Being afraid, being brave
Last week, the youngest kid and I were walking across a parking lot in the Florida heat. He was holding my hand and chatting with me about his day. But, then, he frowned and looked at me.
"I'm not brave," he said.
Startled, I looked back at him and asked, "Why do you think you aren't you brave?"
"Because I get scared," he noted solemnly.
"Being brave isn't about not being afraid," I told him, "Being brave is doing something even when you are scared. It's not really bravery if you aren't a little afraid. Being brave means knowing what scares you and choosing to do it anyway."
His brow furrowed as he thought it over. After a few moments, he said, "Maybe, I am brave."
"I'm pretty sure you are."
Days later, I had a similar conversation with the oldest kid too. I relayed the same message: Being brave is doing something, even as you are afraid.
Both of them assumed that being brave meant that you had no fear. The lessons in popular culture bear out this supposed truth. Some people are brave; some people aren't. The brave appear strong and clear in their cause. The fearful appear anything but. Bravery appears innate, a trait of handsome heroes and plucky heroines. The fearful remain fearful without any recognition that there might be things to actually be afraid of.
It was an uphill battle, but I finally convinced them both that bravery wasn't innate, and more importantly, bravery wasn't the opposite of fear. Doing something that is easy is not bravery. Doing something that doesn't frighten you doesn't guarantee your strength or your righteousness. Having courage takes more. Bravery and fear reside side-by-side. Bravery means we are afraid but we are able to act anyway.
I've been thinking about these conversations about bravery this week, as I feel afraid and overwhelmed and defeated. There's our current political climate and the increasing consequences of violent speech. There's the nomination of Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court over the protests of survivors. There's the devastation of hurricane Michael and its aftermath for my family and the county in which I grew up. There's the petty frustrations and the quiet calamities of this year. There's the constant concern. There's the all-consuming outrage. There's always something lurking around the corner that feels worse than what happened before. There's always another calamity or crisis. There's always something else. There's always something to fear.
It feels like 2018 kicked me in the stomach. And when I was down, it also kicked me in the teeth. I can almost taste the blood in my mouth.
Clearly, I'm not the only one who feels this way. I talk to friends and hear their desire for the year to just be over. And like me, they are just managing to get past something for only another thing to demand their attention, time, action, and emotional labor. As I look at the news or listen to NPR, it seems as if there is no bottom, even as I assume that there must be. Why do I keep thinking there is? (It must be my attempt to be hopeful that nothing is ever as settled as it seems.)
2018 feels unrelenting, but so did 2017 and 2016 too. I keep imagining if only I can make it to the end of the year, things will improve. And they might. Or they might not. I don't know, and the uncertainty keeps me up at night. The fear of what might happen burrows in my brain, and I can feel the edge of panic that never seems to leave.
Fear consumes me. I have anxiety; I'm used to being afraid. Some of my earliest memories are touched by fear. Fear of getting shots, of the long climb to the top of the slide, of classmates not liking me, of strangers and those people who were supposed to love me, of saying something wrong, of awkward social situations, and of not fitting in at home or school or anywhere. And I know how many times fear meant I didn't act. Fear overwhelmed and not doing anything seemed easier than giving something a try. Maybe what I feared most was being who I am because who I was would never quite be enough. Why take the chance? Fear was ever-present, and it remains so.
My brain is used to being afraid, using to being constantly concerned about my ability to stay in control, used to preparing for the worst, used to analyzing how all things could go terribly wrong in an instant, and used to being very scared of what will happen next. Never knowing what terrible shit tomorrow might bring ratchets up my anxiety. The more anxious I am, the more overwhelmed I feel. The more overwhelmed I feel, the more irritable and angry I am. I feel like a rage monster, ready to snap at the smallest provocation and burn everything to ash, and then, I feel terrible for being a monster, when so many others are dealing with so much worse. It's a loop that I recognize that I can't quite break free of. And being afraid is exhausting. Anxiety is exhausting.
I'm afraid, and fear gets the better of me. Sometimes. But, a little less than before.
This week, I joked, and maybe threatened, to bubble wrap the kids to guarantee that they don't get hurt. It was a response to a tumble that one kid had that lead to a sling on her arm. If only bubble wrap could keep them safe, but it can't. I know that. I do what I can to make sure they are safe, but my control only extends so far. And the lack of control means I occasionally give myself hives. Fear sometimes wins, but not always.
I'm afraid, and yet, I get up every morning and do things that scare me. I fear asking for what I need, but I manage to find a way to ask. I fear that something will happen to the kids, but I let them leave every morning for school, encourage them to climb up the tall ladders for the fast slide, and let them know that they are loved, even as I am terrified of losing them. I fear the consequences of what I write, but I write anyway. I fear what living brings, but I keep on living, even as I am afraid.
I fear, I fear, I fear, but I still navigate my way in the world. I still manage to do things. I fear, but I refuse to let it stop me. I refuse to let it keep me from taking chances. I refuse to let fear run my life. I refuse, even as it feels like small acts are too damn impossible.
Maybe, that is an accomplishment. Or maybe, it is the best I can do. Or is it the best we can do? Or maybe, it is even brave. Maybe, I'm brave. Maybe, bravery is that simple: doing things even as we are afraid. Maybe, it's not.
But, I tend to think it is, and maybe, we are all braver than we think.