Ride Before Dawn

In 1944, in Nazi-occupied France, a 13-year-old girl named Andrée Peel began delivering clandestine messages for the Resistance. She carried coded letters in her bicycle basket. Over time, she graduated to guiding Allied planes to safe landings using flashlights in the dark, and helping more than 100 soldiers escape Nazi capture. She was eventually arrested and sent to Ravensbrück concentration camp. She survived.

Andrée Peel wasn’t a soldier. She didn’t carry a weapon. But she knew exactly what she was doing. She knew the risk. And she chose to ride anyway.

She wasn’t the first young woman to ride headlong into danger for a cause she believed in.

April 26, 1777. A storm is ripping across the Hudson Valley. Rain lashes down through the trees. Mud clings to the boots of soldiers stationed near the quiet hamlet of Fredericksburg, New York—modern-day Patterson.

At the door of Colonel Henry Ludington’s home, a messenger arrives soaked to the bone. The British are attacking Danbury, Connecticut, just 25 miles away. Supplies and munitions are being burned to the ground. The militia is needed—now.

But Ludington’s men are scattered across the countryside, farms apart, without any central post or system to summon them. And the rider who brought the news is too exhausted to go back out. If the men aren’t rallied tonight, they won’t arrive in time to help.

That’s when Sybil Ludington, the colonel’s 16-year-old daughter, steps forward.

She climbs on her horse—possibly named Star, though even that detail is debated—and takes off alone into the storm. No escort. No map. No backup. Just a teenage girl riding through the black night across a vast stretch of enemy-patrolled territory, knocking on doors and shouting for the men to rise and fight.

She covers somewhere between 30 and 40 miles that night—nearly twice the distance of Paul Revere’s more famous ride. She loops through Carmel, Mahopac, Stormville, and back, crossing creeks swollen with spring rains, galloping past taverns where Loyalists might be listening, brushing off branches and thunder and fear itself.

The men respond. Some are skeptical, but most know the colonel’s daughter and take her word as urgent and true. The militia is rallied. And though they don’t reach Danbury in time to stop the burning, they do catch the retreating British forces at Ridgefield the next day, inflicting real damage and slowing their momentum.

For her ride, Sybil received… well, not much. A quiet thank-you. A nod in family lore. Her story didn’t appear in print until decades later, when a local historian included it in a 19th-century account based on family oral tradition.

Today, you’ll find a few statues. A postage stamp. A children’s book here or there. But most people have never heard of Sybil Ludington. And almost no one remembers that when Paul Revere made his iconic ride, he was actually caught by the British. Sybil? She finished hers.

There’s no doubt that the details of her journey have blurred around the edges over time—how far she went, which roads she took, what exactly she said. But the core of it holds: at sixteen, she rode alone, at night, into danger, to rally a defense that had no other chance of mobilizing in time.

She didn’t do it for credit. She didn’t do it for history books or statues. She did it because someone had to.

Sybil Ludington’s ride didn’t change history because it was perfect—it changed history because it was early.

That’s the thing about timing. The impact of your actions has less to do with how impressive they look and everything to do with when they happen.

In personal finance, this is the foundational truth behind every compound-interest chart you’ve ever seen: start earlier, and the effort matters more. Even if you contribute less, even if you make a few missteps along the way, getting in motion early creates an advantage that’s incredibly hard to catch up to.

Waiting to start—waiting for perfect clarity, the right income, the ideal market conditions—is like sitting at home while the British torch Danbury. You might still show up later. You might still help. But the real impact? That window closes fast.

And it’s not just about saving. It’s about reaching out for help when you know you need it. It’s about making that will or trust before you think it’s necessary. It’s about building your strategy when things are calm so you’re ready when the storm rolls in.

Most of the stories we admire—on the battlefield or in the balance sheet—aren’t about genius timing. They’re about bold, early moves made by people who were willing to act before they were fully ready.

Sybil Ludington didn’t wait. She rode.