You know the question people sometimes ask when they try to get to know you? The one that goes, “If you could describe yourself in one word, what would it be?”
I hate that question. I am not a very succinct writer (or speaker, for that matter {in fact, I may just be the wordiest person I know [hence all the tangents in brackets]}), so it’s impossible for me to describe anything in just one word, least of all my own complicated self.
One word? Oh, how to even begin…
But if I were to try to describe myself in one word, I would probably use “eccentric.” Or “loud.” Or maybe just “loco en la cabeza.” {See what I mean about being long-winded?}
One word I would never think to call myself is brave.
I don’t like confrontation, and avoid it at all costs. In fight-or-flight situations, I am a major flyer. I run like the wind whenever I feel at all endangered. By every definition of the word, I’m a typical scaredy cat.
Which is why I have been caught off guard lately when several people have commented on how brave I am. Say what? I know, right? Weird.
But it seems like, these days, a lot of people have been telling me how brave I seem.
My sweet neighbor, for example, couldn’t believe it when she found out I went to get all four wisdom teeth taken out and didn’t call her to come with me for moral support.
“Why would I have done that?” I asked, totally baffled.
“Well, you don’t have your mother here to take care of you—a scary surgery like that, I would think you’d want a mother to hold your hand!” Her eyes started watering in what I could only assume was her utmost expression of pity on me, the poor little orphan girl who lives across the street. Never mind that I’m 22 years old and married—I needed a motherly influence, darn it!
“I wasn’t all alone, though. I had Kyle.”
“It’s just not the same thing, you poor dear. You’re so brave.”
Last summer, I drove to Mesa, Arizona from Southern Alberta, Canada in Tamra Camry, round trip, all by myself. Twice. I enjoyed myself quite thoroughly, and I’m honestly a little sad to know I won’t be doing it again this summer.
More recently, I’ve received a lot of comments from people saying how frightful it must have been to meet all those blogging friends, and how it takes a lot of courage to do something like that, and how they could never possibly do something so scary.
For a while, every time someone new told me how brave I was for doing such-and-such, I’d just shake my head incredulously. “These people are insane,” I’d think.
But one day, I paused in a moment of self-reflection, and came to the conclusion that actually, I might be a wee bit braver than I’ve ever given myself credit for.
I’ve skydived. I’ve coloured my hair completely blonde. I’ve visited a friend of mine in New York for a week, and spent many hours perusing the city all by myself. I’ve rappelled down the side of cliffs. I’ve moved to Belgium to work as a nanny for French people I had only met on Skype™.
I’ve stayed in an apartment in Paris and made my way around that amazing city all by myself for an entire week (with only 150 Euros to my name). I’ve gotten hairs ripped from very sensitive pores with hot wax. I’ve competed in a dadgum pageant—I’ve bounced around on a stage wearing spandex, and stood there in an evening gown in front of an auditorium full of people, and answered a question into a microphone. I didn’t win, but for heaven’s sake—I finished.
And guess what? I did not head into a single one of those experiences without a feeling of complete anxiety inside my self. Each time, as I approached yet another moment that I suspected would change my life, I peed my pants a drop or two. The day I boarded my flight to Paris, I hugged my dad and sobbed, completely soaking his shirt with my snot and tears—I was so scared.
According to the dictionary widget on my dashboard, a brave person can endure or face unpleasant conditions without showing fear. By this definition, I am no more brave than I am a good dancer {I’m a lousy dancer, by the way}.
But my own definition of “brave” is a little different. The way I see it, a brave woman should be able to endure or face unpleasant conditions, showing however much fear is necessary to get her through the day, but ultimately go ahead and do what needs to be done.
Is there anything wrong with being brave? Why have I denied myself the title for so many years? Why have I always considered myself to be a total weakling? I can be brave. I will be brave. I am brave.
Heck, just this morning, I cleaned out the clogged shower drain with my bare hands.
This isn’t my own photo, but it was pretty much exactly this awful. Image from here.
It’s my blog, and I’ll be brave if I want to.
And you? Are you brave, or chicken beep? Have you overcome any gut-wrenching fears lately?
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