WOMR International Women's Day, Monday, March 8, 2027

09/13/2026

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In 1962, Eunice Kennedy Shriver opened her backyard.

She invited children with intellectual disabilities to swim, play sports, and simply enjoy being kids. The reaction from some neighbors was immediate and harsh. Complaints were filed with authorities. People objected to "those children" being brought into the neighborhood. Property values were cited. Discomfort was expressed loudly.

Eunice didn't move an inch.

From the outside, she had been born into American royalty. July 10, 1921, Brookline, Massachusetts. The fifth of nine children in the Kennedy family, a dynasty that would produce a president, senators, and ambassadors. The household gleamed with power and privilege.

But inside that family was a quiet heartbreak that would shape her entire life.

Her sister Rosemary struggled with developmental challenges from childhood. Learning was difficult. Speech came slowly. Tasks other children found easy required tremendous effort from her. In the 1920s and 1930s, society had almost no compassion for this. Families were encouraged to hide such children away, institutionalize them, or simply pretend they did not exist.

Then in 1941, something unthinkable happened.

Their father, Joseph Kennedy Sr., approved an experimental lobotomy for Rosemary without consulting his wife or most of his children. He believed it would calm her behavioral difficulties. The surgery was catastrophic. Rosemary survived, but lost much of her ability to speak and live independently. She was quietly moved to a residential care facility, and for years the family rarely spoke of her publicly.

But one sister refused to forget.

Eunice carried Rosemary with her every single day.

While her brothers pursued political office, including John F. Kennedy's path to the presidency, Eunice studied social work at Stanford and went to work in juvenile justice programs within the U.S. government. Through that work she saw the same pattern repeating itself everywhere she looked. People with intellectual disabilities excluded from schools, locked out of parks and playgrounds, warehoused in institutions. Treated not as people but as problems to be managed and hidden.

She believed that had to change.

So she opened her backyard.

That summer program in Potomac, Maryland was called Camp Shriver. The idea was straightforward. Invite children with intellectual disabilities to play, compete, swim, and experience childhood like any other kids. To Eunice, they were not burdens requiring management.

They were athletes waiting for their chance.

She also made a decision that stunned her famous family. She publicly shared Rosemary's story in an article for The Saturday Evening Post, breaking the silence the Kennedys had maintained for decades. She believed secrecy created shame. She believed the truth could change how the world saw an entire group of people.

She used her family's political reach too. When her brother became president, she encouraged him to establish the President's Panel on Mental Retardation, helping launch federal programs that had never existed before.

But policy wasn't enough.

She wanted celebration. She wanted the world to see the courage and ability of people who had been invisible for too long.

On July 20, 1968, the first Special Olympics opened in Chicago.

Around 1,000 athletes from 26 U.S. states and Canada gathered to compete in track, swimming, and floor hockey. Before competition began, they recited a pledge that would define the entire movement for generations to come:

"Let me win. But if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt."

That was the heart of everything Eunice had built.

Not pity. Opportunity.

Today the Special Olympics serves more than 5.5 million athletes across over 190 countries. But the numbers only tell part of the story. Before Eunice Kennedy Shriver's work, families felt pressure to hide children with disabilities from the world. Afterward, parents stood on the sidelines and cheered. Before Special Olympics, intellectual disability was seen as pure limitation. Afterward, the world began to witness courage, determination, and real talent.

In 1995, Rosemary Kennedy attended a Special Olympics event and watched athletes with disabilities compete proudly from the stands. Something she herself had never been given the chance to do.

The sister whose life had been hidden helped light the spark for a movement that brought millions into the light.

Eunice Kennedy Shriver died on August 11, 2009, at age 88. She received the Presidential Medal of Freedom. But her real legacy has nothing to do with medals.

It lives in every athlete who crosses a finish line.

It lives in every family that cheers without shame.

And it all started in a backyard in Maryland, where neighbors once called the police.

Because one sister refused to forget another.



~The History Today

09/12/2026

She was bought and sold seven times in three months. Then, she stood up before the United Nations, forced the world to look her in the eye, and became a Nobel Peace Prize winner.

August 3, 2014.

Kocho, Iraq.

Nadia Murad was 21 when ISIS surrounded her Yazidi village.

What followed was genocide.

Men and boys were taken away and executed.

Six of Nadia’s brothers were killed.

Her mother was murdered and buried in a mass grave.

Nadia was taken.

In Mosul, she became property in the eyes of her captors.

Bought.

Sold.

Traded seven times in ninety days.

She was beaten, burned, and repeatedly sexually assaulted.

When Nadia tried to escape, she was caught.

The punishment was horrific.

Six men gang-raped her until she lost consciousness.

She was beaten until she couldn’t walk.

They wanted to destroy her spirit.

They failed.

In November 2014, Nadia saw an unlocked door.

She ran.

A local Muslim family risked their lives to hide her and help her escape ISIS territory.

Eventually, Nadia reached a refugee camp.

Then Germany.

She was finally free.

She could have disappeared into a quiet life.

Instead, she spoke.

In December 2015, Nadia stood before the UN Security Council.

She was 22.

Her words were fearless.

She described girls being sold like cattle.

Mothers murdered.

A culture being erased.

The world listened.

In 2016, the UN recognized the genocide against the Yazidis.

But Nadia wasn’t finished.

She turned survival into action.

In 2018, she founded Nadia’s Initiative, helping rebuild villages, schools, and clinics while supporting survivors seeking justice.

That same year, at 25, Nadia became the first Iraqi woman to receive the Nobel Peace Prize.

The world applauded.

Nadia looked toward those still captive.

For her, that was the prize that mattered—

their freedom.

She continues speaking for the thousands killed and those still missing.

Every telling carries pain.

But silence carries a cost too.

Nadia transformed suffering into purpose.

Trauma into testimony.

Survival into a demand for justice.

ISIS tried to reduce her to property.

History remembers her by her name.

Nadia Murad.

Not because she escaped what happened—

but because she survived, stood before the world, and refused to let silence have the final word.

08/18/2026

"In the summer of 1933, a fifteen-year-old girl sat beside her grandfather's bed and watched him die.
Not quickly. Not peacefully.
Slowly. Painfully. Month after month, as stomach cancer took everything from him — his strength, his voice, his presence — while doctors stood nearby with nothing to offer.
Her name was Gertrude Belle Elion. And in that hospital room, something shifted inside her forever.
She made a quiet promise to herself: no one should have to suffer like that. Not if she could do something about it.
So she did something about it.
Born on January 23, 1918, in New York City, to Jewish immigrant parents who had crossed an ocean with almost nothing, Gertrude grew up understanding that nothing came easy — and that education was the one thing no one could take from you. Her father had worked his way through dental school. Her mother had arrived in America at fourteen. They built something from nothing, and they raised a daughter who believed she could do the same.
Gertrude was not just a good student. She was remarkable. She skipped two grades. She graduated high school at fifteen. She devoured every subject she touched, with what she later called an insatiable appetite for learning. She enrolled at Hunter College — the free women's college of the City University of New York — because her family's savings had been wiped out in the 1929 stock market crash, and free tuition was the only way forward.
She chose chemistry. She chose it deliberately, with a clear and burning purpose: to find a way to cure cancer.
By 1937, at just nineteen years old, she graduated summa cm laude and Phi Beta Kappa — the highest academic honors possible. She was talented, focused, and ready to change the world.
The world, however, was not ready for her.
She applied to fifteen graduate schools seeking funding to continue her studies. Fifteen. Not one offered her a single dollar. She was told, directly and without apology, that laboratories did not hire women. The doors weren't just closed — they were locked.
Most people would have walked away.
Gertrude did not walk away.
She spent time in secretarial school because it was the only door open to her. She took a short-term teaching position. She accepted an unpaid laboratory role just to stay close to science. After a year and a half of working without pay, she was earning twenty dollars a week.
She kept going.
In 1939, she enrolled in night classes at New York University, earning her Master of Science degree in 1941 — while teaching high school science during the day. She was the only woman in her classes. Every single one.
Then came a small crack of light.
World War II had pulled most male chemists away from their laboratories. Doors that had been bolted shut for women began, reluctantly, to open just a little. In 1944, Gertrude joined a company called Burroughs Wellcome as a laboratory assistant to a biochemist named George Hitchings.
It would turn out to be one of the most important partnerships in the history of medicine.
Hitchings saw immediately what fifteen graduate schools had failed to see: this woman was not merely competent. She was extraordinary.
Together, they pursued something radical. Instead of discovering medicines by trial and error — testing thousands of compounds and hoping something worked — they studied disease at the molecular level. They asked: how do diseased cells reproduce differently from healthy ones? And then they built drugs designed to target exactly that difference.
It was precise. It was scientific. And it was decades ahead of its time.
While working full days in the laboratory, Gertrude also continued studying at Brooklyn Polytechnic Institute, commuting long distances for night classes. She was closing in on her doctorate — the credential the world had told her she needed.
Then came an impossible choice.
In 1946, she was told she could no longer study part-time. She would have to leave her job entirely to complete her PhD.
She chose her research.
She walked away from the doctoral title. She stayed in the laboratory. And she changed medicine forever.
In 1950 and 1951, Gertrude synthesized a compound called 6-mercaptopurine — 6-MP. It became the first drug shown to effectively treat childhood leukemia. Before 6-MP, a diagnosis of childhood leukemia was nearly a death sentence. Children died within months. There was nothing to offer their parents except grief.
After 6-MP, children began living. Not just surviving briefly — growing up. Going to school. Having lives.
She wasn't finished.
She helped develop azathioprine, the first immunosuppressant that made organ transplantation possible. Before this drug, transplanted organs were rejected by the body's immune system. With it, kidney transplants and heart transplants became viable options — giving patients years, even decades, of life they would never have had.
In the 1970s, her team developed acyclovir, one of the first effective antiviral drugs ever created. It proved that viruses could be targeted with precision — transforming treatment for herpes, chicken pox, shingles, and more. Her earlier foundational research also contributed to the development of AZT, the first effective treatment for HIV and AIDS, developed during the darkest years of that crisis.
Through all of this, she carried private grief too. Before she had joined Burroughs Wellcome, she had fallen in love. Her fiancé, Leonard Canter, developed a bacterial infection of the heart — a condition that, at the time, had no effective treatment. He died.
She never married. She later said no one could match what she had lost. She poured everything — all of it — into her work, and into the nieces and nephews and grandchildren of her family, who adored her.
In 1988, the call came.
The Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine was awarded to Gertrude B. Elion.
She was seventy years old. She had spent more than forty years in research. She had never earned a doctorate. And she had just received the highest honor in science.
Brooklyn Polytechnic, the school that had told her she couldn't continue part-time, later awarded her an honorary PhD.
In 1991, she became the first woman inducted into the National Inventors Hall of Fame. President George H.W. Bush presented her with the National Medal of Science. Universities across the country lined up to give her the honorary degrees they had once refused to fund.
She kept mentoring young scientists — especially women — until the very end. She held more than forty-five patents. She served on global health advisory boards. She published papers alongside medical students young enough to be her grandchildren.
Gertrude Belle Elion died on February 21, 1999, at the age of eighty-one.
By then, her work had already saved millions of lives. Children who had been given months to live grew up to have children of their own. Transplant recipients lived years that medicine had previously made impossible. HIV patients had treatments that traced their origin directly back to her research.
She once said: it is remarkable how much can be accomplished when credit does not matter.
She was the girl who made a promise beside her grandfather's bed. The young woman turned away by fifteen universities. The scientist who chose her laboratory over a diploma. The Nobel laureate who never stopped believing that one person's work — quiet, persistent, unglamorous work — could matter more than the world ever expects.
She was right.
"

08/06/2026

"Alice Paul was born in 1885. New Jersey.
Her family was Quaker. They believed men and women were equal. Simple as that.
Her mother took her to suffrage meetings as a girl. The fight was in her from the start.
She was brilliant. Graduated first in her class. Then degree after degree. Biology. Sociology. Later a PhD.
Few women did that in 1900.
She went to England to study. There she found the real fight.
British women were battling for the vote. They picketed. They broke windows. They went to jail.
Alice joined them. She got arrested. Again and again.
And in those English jails she learned the harshest weapon there was. The hunger strike.
When she stopped eating, they force-fed her. A tube forced down her throat. Over and over.
She survived it. She came home changed.
1910. Back in America. The vote-for-women movement was dying.
It was stuck. Asking one state at a time. Going nowhere.
Alice had a bigger idea. Change the Constitution itself. One amendment. The whole country. Every woman at once.
The old leaders thought she was reckless. So she broke away. She started her own group. The National Woman's Party.
1913. She organized a giant march in Washington. Thousands of women. The day before the new president took office.
Mobs attacked them. The police did nothing. It made headlines everywhere.
The country finally noticed.
January 1917. She tried something new. Women stood silently outside the White House gates.
They held banners. Day after day. They were the first people ever to picket a president.
They called them the Silent Sentinels. They never spoke. They just stood.
Their signs asked one question. Mr. President, how long must women wait for liberty?
Wilson ignored them. Then the war started. Suddenly the women looked unpatriotic.
The police moved in.
June 1917. The arrests began. The charge was a lie. Blocking traffic.
They were thrown in prison. The DC jail. The Occoquan Workhouse.
The conditions were a nightmare. Rotten food full of worms. Rat-filled cells. Beatings. No lawyers. No visitors.
Alice got 7 months. She would not go quietly.
She did the one thing she knew worked. She stopped eating.
So they came for her. They held her down. They forced a tube down her throat. They poured raw eggs into her stomach.
Three times a day. Every day. She gagged. She vomited. They did it again.
Then they tried to break her mind.
They moved her to the prison madhouse. The psychiatric ward.
They took the door off her cell. They nailed her windows shut. They only let her read hate mail.
They wanted the world to believe she was insane.
A prison doctor watched her. He said she had a spirit like Joan of Arc. He said she would die before she gave up.
He was right.
Then came November 14, 1917. The Night of Terror.
Guards at Occoquan attacked the women. 33 of them. They dragged them. Beat them. Choked them.
They chained one woman's hands above her head all night. They smashed another's head into an iron bed. A third had a heart attack just watching.
But the women had one thing the guards never expected. Witnesses on the outside.
The stories leaked. The newspapers ran them. America read what was being done to peaceful women. For asking to vote.
The country was disgusted. The pressure exploded.
They let the women go. A court ruled the arrests were illegal.
And the president cracked.
January 1918. Wilson finally backed the amendment. Out loud. In public.
It still took two more years. More fighting. More votes. More waiting.
June 1919. Congress passed it. Then it went to the states.
August 1920. It came down to one state. Tennessee. One single vote.
A 24-year-old lawmaker named Harry Burn was going to vote no. Then his mother sent him a note. Be a good boy. Vote for suffrage.
He changed his vote. The amendment passed.
The 19th Amendment. 26 million American women could finally vote.
Think about what she endured.
She was beaten. Starved. Force-fed like an animal. Locked in a madhouse. Called insane.
She could have stopped at any moment. One bite of food. One step back. The pain would end.
She never took it. Not once.
A wealthy girl who could have lived an easy life chose the hardest road there is. She let them torture her so other women could have a voice.
A Quaker girl from New Jersey. Force-fed three times a day. Locked away as a madwoman. She stood at the White House gates and would not move.
She won half the country the right to vote.
She did not even stop there. The next year she wrote the Equal Rights Amendment. She fought for it the rest of her life.
She died in 1977. She was 92. Still fighting.
Every woman who votes is her victory. They held her down and forced a tube down her throat to stop this exact thing from happening. It happened anyway. If you have ever cast a ballot, or ever will, leave her one word in the comments. Voted. That is the whole thank-you she was tortured for.
"

08/05/2026

"She thought she was driving to a small craft fair. She accidentally invented a tradition half a billion people now take for granted.
August 1969. Melanie Safka sat in her mother's car, twenty-two years old, watching trees blur past the window. They were headed to what she thought was an arts-and-crafts festival. Maybe there'd be some music. Nothing major.
Then she saw the helicopter.
It hovered low over a hillside, and beneath it she noticed something strange. Not trees. Not tents.
People. Everywhere.
Half a million of them.
She'd just arrived at Woodstock. And she wasn't even supposed to perform.
The Girl in the Small Tent
Her record label had sent her on a gamble. No guaranteed slot. No backup plan. She had one song getting modest airplay in Europe. That was it.
Backstage, she didn't have a proper pass. While famous musicians gathered in the main area, Melanie was placed alone in a small tent.
For hours, someone would open the flap: ""You're next.""
Then they'd disappear.
Her nerves turned physical. A violent cough seized her throat. She was terrified she wouldn't be able to sing at all.
Then something unexpected happened.
Across the compound, Joan Baez noticed. Without a word, she sent an assistant with tea and honey.
That quiet act of kindness, Melanie would later say, mattered more than anything else that weekend.
Then the storm came.
The Moment Everything Changed
Rain pounded the stage. The Incredible String Band refused to perform, worried the weather would ruin their instruments. The schedule collapsed.
The organizers needed someone. Anyone.
They chose the unknown girl in the small tent.
Melanie walked out alone. No band. No crew. Just a guitar and a metal folding chair.
She sat down in her loose red tunic and began to play.
She became one of only three performers at Woodstock to play completely solo. The only woman to do so.
And then it happened.
Members of the Hog Farm commune had been passing out candles to the rain-soaked crowd. As she sang, people began lighting them.
One by one.
Then hundreds.
Then thousands.
The dark hillside transformed into a vast, glowing ocean of light.
No one had ever done that at a concert before.
From that stage, Melanie was watching history being written. The tradition we now know—holding up lights during powerful moments—was born right there, with a singer most of the audience had never heard of.
She walked on unknown.
She walked off immortal.
Turning Light Into Legacy
She couldn't forget what she'd seen. The flames. The faces. The way strangers became one living, breathing moment.
She wrote ""Lay Down (Candles in the Rain)."" It became a Top Ten hit. The ritual spread worldwide. Stadiums. Arenas. Decades later, phone lights replaced candles, but the meaning stayed the same.
Light finding light.
But the music industry didn't know what to do with her. Too gentle for rock. Too unconventional for pop. Too independent to be controlled.
So she refused to compromise.
The Artist Who Said No
She walked away from Columbia Records when they tried to reshape her image. She resisted when Buddah Records tried to box her in as the ""cute hippie girl.""
Then, in 1971, she did something revolutionary.
Melanie and her husband founded Neighborhood Records—making her the first woman to own and operate an independent rock label.
Her first release on her own terms?
""Brand New Key.""
It went to number one. Sold over three million copies worldwide.
She proved you didn't need permission. You needed conviction.
A Quiet Giant
Europe never stopped loving her. She released over thirty albums. Won an Emmy. Became a UNICEF ambassador. Performed into her seventies.
When Miley Cyrus wanted to work with a true original, she called Melanie. When Jarvis Cocker curated the Meltdown Festival, he invited her to headline. It sold out instantly.
Indie artists understood her importance long before the institutions did. Every musician who turned down a controlling contract. Every woman who started her own label. Every artist who chose freedom over fame was walking a path she carved.
The Light Still Burns
Melanie Safka died on January 23, 2024, at seventy-six, still working on her thirty-second album.
Her children asked fans to light a candle in her memory.
There was no more perfect farewell.
Because on one rainy night in 1969, she taught half a million strangers something timeless: that connection can happen in an instant, that one voice can change everything, and that light—once shared—never goes out.
Somewhere tonight, someone is holding up a light at a concert.
They're continuing a tradition started by a twenty-two-year-old girl who thought she was going to a craft fair.
"

07/24/2026

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She wraps a strip of silk around a knitting needle, threads it through a shoelace, and ties it in her hair. On the silk are 2,000 codes. Each time she uses one, she marks it with a pinprick. If the N***s find it, she will be shot.

A coded message takes thirty minutes to send. The Germans can trace the signal in ninety. So she taps out the message, packs up her wireless, and moves -- through barns, forests, farmhouses -- always one hour ahead of the men hunting her. She has six bicycles hidden across the countryside. Seventeen radios. She poses as a poor teenage girl selling soap, chatting with German soldiers, smiling, gathering intelligence. She is twenty-three years old.

Phyllis Latour was born in 1921 in South Africa -- to a French father and British mother. By the time France was liberated in August 1944, she had transmitted 135 coded messages from behind enemy lines -- messages that helped guide Allied bombing raids and prepare the way for D-Day, which began eighty-two years ago today. The average life expectancy of a wireless operator was six weeks. Latour lasted four months.

She didn't look like a spy. Small, slight, with wide appealing eyes, she could pass for fourteen. That was the point. "The men who had been sent just before me were caught and executed," she later said. "I was told I was chosen for that area because I would arouse less suspicion."

Latour had her reasons for taking the job. Her godmother's father -- a man she considered her grandfather -- had been shot by the N***s. Her godmother had committed su***de after being taken prisoner. When the Special Operations Executive (SOE), Britain's covert agency for sabotage and espionage behind enemy lines, offered her a chance to fight back, she didn't hesitate.

"They said I could have three days to think about it," she recalled. "I told them I didn't need three days. I'd take the job now."

SOE trained her to kill. A cat burglar released from prison taught recruits "how to get in a high window and down drainpipes, how to climb over roofs without being caught." She learned encryption, surveillance, Morse code -- tapping out twenty-four words per minute, twice the speed of a professional telegraphist. She made fourteen parachute jumps. On May 1, 1944, she leapt from an American bomber into N**i-occupied Normandy and landed in an apple tree.

The close calls came constantly. Once, two German soldiers walked in while she was mid-transmission. She calmly closed the wireless, told them she had scarlet fever, and said she had to leave the village. They fled. Another time, German soldiers hung their wet laundry on what they thought was a clothesline. It was her radio antenna.

On another occasion, the Gestapo rounded her up with other civilians and ordered her to strip. A female officer stared suspiciously at her hair. Latour pulled the shoelace from her hair and shook her head. "That seemed to satisfy her," she said. "I tied my hair back up with the lace."

She slept in forests, foraged for food, stayed with families who had almost nothing. "One family I stayed with told me we were eating squirrel," she recalled. "I found out later it was rat. I was half-starved, so I didn't care."

The work took its toll. After the war, a military file noted that "since the collapse of Germany, Miss Latour has suffered from severe nervous strain." She had been offered no support, no counseling. Female agents, she said, were left to face "the horrors of peace" alone.

One memory haunted her. She had sent a message requesting a German listening post be taken out by bombers. A German mother and her children were among the casualties. "I can imagine the bomber pilots patting each other on the back and offering congratulations after a strike," she said. "But they never saw the carnage that was left. I always saw it, and I don't think I will ever forget it."

She married, moved to New Zealand, raised four children. She never told them what she had done. For decades, she kept silent. "I didn't have good memories of the war," she said, "so I didn't bother telling anyone." Her eldest son found out by reading something on the internet in 2000. Her children insisted she apply for her medals. She agreed -- reluctantly.

In 2014, at the age of ninety-three, France finally gave her its highest honor: the Chevalier of the Legion of Honor. She was surprised anyone still remembered.

Phyllis Latour Doyle died in October 2023 at the age of 102. She was the last of the thirty-nine women who had served as SOE agents in France during the war.

She had kept their secrets for eighty years. She had hidden codes in her hair, talked her way past the Gestapo, sent messages while soldiers searched for her signal. And when asked why she did it, she gave a simple answer: "I did it for revenge."

----

Phyllis Latour published an autobiography shortly before her death: "The Last Secret Agent: My Life as a Spy Behind N**i Lines" at https://bookshop.org/a/8011/9781250384348 (Bookshop) and https://amzn.to/4sgtutv (Amazon)

For several excellent books about more real-life female spies and resistance fighters for adult readers, we recommend "Code Name: Lise" (https://www.amightygirl.com/code-name-lise), "The Nine" https://www.amightygirl.com/the-nine), "D-Day Girls" (https://www.amightygirl.com/d-day-girls), and "All the Frequent Troubles of Our Days“ (https://www.amightygirl.com/frequent-troubles-of-our-days)

For adults who love to read about heroic women of WWII, you can find more of the best fiction and non-fiction books in our blog post, "Telling Her Story: 40 Books for Adult Readers About Women Heroes of WWII," at https://www.amightygirl.com/blog?p=24501

For a fascinating book about both famous and little known women heroes of WWII for both teens and adults, ages 12 and up, we highly recommend "Women Heroes of World War II: 32 Stories of Espionage, Sabotage, Resistance, and Rescue," for teens and adults, at https://www.amightygirl.com/women-heroes-of-world-war-ii

For books for children and teens about girls and women involved in WWII resistance movements, we recommend "Jars of Hope" for ages 7 to 10 (https://www.amightygirl.com/jars-of-hope), "Making Bombs for Hi**er" for ages 10 and up (https://www.amightygirl.com/making-bombs-for-hitler), "Resistance" for ages 12 and up (https://www.amightygirl.com/resistance), and "In My Hands: Memories of a Holocaust Rescuer" for ages 14 and up (https://www.amightygirl.com/in-my-hands)