What are the opening hours?

Tuesday 7:30am - 3pm Wednesday 7:30am - 1pm Thursday 7:30am - 3pm Friday 7:30am - 3pm Saturday 7:30am - 1pm

https://www.facebook.com/409982862912215/

Story of Soul, 116 Newport Road, Crosskeys (2026)

13/06/2026

"Today was a Difficult Day," said Pooh.
There was a pause.
"Do you want to talk about it?" asked Piglet.
"No," said Pooh after a bit. "No, I don't think I do."
"That's okay," said Piglet, and he came and sat beside his friend.
"What are you doing?" asked Pooh.
"Nothing, really," said Piglet. "Only, I know what Difficult Days are like. I quite often don't feel like talking about it on my Difficult Days either.
"But goodness," continued Piglet, "Difficult Days are so much easier when you know you've got someone there for you. And I'll always be here for you, Pooh."
And as Pooh sat there, working through in his head his Difficult Day, while the solid, reliable Piglet sat next to him quietly, swinging his little legs...he thought that his best friend had never been more right."
A.A. Milne
Sending thoughts to those having a Difficult Day today and hope you have your own Piglet to sit beside you.
~ A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh

13/06/2026

She never wanted to be a warning.
Heather Cox Richardson just wanted to be a historian. Teach at Boston College. Write careful, scholarly books. Study the past from a safe, comfortable distance — the way you study a storm through a library window.
But the storm kept finding her.
For decades, she lived inside history's darkest chapters. The years before the Civil War, when neighbors stopped trusting each other and reasonable people convinced themselves that compromise was still possible long after compromise had quietly died. The Gilded Age, when a handful of extraordinarily wealthy men bought institutions, rewrote rules, and persuaded a nation that this was simply how the world worked.
She read the newspapers from those years. The speeches. The private letters.
And what disturbed her most wasn't the villains.
It was the ordinary people — educated, thoughtful, decent people — who saw exactly what was happening and told themselves: Not here. Not us. Not really.
The warning signs were never hidden. They were printed on the front page. Debated in town squares. Visible to anyone willing to look. And yet, somehow, the looking was the hardest part.
In September 2019, Richardson sat down and did something small. She started writing a nightly newsletter — just a historian's attempt to give the day's news some context, some depth, some perspective. She called it Letters from an American. She thought perhaps a few hundred academic colleagues might find it useful.
Today, more than a million people read it every night.
Not because they love history.
Because Richardson keeps doing something rare and quietly radical: she points at the present, and says — I've seen this pattern before. I know how these stories can end. And this one isn't finished yet.
Here is what she learned from a lifetime inside catastrophe:
Great disasters are almost never inevitable — until they are. Democracies don't collapse in a single dramatic moment. They erode slowly, through a hundred small decisions that each feel reasonable in isolation. A norm bent here because it was inconvenient. A safeguard removed there because it was slowing things down. Each choice feels manageable. Each concession feels temporary.
But Richardson has spent her life watching how those choices connect. How they build momentum. How what felt like a pragmatic compromise in 1855 looks, from the outside, like a catastrophic failure of nerve.
She has also seen something else.
The moments when ordinary people — not heroes, not leaders, not anyone special — chose engagement over indifference and changed everything. When citizens who had every reason to look away decided to pay attention instead. To show up. To insist that the story wasn't over.
Those moments exist in the historical record too. They just get fewer monuments.
Her students ask her constantly: Are we doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past?
Her answer never changes.
We are living in one of those moments I've spent my career studying. The kind where the outcome isn't written. The kind where what ordinary people choose to do — or not do — still matters enormously.
In fifty years, historians will teach classes about this era the way Richardson teaches the 1850s and 1890s. They will examine the choices made and not made. They will debate the turning points. They will ask whether people understood what was at stake.
They will find the answer in what we do next.
History isn't something that happened to other people in other times.
It's being written right now — by us, through the choices we make on ordinary days when nothing feels particularly historic.
The only question is what kind of story we're willing to be part of.

13/06/2026

Nicole Kidman was 23 years old when she met the biggest movie star on the planet.
Tom Cruise. Untouchable. Magnetic. The man the entire world was watching.
She later said she was reeling. That she would have walked to the end of the earth.
She meant it.
They married on Christmas Eve, 1990 — a private ceremony in Telluride, Colorado, snow on the ground, the world completely unaware. Nicole was pregnant. She miscarried shortly after. It was the first fracture — small, invisible, but real.
Unable to have biological children, they adopted two. Isabella in 1992. Connor in 1995. They built a family. They built a life. For ten years, they were Hollywood's most envied couple.
But there was always something standing between them.
Tom was one of the most prominent members of the Church of Scientology. Nicole was not. She'd been raised Catholic. She attended some events with him, participated where she could, but she never fully converted — never fully committed. And the church, by several accounts, never fully trusted her because of it.
To outsiders, the marriage looked golden. They sued tabloids that lied about them and won — donating the settlements to charity. They made films together. They seemed inseparable.
Then came Eyes Wide Shut.
Stanley Kubrick's final film. A psychological story about a married couple unraveling. Tom and Nicole played the couple. The shoot lasted over 400 days — one of the longest in cinema history — with Kubrick pushing them both to their emotional limits, deliberately mining their real relationship to fuel the performances. Nicole later said they would rent go-kart tracks at 3 AM just to release the pressure.
The film premiered in July 1999.
Eighteen months later, Nicole received a phone call that changed everything.
Not from Tom. From the media.
Tom had filed for divorce. Publicly. Without warning her first.
She was blindsided. She later admitted she thought they were in the process of fixing things — not ending them. When pressed for a reason, Tom offered only this:
"She knows why, and I know why."
He never elaborated. He never had to. Within months, he was publicly dating Penélope Cruz — his co-star from a film they'd shot during the marriage.
But the divorce itself, as painful as it was, turned out not to be the hardest part.
The hardest part was the children.
Isabella was nine. Connor was six. They had been raised inside Scientology — it was all they knew, all they trusted. When their parents separated, the church's doctrine of disconnection quietly shaped what happened next. The principle is stark: if someone is seen as spiritually harmful, members are encouraged to cut contact.
Nicole was never formally labeled. But she was an outsider. And her children, raised entirely within the church's world, drifted toward the parent who stayed inside it.
The years passed. The distance grew. Isabella is now an adult, living in London, rarely seen with her mother. Connor lives in Clearwater, Florida — the church's center of operations — a committed Scientologist.
Nicole has spoken about it in careful, measured words. She calls it heartbreaking. She says she respects their choices. She never publicly attacks the church — perhaps because she knows that doing so might push them further away.
She lost her husband. Then she lost her children. And she had to keep living anyway.
In 2005, she met Keith Urban — a quiet, warm, deeply grounded man. They married in 2006. They have two daughters together: Sunday and Faith. Nicole has described him as the person who helped her breathe again.
She won the Academy Award for Best Actress. She built one of the most remarkable second acts in Hollywood history. She created a life full of beauty and meaning.
But there are two chairs at her table that have been empty for years.
And she sets them anyway.
Because hope, even when it goes unanswered, is still a form of love.

13/06/2026

On the third day of the festival, just before Joe Cocker's early afternoon set, Max Yasgur addressed the crowd:
"I'm a farmer. I don't know how to speak to twenty people at one time, let alone a crowd like this. But I think you people have proven something to the world — not only to the Town of Bethel, or Sullivan County, or New York State; you've proven something to the world. This is the largest group of people ever assembled in one place. We have had no idea that there would be this size group, and because of that you've had quite a few inconveniences as far as water, food, and so forth. Your producers have done a mammoth job to see that you're taken care of... they'd enjoy a vote of thanks. But above that, the important thing that you've proven to the world is that a half a million kids — and I call you kids because I have children that are older than you are — a half million young people can get together and have three days of fun and music and have nothing but fun and music, and I – God bless you for it!"
Martin Scorsese down in front inside the fence returning the peace sign to Max.
Elliot Landy Photography

13/06/2026

She wrote the world's most-played song about loving yourself — while cancer was slowly taking her life. You've sung her words a thousand times. You've never heard her name.
Philadelphia. 1948.
Linda Creed grew up in North Philly. Her mother cleaned other people's houses. Her father worked construction. They didn't have much.
But Linda had something no one could take from her.
Words.
She filled notebooks with poetry from the time she could hold a pen. Pain became rhythm. Longing became melody. Feelings that her neighborhood had no language for — Linda found the language.
At 16, she was showing up outside recording studio doors.
Not to perform. Not to audition. Just to watch. Just to stand close enough to the music to learn how it was made.
The producers noticed her. A young Black woman who understood how words married music. Who could feel what a melody needed before it was finished.
At 19, she found her partner: composer Thom Bell.
He built the music. She built the words. Together, they created something Philadelphia hadn't heard before.
Their first hit arrived in 1971. "Stop, Look, Listen (To Your Heart)" for The Stylistics. Top 40.
Then came "Betcha By Golly Wow." The song that played at every wedding, every slow dance, every anniversary for fifty years straight. Every word of it — Linda's.
"You Make Me Feel Brand New." Number two on the charts. Gold record. Millions of copies sold around the world.
She was 23 years old.
She wrote for The Stylistics. The Spinners. Johnny Mathis. Artists whose names filled arenas.
Her name filled nothing.
She made decent money. Not wealthy. Not famous. Just a working songwriter whose words made everyone around her rich and known.
Then, in 1976, something changed inside her body.
Exhaustion that sleep couldn't fix. Bruises that appeared without reason. A bone-deep pain that simply would not stop.
The tests came back.
Breast cancer. Stage 3. Aggressive. Already moving through her lymph nodes.
She was 27 years old.
Chemotherapy. Radiation. Surgery. Her hair fell out. Her weight dropped. Her body, the one that had carried all those words for 27 years, was being dismantled from the inside.
She kept writing.
Through every treatment. Through every hospital corridor. Through every morning she woke up unsure whether she was getting better or running out of time.
In 1977, she wrote something different.
It was commissioned for a Muhammad Ali film — a song about a fighter. About what it takes to keep standing when everything wants to knock you down.
But Linda wrote something deeper than a boxing metaphor.
She wrote what she had learned in those hospital rooms. What she had discovered when her body stopped being something she could rely on.
"Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all."
She wrote those words while cancer was consuming her. While she was relearning, day by day, what it meant to value her own existence — not for what she could produce, not for the hits she could write, but simply because she was alive and she mattered.
Composer Michael Masser set her lyrics to music. George Benson recorded it first. It became a genuine hit. Climbed the charts. People loved it.
Most of them never looked at who wrote it.
The cancer went into remission in 1978. She believed she had won. Two years of real, breathing hope.
She kept writing. More songs. More invisible success.
Then 1980 arrived.
The cancer returned. This time it had spread further — her lymph nodes, her liver, her lungs.
She kept writing anyway.
By 1985, she was in and out of hospitals. Connected to machines. Running out of options.
She kept a notebook beside her hospital bed.
She was still filling it when a young singer named Whitney Houston walked into a recording studio and laid down a vocal performance that would shake the world.
Whitney's version of "The Greatest Love of All" was released in early 1986.
It became something no one had predicted.
It wasn't just a hit. It became the song — one of the best-selling singles in history. Whitney sang it at stadiums, at award ceremonies, at concerts watched by millions. Nelson Mandela heard it when he walked free. Graduates heard it. People in their darkest seasons heard it.
And every single time — in every country, in every language, in every throat that sang along —
they were singing Linda Creed's words.
Linda Creed died on April 10, 1986. She was 37 years old.
The Philadelphia Inquirer ran four paragraphs. The industry quietly mourned. The world didn't notice.
The Songwriters Hall of Fame inducted her in 2003 — seventeen years after she died.
Today, "The Greatest Love of All" has been streamed hundreds of millions of times. Her catalog of over fifty charted songs has soundtracked weddings, graduations, and funerals across six decades.
Play the song for anyone on the street. They'll know every word.
Ask them who wrote it. They'll say Whitney Houston.
No one says Linda Creed.
She never got famous. She never got rich. She never got to stand on a stage and hear a crowd cheer her name.
She just died at 37 in Philadelphia, a notebook beside her hospital bed, still finding words for feelings the world hadn't expressed yet.
But here is what Linda Creed could not have known in those final weeks:
That the words she wrote while her body was failing her — the words she wrote to teach herself that her life had value even when everything was being taken from it — would go on to help millions of people believe the same thing about themselves.
That teenagers would hear her song in their lowest moments and decide to stay.
That people rebuilding after loss would press play and feel something shift in their chest.
That strangers, in languages Linda never spoke, in countries she never visited, would sing her words and feel less alone.
"Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all."
She wrote that while dying.
And it is still, to this day, teaching people how to live.
Her name was Linda Creed.
Say it out loud. Share it. Make sure someone who doesn't know it — learns it today.
She deserves at least that much.

13/06/2026

In 1911, a woman traveled alone through remote Colorado mining camps, knocking on strangers' doors, asking to draw their blood.
No assistant. No recognition waiting for her. No degree — Oxford had refused to grant her one, despite completing all the coursework, because the rules were simple: women could learn, but they could not officially graduate.
Her name was Mabel Purefoy FitzGerald, and she was about to make one of the most important discoveries in the history of human physiology.
The question she was chasing seemed simple: why can some people live and work at high altitude while others collapse, gasping, unable to breathe? In the early 1900s, this wasn't a curiosity — it was killing mountaineers, disorienting pilots, and devastating soldiers stationed at elevation. Nobody had a real answer.
Mabel was assigned the least glamorous job on the expedition: travel alone to dusty, high-altitude mining towns and collect blood samples from the people who lived there. The senior male scientists stayed at base camp running controlled experiments. Mabel rode out into the mountains, town by town, miner by miner, vial by vial.
What she found in that blood rewrote human biology.
People living permanently at altitude had fundamentally different blood chemistry. Their bodies had adapted — producing more red blood cells, changing how hemoglobin carried oxygen — precise, elegant mechanisms that explained everything scientists had been puzzling over for years. Mabel didn't just collect data. She uncovered the blueprint for how the human body survives where the air runs thin.
When the expedition published its findings in 1913, her work was included.
In the footnotes.
The lead researchers received the credit, the careers, the honors, the textbook citations. Mabel's name faded from the scientific record. She kept working — quietly, rigorously — but she was never given a fellowship, never offered a professorship. When Oxford finally allowed women to earn degrees in 1920, they did not look back at the women who had already done the work.
She knew what she had discovered. She watched, for decades, as her findings were cited without her name attached to them. She attended conferences where her research shaped entire discussions — and sat in the audience, unnamed.
Mabel Purefoy FitzGerald died in 1973. She was 101 years old.
Then, in 2016 — more than a century after she traveled alone through those Colorado mountains — a group of physiologists sat down with the original expedition data and read it carefully. Really carefully.
What they found stopped them.
The most significant discoveries in the 1913 report hadn't come from the celebrated researchers at base camp. They had come from the woman working alone in the field, drawing blood from miners who didn't know they were participating in history.
The Physiological Society launched a full investigation. They found her field notebooks. Her meticulous records. Her letters. An entire career of brilliance, sitting quietly in archives, waiting.
In 2017, they formally recognized Mabel Purefoy FitzGerald as a pioneer of altitude physiology. A lecture series was named in her honor. Textbooks were rewritten. The scientific community finally said her name out loud.
But here is the part that stays with me.
She died in 1973.
The recognition came in 2016.
She missed it by 43 years.
She spent her entire life knowing the truth — knowing what she had found, knowing whose names were on it, knowing that history had quietly moved on without her. And she never saw it corrected.
How many times did she open a journal and read her own discoveries attributed to someone else? How many times did she wonder if anyone would ever look closely enough to ask: wait — who actually did this work?
Someone finally did.
And the answer changed history.
Mabel FitzGerald figured out how the human body survives at altitude. Her work protected climbers, pilots, and high-altitude workers for generations. It is still cited today.
She didn't need the world to know. She just kept working.
But the world should have known anyway.
She was brilliant. She was meticulous. She was essential.
And she deserved to hear it while she was still alive.

13/06/2026

An Open Letter to Supermarkets and Big Retail Stores Using Self-Checkouts**
To all the supermarkets and large retailers increasingly relying on self-checkout systems:
I see the direction you’re heading—moving toward almost exclusively self-checkout lanes. Just yesterday, I visited one of your stores. After loading my cart, unloading it to scan each item, and reloading it again, I was stopped at the exit by an employee checking receipts.
Here’s the thing: I didn’t sign up for that.
I’ve already done the heavy lifting—literally and figuratively. I filled my cart, scanned every item, bagged my own groceries, and paid for them. Now you want me to stand in another line to prove I did your job correctly? No, thank you. I simply raised my receipt in the air and walked out.
Let me be clear:
- If you expect me to handle the responsibilities of a cashier, then either trust me to do it or hire actual cashiers like you used to.
- I’m not here to prove my honesty after doing unpaid labor for your company.
- If you want me to perform tasks that were once paid positions, don’t expect me to do it with a smile—especially without training, compensation, or benefits.
- Keep employing real people, especially young workers, students, and those who rely on these jobs for valuable income and experience.
Because here’s the truth:
- **You don’t pay me to scan and bag my own groceries.**
- **You don’t offer me an employee discount for doing the work.**
This isn’t just about convenience. It’s about accountability. It’s about companies cutting costs at the expense of jobs, shifting the workload onto customers, and calling it “progress.”
We deserve better. So do your employees.
Signed,
**All of Us**

13/06/2026

She was seven years old when she made a roomful of Hollywood legends weep.
Not because the scene called for it. Not because the director told her to be sad.
Because she felt it. Deeply. Completely. In a way that frightened grown men who had been in the film business for decades.
Her name was Margaret O'Brien. And in 1944, she did something that film critics struggled to explain.
One of them wrote that she performed "as if she'd been acting for forty years." Another called her "terrifyingly talented." Audiences walked out of Meet Me in St. Louis unable to speak — gutted by a child who had somehow mastered human heartbreak before she'd learned long division.
The scene where she stood beside Judy Garland and listened to "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" — cheeks still wet, small hands folded — broke people in a way they couldn't entirely explain. It still does, eighty years later.
At the Academy Awards in 1945, she walked onto the stage in pigtails and a dress her widowed mother had sewn by hand. She was handed a Juvenile Oscar — Hollywood's highest honor for a child — and she accepted it with a calm, quiet dignity that felt far too old for her age.
She had earned every inch of it.
Born in 1937 to a widowed flamenco dancer with no connections and no safety net, Margaret was discovered by MGM at just four years old. Her first major role was in Journey for Margaret — a war film where she played a traumatized London orphan. She was four. She had no business understanding psychological devastation and abandonment.
Somehow, she understood it completely.
She mastered real tears — not performed weeping, but actual tears, on cue, every time — and it destroyed audiences every single time. She learned accents. She learned to sing. She learned to dance. She became the most emotionally powerful child actor Hollywood had ever seen.
Then puberty arrived.
And Hollywood moved on.
By fifteen, the phone had stopped ringing. The contracts dried up. The studios that had once called her irreplaceable quietly replaced her with newer, younger faces. This is the part of the story where most child stars collapse — into addiction, bitterness, or oblivion.
Margaret went a different direction.
She transitioned to television. Stage productions. Character roles. Smaller work, quieter work — but she never stopped working, never stopped showing up, and never once publicly complained about what she had lost.
Then in 1954, something else was taken from her.
The family's longtime maid asked to borrow Margaret's Oscar — just to polish it properly, as she had done once before without incident.
She never came back.
The Oscar was simply gone. Seventeen-year-old Margaret filed the reports. She waited. She searched.
Nothing.
Forty-one years passed.
Four decades of building a life without the one physical proof that her childhood brilliance had been real. Four decades of accepting that some things are simply lost.
Until 1995.
Two memorabilia collectors were browsing a Los Angeles flea market when they spotted something that stopped them cold: a Juvenile Academy Award, engraved with the name Margaret O'Brien.
They paid five hundred dollars for it.
Then they did something that still restores faith in strangers everywhere.
They tracked Margaret down. They returned it. They asked for nothing — no money, no publicity, no reward.
After forty-one years, Margaret held her Oscar again.
"The poor thing has been through a lot," she said softly, cradling it.
She could have been talking about herself.
But here is the part of this story that changes everything.
In 2024 — eighty years after Meet Me in St. Louis first opened in theaters — Margaret attended a special anniversary screening in Portland, Oregon. She was 87 years old. One of the last living stars from Hollywood's Golden Age. Still sharp. Still warm. Still generous with her time and her memories — of Judy Garland, of MGM's golden era, of a world that no longer exists.
And then she made a decision that perfectly captures who Margaret O'Brien has always been.
She donated her recovered Oscar — the one stolen when she was a teenager, missing for forty-one years, her most irreplaceable possession — to Movie Madness, a nonprofit film museum in Portland.
Not locked in a private vault. Not auctioned to a wealthy collector. Not kept behind glass in a mansion.
Given freely to a public museum, where anyone who loves cinema could stand in front of it, look at it, and be moved by it.
"That would be the place for it," she said simply.
That's it. No grand speech. No celebration of her own sacrifice. Just a quiet, certain sense of where something precious truly belongs — not with her, but with the world.
Think about the full arc of this one extraordinary life:
Born to a widowed dancer with nothing. Discovered at four. The most powerful child actress Hollywood ever produced. Career gone by fifteen. Oscar stolen at seventeen. Forty-one years without it. Returned by strangers who wanted nothing in return. And then — at nearly ninety years old — given away again, freely, joyfully, because that is simply who she chose to be.
In an era when child stardom so often ends in tragedy, Margaret O'Brien became something else entirely.
Proof that talent and grace can share the same soul.
Proof that you can survive the cruelest parts of life and still come out generous on the other side.
Proof that legacy isn't built in the spotlight. It's built in every quiet, dignified choice you make after the spotlight moves on.
She made the world cry at seven.
She's making us stand in awe at eighty-nine.
Margaret O'Brien. Born January 15, 1937. Still here. Still remarkable. Still teaching us something

13/06/2026

Nike told the pregnant Olympic champion to "know your place and just run"—then tried to cut her pay by 70%. She walked away, had an emergency C-section, and came back to break the all-time Olympic record wearing shoes from her own company.

Allyson Felix was already a legend.

Six-time Olympic gold medalist. The face of women's track and field. One of Nike's most prominent sponsored athletes for nearly a decade.
Then she got pregnant.
When Felix told Nike, she expected support. Partnership. Maybe even celebration.
Instead, Nike offered her a new contract that would cut her pay by up to 70%.
The reason? Pregnancy.
When Felix pushed back and asked for written guarantees that she wouldn't be penalized financially for having a child, Nike refused.
They told her to "know her place and just run."
Felix was seven months pregnant. Walking away from Nike—one of the most powerful brands in sports—seemed impossible. The financial security. The resources. The platform.
But she refused to accept that becoming a mother made her worth less.
She walked away.
Then everything got harder.
At 32 weeks pregnant, Felix's blood pressure spiked dangerously. She was rushed into an emergency C-section.
Her daughter Camryn was born premature, weighing just over three pounds. She spent more than a month in the NICU fighting to survive.
Felix sat beside her daughter's incubator, recovering from surgery, facing an uncertain future on every front.
Many believed her athletic career was over. She was 33 years old. She'd just given birth via emergency surgery. She had no major sponsor.
They were wrong.
With her daughter finally home and healthy, Felix made a decision: she was going back.
Not just to run—to prove something bigger.
In 2019, she partnered with Athleta, who gave her the maternity protections Nike had refused. Then in 2021, she launched something revolutionary: Saysh, her own athletic shoe company.
A shoe brand created by a woman, for women. Built on the belief that female athletes deserved better.
The critics said it was impossible. You can't compete against Nike. You can't build a shoe company and train for the Olympics simultaneously. You can't come back after everything she'd been through.
Felix didn't listen.
Summer 2021. Tokyo Olympics.
Allyson Felix stepped onto the track wearing Saysh One—her own shoes.
She was 35 years old. A mother. An entrepreneur. A woman who had nearly died giving birth.
And she was about to make history.
Felix won bronze in the 400 meters and gold in the 4x400 relay.
Those two medals brought her total to 11 Olympic medals—making her the most decorated American track and field athlete in history.
She had surpassed Carl Lewis. She had broken a record many thought untouchable.
And she did it on her own terms, wearing shoes she built herself.
But Felix wasn't finished.
She understood the struggle she'd faced wasn't unique. Countless female athletes had been forced to choose between motherhood and their careers. Countless mothers had lost sponsorships, opportunities, and dreams because they dared to have children.
Felix partnered with Pampers to create the first-ever nursery at the Olympic Village in Tokyo—a space where athlete-mothers could nurse, rest, and bond with their babies.
Because motherhood shouldn't end dreams. It should be supported.
She also used her platform to push Nike and other brands to change their maternity policies. Because of Felix's advocacy, multiple athletic companies rewrote their contracts to protect pregnant athletes.
One woman's refusal to accept discrimination changed an entire industry.
Allyson Felix's story isn't just about running fast or winning medals.
It's about a woman who was told she was worth 70% less because she chose to become a mother—and decided that was unacceptable.
It's about fighting through a medical emergency that could have ended everything.
It's about building something from nothing while the world said it couldn't be done.
It's about proving that a woman's worth isn't defined by what a corporation says she deserves.
Nike told her to know her place.
Instead, Felix changed the game.
She left the biggest sponsor in sports. She survived a life-threatening pregnancy. She built her own company. She broke Olympic records. She created pathways for the mothers who would come after her.
11 Olympic medals. Most decorated American track athlete ever. Founder of a thriving shoe brand. Mother. Advocate.
Allyson Felix didn't just run her way into history.
She rewrote what was possible—and made sure the next generation of women wouldn't have to fight the same battles alone.
When they told her to know her place, she created a new one.
And she ran into the record books doing it

Story of Soul

13/06/2026

13/06/2026

13/06/2026

13/06/2026

13/06/2026

13/06/2026

13/06/2026

13/06/2026

13/06/2026

Address

Opening Hours

Telephone

Website

Alerts

Shortcuts

Share

Tuesday	7:30am - 3pm
Wednesday	7:30am - 1pm
Thursday	7:30am - 3pm
Friday	7:30am - 3pm
Saturday	7:30am - 1pm