Welcome to year three of being Yasmin instead of Cyrus's mom. It only gets better from here." I want to tell you what has happened on the sidelines since. I have been to nine more soccer games of Darius's. I have been called Yasmin by, at this point, fourteen different parents on the U7 sideline. I am, in the U7 parent group chat, Yasmin (Darius's mom) — listed by my own first name first, with my son's name in parentheses. The parenthetical is the thing that has changed. I had been Cyrus's mom in seven previous group chats. I am Yasmin (Darius's mom) in this one. The difference is the parenthesis. I have been to four basketball games of Cyrus's since the soccer season started. I have been wearing the bag to those too. Three of the basketball moms — moms I had been on a sideline with for seven years — asked me my name in March, April, and May. They had known Cyrus for seven years. They had not, in seven years, asked me my name. In three months, with the bag, they did. I want to write the next sentence carefully because the next sentence is the part of this ad that I have been thinking about every day for the last three weeks. The basketball moms had been waiting for me to give them a reason to ask me my name, the same way Karissa had told me back in March. I had thought, for seven years, that I had been waiting for them to decide I was worth asking. I had been wrong. They had been waiting for me to walk onto the sideline carrying something that gave them a way in. The bag had been the way in. The way in had not, in seven years, been my Iranian face, my brown skin, my slight accent, my last name. The way in had been a hot-pink-and-orange checkered crossbody from a small brand. I do not, even now, know if I think this is good news or bad news. I know that it is news, and that the news has changed the texture of my Saturdays. I gave the second BOGO bag to my sister Soraya. Soraya is 36. She has two daughters in suburban Detroit. Soraya had been on her own sidelines for six years. I shipped her the bag with a handwritten note that read: "Soraya. The sidelines are sideline-able. Karissa was right. Order Layla's gymnastics meet schedule and wear it to the next one. — Yasmin." Soraya called me from a gymnastics meet in Troy three Saturdays after the bag arrived. She said: "Yasmin." I said: "Yes." She said: "I am at the meet. Two moms have asked me my name in the last hour. I was Mahsa's mom for six years. I am Soraya now. I am sitting in a folding chair in a hotel ballroom in Troy and I am crying." I said: "I know." She said: "Yasmin. Why is this the thing. Why is this how this works." I said: "I don't know. Karissa said Janelle figured it out first. Janelle said somebody else figured it out before her. I think it is just how the sidelines have always worked. We just did not know."* Soraya said: "We are going to tell every Iranian-American mom we know." I said: "We are going to tell every mom we know." I want to be clear about who I am writing this for. I am writing this for the sideline mom of any background — Iranian, Lebanese, Indian, Mexican, Black, Korean, Vietnamese, white, Jewish, Catholic, anything — who has been on a sideline for five or eight or eleven years and who has been called Cyrus's mom or Aiden's mom or the gymnastics mom by the same forty other parents the entire time, and who has not yet figured out that the sideline naming system rewards visibility and not virtue. I am writing this for the woman of color in particular who has been telling herself for eight years that the sideline naming thing is just sports parenting, and who has been not entirely sure if it is just sports parenting, and who has not had a Karissa or a Janelle in her life yet to tell her plainly that the variable is the bag. I am writing this for the Iranian-American daughter of immigrants who, like me, was raised by a mother who had been the kind of mother nobody saw in Tehran and Shiraz in the 1970s, and who carried, in her own American adult life, a series of midmarket totes for forty years because she had assumed that the not-being-seen was just how it worked. It is not how it works. There is a bag. If you are about to start a new sports season with one of your kids — fall soccer, fall basketball, fall volleyball, fall cross country, fall band, fall anything that has parents on the side of a field for two hours at a time — If you have been on the sideline of three or four or five teams already and you have been Cyrus's mom or Aiden's mom the entire time — If you have a Karissa in your parent group chat already — a woman who has been on these sidelines longer than you have, who has figured out something you have not, and who is waiting for you to ask her — go ask her on the next sideline you stand on this week. She will tell you. The answer will, if she is being honest, be the bag. They're running a buy-one-get-one right now. Add two to the cart, the second one is free. Karissa told me to order it on a Saturday afternoon in March in the bleachers in Avon. I shipped the second to my sister in Detroit. The way most of us figure out the math of the sideline is that another mom on a sideline tells us, plainly, that the variable is the bag. Get two. Wear one to the next sideline. Send the second to a sister, a cousin, a sister-in-law, a college friend who has been on her own sidelines for eight years and who has been Theo's mom the entire time. She will be Soraya, Mahnaz, Tara, Tina, Marcia, Chioma, Yoon, Aditi, by the third game. So will you. Your move. emmafy.com/bumbag
Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Frankfurt to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼
Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼 | Fly direct from Munich to Bodø this season✈️ This is some of what you can expect 👉🏼
LET THERE BE ROCK!!! We're serving up a sermon like no other. Here to preach the good word of rock n' roll and heavy metal!! 🤘🏻🔥💯🖤💜 Vicki’s Dream is honored to perform for a SPECIAL AFTER PARTY SET for the 1st annual Sunday Sermon on Sunday, May 3rd at @fishheadcantina & Rockin’ Sushi Bar in Halethorpe, MD. 🤘🏻🔥💯🖤💜 This lineup is stacked with killer bands: 🦅 @spreadeaglenyc 🐀 Rat Rod 🐀 @racetheratband 🍀@bitterluckband …and when the main event ends, we keep the night alive. 🤘🏻🔥💯🖤💜 Stay late for an exclusive Vicki’s Dream after-party performance full of heart pounding heavy post-apocalyptic rock, and the kind of goth-metal ritual you already know we bring. 🤘🏻🔥💯🖤💜 🕐 Doors: 1 PM 🎶 Music: 2 PM 📍 Fish Head Cantina – Halethorpe, MD 🎟 Tickets available in link in Bio. Maryland family, we need you there for this one. Let’s turn the after-party into a full-on midnight sermon. 🤘🏻🔥💯🖤💜
Fifteen days. Multiple regions. Time to work the light—and the birds. Our King Vulture Venture – January 2026 bird photography tour wrapped up with 219 species recorded, including unforgettable encounters with King Vulture, Ornate Hawk-Eagle, Resplendent Quetzal, and Costa Rica endemics like the Coppery-headed Emerald. This trip was built around pacing, patience, and photography—less rushing, more time with birds when conditions were right. Read the full trip report: King Vulture Venture – January 2026: https://www.costaricafocus.com/king-vulture-venture-2026-trip-report-15-days-of-bird-photography-in-costa-rica/?utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=post&utm_campaign=courtship
2022 Santa Cruz Hightower XXL – FOX 36 / GX Eagle / SLX 4 Pot – Trail Ready Price: £2,750 ONO Location: Bristol, UK Size: XXL Wheel Size: 29” Travel: 150mm front / 145mm rear Selling my 2022 Santa Cruz Hightower (XXL). Brilliant all-rounder – climbs efficiently and is very capable on technical descents. Well-specced, reliable build and ready to ride. Spec: Fork: FOX 36 Float Performance, 150mm (27+) Shock: RockShox Super Deluxe Select+ Brakes: Shimano SLX M7120 4-piston Drivetrain: SRAM Eagle 12-speed Crankset: SRAM GX Eagle, 30t, 175mm Dropper Post: Brand-X Ascend, 170mm Headset: Cane Creek 40 IS Integrated Stem: Race Face Aeffect R, 50mm Handlebar: Race Face Aeffect R, 780mm, 20mm rise Grips: Deity Saddle: WTB Volt Race Pedals: Horizon SPD Wheels & Tyres: Front Hub: Novatec D641 – 15x110mm Rear Hub: Novatec D642 (XD) – 12x148mm Rear Rim: DT Swiss EX 511 Front Rim: RaceFace AR27 Rotors: Trickstuff Heavy Duty Disc Brake Rotor 180mm Tubeless setup with Effetto TyreInvader Tyre Inserts Tyres: Maxxis Minion DHF 29x2.30 (front) Maxxis Minion DHR II 29x2.40WT (rear) Condition: Invisiframed from new. Good used condition with typical cosmetic marks from riding. No dents or cracks. Mechanically sound and well maintained – ready to ride. Reason for sale: Only selling due to advice from the doctor following some major shoulder surgery, selling to fund a lighter XC bike. Shipping / Collection: Collection preferred (Bristol) Can ship within UK at buyer’s expense Message for more info or photos. Learn more about this listing on Facebook Marketplace: https://facebook.com/marketplace/item/1010912208777259/ | 2022 Santa Cruz Hightower XXL – FOX 36 / GX Eagle / SLX 4 Pot – Trail Ready Price: £2,750 ONO Location: Bristol, UK Size: XXL Wheel Size: 29” Travel: 150mm front / 145mm rear Selling my 2022 Santa Cruz Hightower (XXL). Brilliant all-rounder – climbs efficiently and is very capable on technical descents. Well-specced, reliable build and ready to ride. Spec: Fork: FOX 36 Float Performance, 150mm (27+) Shock: RockShox Super Deluxe Select+ Brakes: Shimano SLX M7120 4-piston Drivetrain: SRAM Eagle 12-speed Crankset: SRAM GX Eagle, 30t, 175mm Dropper Post: Brand-X Ascend, 170mm Headset: Cane Creek 40 IS Integrated Stem: Race Face Aeffect R, 50mm Handlebar: Race Face Aeffect R, 780mm, 20mm rise Grips: Deity Saddle: WTB Volt Race Pedals: Horizon SPD Wheels & Tyres: Front Hub: Novatec D641 – 15x110mm Rear Hub: Novatec D642 (XD) – 12x148mm Rear Rim: DT Swiss EX 511 Front Rim: RaceFace AR27 Rotors: Trickstuff Heavy Duty Disc Brake Rotor 180mm Tubeless setup with Effetto TyreInvader Tyre Inserts Tyres: Maxxis Minion DHF 29x2.30 (front) Maxxis Minion DHR II 29x2.40WT (rear) Condition: Invisiframed from new. Good used condition with typical cosmetic marks from riding. No dents or cracks. Mechanically sound and well maintained – ready to ride. Reason for sale: Only selling due to advice from the doctor following some major shoulder surgery, selling to fund a lighter XC bike. Shipping / Collection: Collection preferred (Bristol) Can ship within UK at buyer’s expense Message for more info or photos. Learn more about this listing on Facebook Marketplace: https://facebook.com/marketplace/item/1010912208777259/
Earn £6,500 Scholarship by simply ↪️Sharing this post!🎓 🔥We already helped over 4650 students to start University in the UK🇬🇧
The Simplest AI Business Models to Start Fast & Easy Click "Watch more" to see the full video
You’ve seen the map. But did you understand what it’s showing you? OptionsDepth reframes how serious traders track positioning. 📊 Real-time exposure by participant type 📈 Gamma & charm heatmaps to spot pressure ⚙️ No fluff. No noise. Just the structure that moves price. With access to a private Discord community where 400+ traders worldwide share deeper insights and results. You don’t need a new setup. You need better intelligence. Use LAUNCH50 for 50% off your first 2 months. Tap below to unlock the offer and get back in with visibility. | You’ve seen the map. But did you understand what it’s showing you? OptionsDepth reframes how serious traders track positioning. 📊 Real-time exposure by participant type 📈 Gamma & charm heatmaps to spot pressure ⚙️ No fluff. No noise. Just the structure that moves price. With access to a private Discord community where 400+ traders worldwide share deeper insights and results. You don’t need a new setup. You need better intelligence. Use LAUNCH50 for 50% off your first 2 months. Tap below to unlock the offer and get back in with visibility. | You’ve seen the map. But did you understand what it’s showing you? OptionsDepth reframes how serious traders track positioning. 📊 Real-time exposure by participant type 📈 Gamma & charm heatmaps to spot pressure ⚙️ No fluff. No noise. Just the structure that moves price. With access to a private Discord community where 400+ traders worldwide share deeper insights and results. You don’t need a new setup. You need better intelligence. Use LAUNCH50 for 50% off your first 2 months. Tap below to unlock the offer and get back in with visibility. | You’ve seen the map. But did you understand what it’s showing you? OptionsDepth reframes how serious traders track positioning. 📊 Real-time exposure by participant type 📈 Gamma & charm heatmaps to spot pressure ⚙️ No fluff. No noise. Just the structure that moves price. With access to a private Discord community where 400+ traders worldwide share deeper insights and results. You don’t need a new setup. You need better intelligence. Use LAUNCH50 for 50% off your first 2 months. Tap below to unlock the offer and get back in with visibility.