Brave isn’t necessarily Joan of Arc mighty on her white horse, sword held high. My definition of brave is more mundane: brave is saying or doing whatever needs to be said or done, despite any feelings of fear.
Brave doesn’t mean you aren’t afraid.
Brave means you act anyway.
I was brave at fifteen when I chose to stay alive even though my troubled mind was incapable of seeing any evidence that my life mattered.
I was brave when I went off to college, never having been away from home for longer than a sleepover at a friend’s house.
I was brave when I left my home and my job and my city to be with a man who couldn’t live where I was.
I was brave when I started freelancing, brave when I gave it up for a job I had never done before, brave when I left it for a life I had never lived before.
Brave knows action is required and the outcome is not certain. Brave acts anyway.
Brave doesn’t attempt to tamp down the fear, which is not possible and only causes delays which may limit options. Brave finds the loving reason for the action, wraps itself in that love, and acts.
Brave shows an open hand, not a clenched fist.
Brave knows it is not the critic who counts.
Brave welcomes the idea of an intended action but does not take the comfortable belief that the idea alone is sufficient.
“Brave is not a feeling but an action, and it is not necessary to feel brave to act brave.”
My eyes are closed. I direct them to my core, and I say the words:
I am brave.
Chewing the Cud of Good
Thankful that it’s not over until it’s over.