For some, bravery might be physical acts of defiance-like running a marathon-and for others, it might be expressing their feelings or standing up for what is right. One of the greatest things about bravery is that it looks different on everyone. I have some news for you: It’s all of the above. Is it heroes climbing mountains and saving lives? Is it leaders fighting to make the world a better place for future generations, or teachers and firefighters? Or is it driving with the EMPTY gas light on? To love is to be courageous and I only hope to be as brave as you one day.What’s the first thing you think about when you hear the word "brave"? To see my family as persons, that is terrifying. But to someone such as I, who finds love to be a lie – to believe and choose to love is a miracle.
But what is the point of fulfilling these personal dreams if I throw away my babies? How would that make me any different than my father who was never satisfied with what he had? What difference does it make if I am physically present but still emotionally vacated?įor many of you, it seems ridiculous to call your acts of being present and loving and sitting with your children an act of bravery. I am very unhappy with these choices because it seems extra difficult for my writing goals in 2020. It’s why I’m choosing to not work during certain hours – to make sure I give them the attention they deserve. It’s why I am choosing in 2020 to wake up early to write so that I can’t escape as much in the evening to avoid my children when I am most vulnerable. The best I can do is to approach it sideways, all casual-like in true tsundere style (a Japanese term for a character who is initially prickly or hostile on the outside but is actually squishy and soft on the inside).
WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE BRAVE HOW TO
I don’t know why I am still so caught unaware – so baffled – when I am reminded anew that I have no idea how to be intimate with the people I love.įor someone who is an alleged good friend and reasonably emotionally intelligent, I either can’t or won’t get past it with my own family. I have used writing as an excuse to avoid bedtime – because it is in the quiet that all my fears surface and I have anxiety attacks where I can’t breathe. And perhaps I have grown marginally better at being present. I get so annoyed and frustrated because it seems as if I have written about this for years now. Is it because I’m Chinese that I pretend to not hold them dear? For fear of loving too tightly only for the capricious gods to take them away on a whim? To say that they’re little assholes and tyrants and to pretend that they are nuisances who I love and am endeared to because they came out of my body and I nursed them for years and carried them but only begrudgingly. But it is also a lie.Įvery time I really see my children, really see them in all their glory, I start sobbing. I tell myself it’s because I love babies and not children. I tell myself it’s because I did not grow up this way. I tell myself it is because I hate the squirming or the constant noise. I have four children who I love to distraction and yet, the idea of spending quality time with them terrifies me. Though I want connection with my family, I hide. And yet, the thought of them no longer being here also causes me to panic. Even thinking about it causes me to panic. Having a real conversation with my mother, my brother, and my husband – being there without the slight distance of a phone or a laptop or even music coursing through my earphones – causes me to panic. It is in fact easier for me to tell all of you that I am afraid of want, love, and presence than for me to want, to love, and to be present. After all, people told me I was brave – so I must be, right? People complimented me on my vulnerability so I must be a vulnerable person, right? I thought I was so open about myself because I shared these painful stories. To watch something I think would bring me shame and watch it squirm under the harsh scrutiny of a thousand gazes only to find that I have not died.īut a weird thing happened along the way. It gives me power to name something and bring it to light.
But after years of practice and telling these stories, it isn’t so bad anymore. Yes, of course, I feel nervous and somewhat clammy talking about what happened to me and my family. It is my father (and sometimes, when I’m feeling uncharitable, my mother) who should feel shame. I have zero qualms about sharing these stories because in my mind, I have nothing to be ashamed of. Friends and strangers alike reference me sharing about my abusive childhood, my pain, and my journey as evidence of bravery, but these acts are not hard for me. Whenever people tell me I’m brave, I feel like a huge fraud.