What Does it Mean to be Brave?

New hobbies might be one kind of bravery, but also an escape from it

My first love told me I was “brave” when I moved a bunch of my clothes into his trailer to make getting up for work quicker, rather than having to run all the way back to my tent every morning (we were living in bush camp at the time). This wasn’t a compliment – I hadn’t talked to him about this and was intruding on his space. It was the opposite of brave; I was terrified of talking to him about something that could be interpreted even mildly negative, and of scaring him away, so I pretended it wasn’t a big deal.

My best friend told me I was “brave” when I wrote a letter to the landlord I lived with about the serious ethical issues I had with the way he ran his house and controlled the people around him, how I couldn’t live in his environment. It was the opposite of brave; I had lived for 10 months in fear of him and in guilt over not speaking up, then finally wrote a letter because I was terrified of feeling myself crumble under his ego upon actually talking to him.

Family members call me “brave” because of the high adrenaline or high-risk activities I tend to love, chasing death to feel alive. Again, it’s the opposite of brave; I jump off cliffs and hitchhike with strangers because I haven't figured out how to feel alive with just normal life.

A stranger I met called me “brave” because I’m not afraid to travel alone. It’s the opposite of brave; traveling is stressful and traveling alone removes the risk of developing deep, intimate connections with other people and allowing them to see how screwed up you actually are.

My parents were convinced I’d have my license by 16 because I’m so free and brave. And yet the opposite was true; I still don’t have my license, in large part because I’m absolutely terrified of losing control and accidentally killing other people in the process.

And then… every once in a while… there’s someone who can see straight through. Someone who just looks directly at you, almost sadly, and says “All I have to say is… be brave. That’s it. Just be brave.” And then you leave their office, go home, and sob on your bed for the next hours in anger and self-hatred because they saw straight through to the cowardly broken shell you are underneath.

Of course there is some bravery in a few of the above things and, sure, there are some types of bravery I'm better at, and some types of fear that it's easier to conquer (legs shaking as I stand on a rock high above the water? Well they better suck it up because WE’RE JUMPING OFF NOW).

But the bravery required to risk disappointing someone who has high hopes for you?

The bravery to risk your words shattering something that someone you care about has spent so long building?

The bravery to risk your words revealing how broken and stupid you are?

The bravery required to risk losing someone who’s come to depend on you?

The bravery to risk losing someone who you’ve come to depend on?

The bravery to admit you are lost, alone, and have no idea what you’re going?

The bravery to enforce boundaries on people when you know they are only so intrusive because they themselves are broken and lost?

The bravery to risk your words causing harm to people who have never intended to cause harm?

 

Yeah, I’m not so good at those ones. And those first types of bravery are really good at blocking out the second ones. But the latter ones are equally, if not more, important. And I do manage to walk through those ones from time to time, even if I dance and tiptoe around it.

BUT I also think it’s this exact fear of these things that makes the bravery in overcoming them more meaningful. Yes, I wish I had the courage to talk about certain things head on, but the terror of doing so means they are important. It gives them value. Precisely because they cause fear, they have an impact. 

I remember the year before starting university, a close friend was spending the night at my house and, late in the evening, she asked about something she had done over a year ago that bothered me. Her voice was quiet and shaking as she spoke, and she was having a difficult time maintaining eye contact with me. The thing she was talking about had bothered me and I had been genuinely upset about it, but more than anything else I was absolutely amazed at her talking straight through the fear that was so obvious in her body language and voice.

Had she casually brought up “hey, you remember last year…,” I probably would have met that same energy, laughed the situation off, and she and I would have eventually grown apart. But she came to me vulnerably. She made it important. That bravery and vulnerability enshrined a friendship that I never want to let down.

That’s the kind of bravery I aspire to.