October 6, 2013
There’s one comment I keep hearing from people that’s starting to annoy me. And part of the reason it’s annoying is that I know it is well-intentioned. I understand where people are coming from when they say it. But it’s simply not true.
I am not brave.
There. I said it. I’m not. I have done nothing that is brave. There is nothing brave about getting out of bed every morning. It may take strength. And some days it takes a lot more strength than other days. But it is not a brave action.
Now, yes, I do understand where my friends are coming from when they tell me how brave I am. They think I’m incredibly brave to write about what’s happened to me. I’m so brave to share what I’ve written with the world.
But to me, there is nothing brave about this. I’m a writer. It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve done for as long as I’ve known how to write. And I’m speaking literally here. I’ve been a writer since I learned how to put pen to paper… or rather pencil to paper. I’ll put it in A Chorus Line terms: God, I’m a writer; a writer writes. (For those of you who don’t know the quote I’m paraphrasing: “God, I’m a dancer; a dancer dances”, which is also true of my life.)
If anything, sharing a blog post is the opposite of bravery. It means I don’t have to talk to people individually. I don’t have to keep repeating the story of what happened. If I wanted to, I could hide away in a hole and Not See Anyone.
Please don’t tell me I’m brave for sharing my grief with the world. Writing is how I process things. My blog is how I’ve chosen to share this entire journey with you. The story may be special, but the act is not.
I may be strong, but I am not brave.