Steve Harvey stood center stage, holding his microphone like a preacher holding a Bible.

“They say, ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way,’” he began.

“And there’s no better example of that than my next guest.”

The screen behind him lit up.

A little girl flipped across the monitor.

Then another flip.

Then a landing so solid you could hear the thud through the speakers.

“At eleven years old,” Steve said, “she is truly breaking boundaries.”

The video played.

Averie Mitchell, Oklahoma. Two years old when her leg was amputated.

Nine years since the prosthetic limb was fitted.

Nine years of proving everyone wrong.

The footage showed her on beam. On floor. On bars.

Her prosthetic leg moved like it had always been there – because in her mind, it had.

“I don’t feel like an inspiration,” Averie said in the video.

“But if I am an inspiration to other people – that makes me happy.”

The audience shifted in their seats.

Not because they were uncomfortable.

Because they were already leaning in.

Already rooting for a girl they hadn’t even met yet.

“In classic southern style,” Steve’s voiceover continued, “Averie doesn’t waste one second of time feeling sorry for herself.”

Cut to Averie, staring straight into the camera.

“This is how it’s gonna be,” she said. “And I’ve just gotta deal with it. That’s how I think of everything.”

The video showed her bedroom.

Medals everywhere.

Dozens of them.

State meets. Regional meets. National qualifying meets.

“With a bedroom already full of medals,” Steve said, “this eleven-year-old has the Olympics in her sights.”

Then Averie’s voice again.

“If you have a prosthetic leg, don’t let it be a wall. Let it be an advantage.”

She smiled.

“Because you can’t break this leg. Well – you can. But it won’t hurt as bad.”

The audience erupted.

The lights came up.

Steve waved toward the curtain.

“Hey, everybody, please welcome gymnast Averie Mitchell!”

The music hit.

And out walked an eleven-year-old girl with a prosthetic leg, a leotard, and a smile that could light up Oklahoma City.

She walked right to center stage.

Didn’t limp. Didn’t hesitate.

Walked like she owned the place.

Because in her world – she did.

“Hey Averie, how you doing?” Steve asked.

“Good.”

“Welcome to the show.”

She sat down in the guest chair like she’d been doing this her whole life.

Because in a way, she had.

Not talk shows.

But performing.

Competing.

Standing in front of people who expected her to fail – and then proving them wrong.

“Most people would say, ‘Look, I only got one leg. I can’t possibly be a gymnast,’” Steve said.

“When you think about your situation, your disability – what goes through your head?”

Averie didn’t blink.

“Well, if you really just put your mind to it, and you think you can do it – you can.”

She leaned forward.

“If you have one leg, two legs, one arm, two arms – if you put your mind to it, and you say you can do it – you can do it.”

The audience applauded.

Not the polite applause.

The kind that comes from the gut.

That was the first hinge.

Because Averie wasn’t talking about gymnastics.

She was talking about everything.

School. Friends. Life.

The thing that most people use as an excuse – she had turned into a launchpad.

And she was eleven years old.

“Do you feel like judges treat you differently?” Steve asked.

“No.”

She said it like the answer was obvious.

“Because we’ve made sure they don’t treat me differently. I really don’t have a disadvantage. So they don’t need to treat me differently.”

Steve blinked.

The audience blinked.

Averie just sat there.

Because she meant every word.

“What grade you in?”

“Sixth.”

“You like school? You love school?”

Averie made a face.

“Hm.”

Steve laughed.

“You don’t like? Mm.”

“Mm,” Averie agreed.

“My girl, yeah. Tell the truth.”

The audience laughed.

“I’m not – you know, look,” Steve said. “You gotta go to school. You gotta get your education. ‘Cause without an education, you don’t know nothing.”

Averie sighed.

“Sadly.”

“Hey, you recently competed in the nationals against able-bodied gymnasts. How’d you do?”

Averie’s face lit up.

“I got third on beam. And tenth overall.”

The audience cheered.

Not because tenth overall is a participation trophy.

Because tenth overall at nationals – against able-bodied gymnasts – with one leg – is a miracle.

And Averie made it look easy.

“What do you wanna be when you get older?” Steve asked.

“Well, I would like to be a physical therapist. But I also want to compete in the Olympics.”

Steve’s eyebrows went up.

“Really?”

The audience cheered again.

“So, do you watch gymnastics all the time?”

“Yes. As often as I can.”

“Who’s your favorite gymnast?”

Averie didn’t hesitate.

“Laurie Hernandez.”

Steve grinned.

“Laurie Hernandez. Oh, I met her before.”

The audience applauded.

“Yeah, I’ve actually met her before. She’s a real nice lady. We were shooting on the same lot where they were shooting ‘Dancing with the Stars.’ Did you see her on ‘Dancing with the Stars’?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, duh, duh.”

Steve leaned in.

“Why do you look up to Laurie so much?”

Averie thought about it.

“I don’t know. She just does everything so perfectly. And she also has a lot of personality when she does stuff.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You are just too sweet,” Steve said. “You know that?”

Then Steve did something that made the audience hold its breath.

He looked at the curtain.

“Everybody, please welcome – 2016 Olympic gold medalist – Laurie Hernandez.”

The music changed.

And Laurie Hernandez walked out.

Gold medal around her neck. Smile wide. Arms open.

Averie’s hands flew to her face.

“Oh my goodness!”

Laurie walked straight to her.

“Hello!”

“Hi!”

They hugged like old friends.

Like they’d known each other forever.

Averie was shaking.

Not from cold.

From pure, unfiltered joy.

“Look at your medals,” Laurie said. “That is something else.”

She sat down next to Averie.

“I was listening to your story back there. You are just so inspiring.”

“Thank you.”

“So thank you,” Laurie said. “This is so cool!”

“This is really cool,” Averie whispered.

That was the second hinge.

Because Laurie Hernandez didn’t have to be there.

She was an Olympic gold medalist. A Dancing with the Stars champion. A bestselling author.

She had every excuse to send a video message and call it a day.

But she came.

In person.

To meet an eleven-year-old girl from Oklahoma who reminded her of herself.

“Laurie, lemme ask you something, doll,” Steve said.

“When you watch Averie – do you think she has what it takes to be a champion?”

Laurie didn’t hesitate.

“Absolutely.”

She turned to Averie.

“The fact that you’ve used this as an advantage for you – that is already a change in perspective. I mean, you have the mindset of a champion. That’s all that matters.”

The audience applauded.

Averie was still shaking.

“You’re just shaking, yeah,” Steve said.

Laurie nodded.

“Whenever I get nervous, you get butterflies because of a lack of oxygen. It just leaves your body, yeah.”

“Really?” Averie asked.

“Yeah. And so, what you gotta do to calm the nerves – you have to take very deliberate, deep breaths. You gotta blow it out purposefully, and pull it in. ‘Cause your body gets so tense, it quits breathing. And then that’s when your body just starts trippin’.”

Steve laughed.

“She said trippin’. That’s cool, come on.”

“Yeah, listen,” Laurie said.

“That’s a regular word in my vocabulary,” Steve said.

“Hey, now, lemme say this in front of Laurie,” Steve said.

“Because at tournaments, you can often be seen giving yourself a pep talk. How important is a positive mental attitude?”

Averie sat up straight.

“It is extremely important. It’s the deciding factor in how far you’ll go in anything that you do.”

She counted on her fingers.

“Whether that be sports. Whether that be a hobby. Whether that be a job that you’ve pursued.”

She looked at Laurie.

“It’s important to have that mental toughness. And to be able to look at something and say, ‘You know, where can I find the good in this?’”

Laurie smiled.

“Wow.”

 

 

 

 

“And that’s what you do, pumpkin,” Steve said.

“So, Averie,” Steve said. “What would you like to say to your hero?”

Averie took a breath.

“Well, you’ve always been an inspiration to me. And I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

Her voice cracked.

“Thank you for being here today.”

Laurie’s hand went to her chest.

“Oh, my heart.”

The audience applauded.

Laurie wiped her eye.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Yeah, and you’re also about to host ‘American Ninja Warrior Junior,’” Steve said to Laurie.

“I am, thank you.”

“Wow!”

Steve looked at Averie.

“Well, what about this? What do you think of Averie maybe taking a shot at becoming an American Ninja Warrior?”

Laurie grabbed Averie’s arm.

“Yes! Totally! You could totally do it! Oh my goodness!”

The audience cheered.

“Boy, you got every little bone in her body shaking right now,” Steve said.

Averie was trembling.

“I’m just feeling – hang in there, girl. It’s all right.”

“Hey, listen,” Steve said. “We gon’ take a quick break – but we have a balance beam here.”

The audience gasped.

“Y’all wanna see Averie in action?”

The cheering was deafening.

“Are you ready to show us a little bit of your routine?”

Averie nodded.

“All right, take it away, Averie.”

The music started.

Averie walked to the balance beam.

Four inches wide. Four feet high.

The same beam that haunts grown gymnasts in their nightmares.

She put her hands on it.

Hopped up.

And then she moved.

A leap.

A turn.

A back handspring.

Her prosthetic leg swung through the air like it had never known anything different.

Every landing was solid.

Every move was precise.

The audience was on their feet before she even finished.

“You better!” Steve shouted.

“That was awesome!”

“You nailed it!”

Laurie was jumping up and down.

“It was so good! Oh, that was so good!”

Averie stepped off the beam.

Didn’t stumble.

Didn’t celebrate.

Just stood there, breathing.

Like she’d done it a thousand times.

Because she had.

“Laurie,” Steve said. “How you think she did?”

Laurie was still smiling.

“I think I give her a ten.”

The audience cheered.

“High five, girl! I see you. That’s pretty good.”

Averie high-fived Laurie.

Then Laurie pulled her in for another hug.

“So good!”

“Averie, thank you so much for being here,” Steve said.

“Thanks for having me.”

“I know you don’t think you’re an inspiration – but lemme tell you something. You are inspiring people by the millions.”

The audience applauded.

“You have truly answered your calling in life. You’re doing your thing, girl.”

He looked at the camera.

“And you know what? I got a feeling we might see this girl in them Olympics. You know what I’m saying?”

The audience erupted.

“And, Laurie,” Steve said. “I was talking to Laurie on the break, and I hear that you’ve decided to compete in the 2020 Olympics.”

“That’s the goal, yes.”

The audience cheered again.

“Whoo!”

“Also, everybody, in the meantime, you can catch Laurie on ‘American Ninja Warrior Junior’ on Universal Kids. And pick up her children’s book, ‘She’s Got This,’ available in stores now.”

He put his hands together.

“Big hand for Averie. Big hand for Laurie. Everybody, we’ll be right back.”

The prosthetic leg became the ghost of the story.

Not because anyone stared at it.

Because Averie refused to let it be the point.

Three times in that interview, she redirected the conversation.

First, when Steve asked about her disability – “If you put your mind to it, you can do it.”

Second, when he asked about judges – “I really don’t have a disadvantage.”

Third, when Laurie talked about mindset – “It’s the deciding factor in how far you’ll go.”

The leg wasn’t a wall.

It wasn’t even a window.

It was just a leg.

And Averie had places to go.

The numbers told the truth.

Two years old when the amputation happened.

Nine years of living with a prosthetic limb.

Sixth grade.

Third place on beam at nationals.

Tenth overall.

One Olympic gold medalist in the audience.

One balance beam on national television.

Zero excuses.

The medals in her bedroom weren’t just decorations.

They were receipts.

Proof that hard work beats hardware every time.

Proof that an eleven-year-old from Oklahoma could stand on the same stage as an Olympic champion – and look her in the eye.

Not as a fan.

As a peer.

Because that’s what Averie Mitchell is.

Not a sob story.

Not an inspiration.

A gymnast.

Laurie Hernandez didn’t cry on stage.

But she came close.

Because she saw herself in Averie.

The same fire. The same focus. The same refusal to be defined by what she didn’t have.

Laurie had her gold medal.

Averie was still reaching for hers.

But Laurie knew – the way champions know – that Averie would get there.

Not because of the leg.

Because of the heart.

“You have the mindset of a champion,” Laurie said.

“That’s all that matters.”

She was right.

Mindset is the only thing that separates the people who make it from the people who wonder what happened.

Averie figured that out before she turned twelve.

Most people never figure it out at all.

The balance beam is still four inches wide.

It hasn’t changed.

But every time Averie steps onto it, she changes the people watching.

Kids with prosthetics see her and think: I could do that.

Parents see her and think: My child could do that.

Adults see her and think: What’s my excuse?

And that’s the point.

Not the medals.

Not the television appearances.

The ripple.

Averie doesn’t think she’s an inspiration.

That’s what makes her one.

Because inspiration isn’t something you claim.

It’s something other people feel when they watch you live your life without apology.

Averie lives her life.

Full speed.

No apologies.

And the world watches.

And the world changes.

The Olympics are still years away.

But Averie is already training.

Already competing.

Already proving that the only disability that matters is the one you accept.

She hasn’t accepted anything except the truth:

This is how it’s gonna be – and I’ve just gotta deal with it.

But here’s the thing about Averie Mitchell.

She doesn’t just deal with it.

She dominates it.

The camera cut to black.

The audience filed out.

Laurie and Averie stayed on stage for another twenty minutes.

Talking. Laughing. Taking pictures.

Laurie gave Averie her phone number.

“Text me,” she said. “When you make the Olympic team. I want to be there.”

Averie nodded.

She didn’t cry.

She was too busy smiling.

“If you have a prosthetic leg, don’t let it be a wall.”

Averie said that on national television.

But she wasn’t just talking about prosthetic legs.

She was talking about every wall.

Every excuse.

Every reason people give themselves for not trying.

Don’t let it be a wall.

Let it be an advantage.

Because you can’t break this leg.

And even if you could – it wouldn’t hurt as bad as giving up.

Steve Harvey has interviewed hundreds of guests.

Presidents. Legends. Survivors.

But he’ll tell you – Averie Mitchell is one of the ones he’ll never forget.

Not because of the prosthetic leg.

Because of the will.

The will to get up every morning and choose hard over easy.

The will to stand on a balance beam in front of millions of people and say watch this.

The will to look an Olympic gold medalist in the eye and thank her – not for the inspiration, but for showing up.

Averie Mitchell is eleven years old.

She has one leg.

And she is going to the Olympics.

Not because of the leg.

In spite of it.

But really – because of her.

Because of who she is.

Because of who she decided to be.

And because she figured out, at eleven years old, what most people never figure out at all:

This is how it’s gonna be.

So I’ve just gotta deal with it.

And then she went out and dealt with it.

Better than anyone expected.

Better than anyone could expect.

Because Averie Mitchell doesn’t meet expectations.

She shatters them.

One flip at a time.