Reluctantly brave
I dreamed of bright blue water for several nights in a row after returning from Greece.
My partner and I closed out summer with eight glorious days exploring a small cluster of Greek islands.
On our very first morning, at our very first beach stop, my husband pointed to a big rock jutting out of the water in the middle of the sea and declared with determination, “I’m swimming to that rock and jumping off it.”
I have bad knees, hyper-flexible joints, and a general demeanor that fears physical injury. Steep hikes, snow skiing, and, as I learned that day, climbing and jumping off rocks? Not my thing.
But I’m also someone driven by a challenge—especially when it’s right in front of me. So, despite my reservations, a tiny voice inside me piped up: “Me, too!”
Who was braver? My husband, who scaled the rock in seconds and leapt off repeatedly, grinning with clear joy? Or me, standing at the edge of the rock for minutes, mapping out every step before a not-so-graceful leap?
Bravery isn’t the absence of fear—it’s feeling the fear and moving forward anyway. Our leaps, whether literal or figurative, aren’t always smooth or graceful, but the stops and starts along the way don’t make them any less courageous.
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