I have never known quite what to do with the word brave. It shows up so quickly whenever people witness suffering, ready in their mouths like a ceremonial offering. You’re so brave. They say it softly, reverently, as though bravery is the natural companion to illness, grief, fear, survival. As though courage blooms automatically inside catastrophe like a flower turning obediently toward light.

But something in me has always resisted it.

Perhaps because bravery sounds too willing. Too noble. Too purposeful.

It feels, sometimes, as though the word quietly mistakes endurance for consent. As though surviving something unimaginable means you somehow agreed to participate in it. As though standing upright in the wreckage implies you volunteered for the storm. People call you brave because they cannot bear the possibility that terror and suffering happen randomly, unfairly, without permission. “Brave” gives structure to chaos. It transforms helplessness into heroism. It makes pain easier to witness.

But I have never felt heroic.

I have felt consistently terrified for nearly nine (9) years.

Terrified in waiting room after waiting room. Terrified before (and after) scan after scan. Terrified by the way my body has betrayed itself silently, cell by cell, while the world continues on with grocery lists and traffic lights and ordinary weather. Terrified by pain that arrives without warning and no one really helps me figure out the origin. Terrified of loss after loss, friend after friend entering hospice. Terrified of becoming smaller and smaller inside a life increasingly organized around survival. Terrified of leaving too soon and the devastation I will inflict on those around me.

And yet.

I still showed up.

That is the part I am proudest of.

Not the illusion of fearlessness, but the presence of fear itself. Because courage without fear is simply ease. What astonishes me now is not the absence of terror, but the decision to continue alongside it, with it, day after day. To carry fear into the PET machine. Into yet another infusion. Into difficult conversations and uncertain futures. Into yet another surgery. Into new diagnoses — clots and new primary cancer just in 2025. To wake each morning with dread sitting heavy at the edge of the bed and rise anyway.

That feels more honest than bravery.

We misunderstand courage when we imagine it as a kind of shining invincibility. Most courage is not triumphant music swelling in the background. Most courage is quiet and exhausted and deeply unwilling. It cries in the car before appointments (and often afterwards as well). It bargains with itself in parking garages. It trembles while signing consent forms. It searches statistics at two in the morning and still manages, somehow, to attend tomorrow.

The people who inspire me most are not fearless people. They are terrified people who continue.

Parents who show up for their children while carrying devastating diagnoses. Friends who answer messages while drowning privately. Patients who return for treatment despite knowing exactly how much it will hurt, exactly how much suffering will ensue. People who continue loving, planning, hoping, working, laughing in fragments, even while fear moves through them like weather.

That is not bravery in the mythic sense people often mean.

It is something more human.

More raw.

More miraculous, perhaps, because it does not erase fear in order to move forward. It makes room for fear at the table and continues anyway.

So no, I do not think we are brave because suffering transformed us into warriors or saints. I think we are ordinary people asked to carry extraordinary things. And I think there is profound dignity in continuing to show up for our lives, for our families, for dear friends despite how terrified we are.

Not fearless.

Faithful. Showing up. Here.

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