He Who Is Brave Is Free

What if I stop running? 

From myself? From my past? From my brokenness? From the things I spend so much time and energy keeping at bay, in the shadows?

What if I just stopped?

Ripped off the mask and stood with arms outstretched before the waves? As swell after swell came, beating me, knocking me down until I didn't know which way is up?

And then, upon finding the surface again, I embraced it all – the good and the bad. Without judgement or regret. And stood again.

Surely, there are some who would see me— bare, vulnerable, open— and think me insane. They may walk away. They may shout their disapproval. They may even join with the torrent to tear me down.

And how that would hurt.



But wouldn't others look on and see courage? And strength? And dignity? Maybe they would admire from afar. Maybe they would offer encouragement or aid. Maybe they'd stand silently beside, even reach out for my hand. Maybe they'd pull me back on my feet. Maybe I could pull them up, too.

After all, if I were the bystander in this scenario (and haven't I been before?), would I not envy the person facing the waves? Do I not long for her courageous spirit? For her sense of wholeness, self-sufficiency, and worth? Don't I think the scoffers ignorant and undeserving of attention? Would I not tell them to fuck off without a second thought?

So why do I let the fear of them keep me submerged when my waves come? In chains? Afraid? Alone?

What if I stopped holding my head underwater so that the critics may breathe more freely? Do I not have an equal right to be? To be loved? Happy? Free?

Just me?