courage

My daughter recently had to write an essay on her biggest fears. She chose Styrofoam and assassins, in that order. The latter because we had just watched a James Bond movie, the first because just the thought of it sends shivers down her spine. Stop for a second and think of the sound, of the feeling you get, when two pieces of Styrofoam rub up against one another. Enough said.

I told her that I thought the order of her fears made a lot of sense: Assassins, if all goes well, you can avoid. Styrofoam you’re kind of stuck with.

Her assignment got me thinking about my own fears – there are plenty of them. I am a lot of things, but I wouldn’t put brave very high up on the list. There are rats and rodents, for obvious reasons. Anything with the potential to break a bone. Scary rides, the ones that spin and go upside down. I don’t love cotton balls.

And death, of course. Death is always the big one. But there is an order to that, too: My children, my husband, and then myself. I worry most of all about them suffering, and about my ability to exist in the world without them.

When I was young – and by that I mean in my 20s or so – death didn’t worry me. I remember saying, What’s the point of being scared of something that is inevitable? Just live while you can. But now that I’m in my forties, I am starting to see the point of being scared. Ceasing to exist, that still doesn’t feel all that worrisome to me. It’s the hole it leaves that terrifies me. It’s the thought of someone being left behind – me, them.

People talk a lot about being brave. This is something we are supposed to aspire to.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Feel afraid and do it anyways.

And every time I run from the strongest waves, every time I back away from the highest ledges, part of me thinks: There goes my biggest, truest life, passing me by while I cower here in the corner.

But no. It’s not the diving board that proves your bravery. It’s not bungee jumping or white water rafting or even public speaking that show your strength. It’s living.

It’s sending your kids out into the world, just praying that it treats them kindly. It’s bearing witness to the cruelty that exists, and continuing to show up with hope and happiness. It’s putting your whole, tender, beating heart into someone else’s hands and trusting that they will treat it well, that they will remember it’s there.

F*ck roller coasters. This is the stuff of bravery.

With love. xo