On Being Brave

I’m not. Brave.

At all.

In fact, I’d probably consider myself the biggest scaredy cat of them all.

I’ve never lived more than 60 miles away from my childhood home because in our early years of marriage it felt safe to stay close and now it just feels like being stuck.

I’ve borne three children, not four, because I was too afraid of the kind of mom I’d be if I had more kids than I already couldn’t handle.

I rarely confront. I rarely speak out. I rarely challenge.

And I rarely write.

Oh, I write, but I rarely write what I’d like to write because it feels too big, too scary.

I’m too afraid.

Recently I did something that felt a little brave. I invited some dear, young moms over to my house to talk about an idea I have for a book.

They’re coming tonight.

And all day, that small act of bravery has felt like a sickness. A death. Like I want to call them all up and cancel because, seriously, what a dumb idea.

I’m not brave.

At all.

Would some of you brave ones out there please tell me how it’s done?