Merrium-Webster defines courage as…
noun
: mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty.
In life many of us do not think of ourselves as brave or courageous because when we imagine bravery or courageousness, we picture people who survive something catastrophic, conquer mountains, or win seemingly insurmountable battles against all odds. I mean they are, but I am here to offer another image of what bravery and courage look like.
When I think about courage, I do not see capes or spotlights. I see small rooms and tired faces. I see mornings that start too early and nights that feel too long. I see the silent ways people keep going when it would be easier to give up. When I think about courage, I never used start with myself. However, nowadays after many years of reflection in recovery, I do.
I see the face of someone courageous in the mirror before the day has even started. I live with ADHD, dyslexia, chronic pain, and a history of addiction and trauma. Most mornings my thoughts are already racing and my body aches before I stand up. On those days, courage is putting my feet on the floor. It is packing a lunch, checking my planner twice, getting my kiddo out the door, and showing up to work and class anyway. It is doing ordinary things with a nervous system that does not feel ordinary. No one applauds that. But that is courage.
More faces of courage belong to my kids. They are neurodivergent, thoughtful, and more honest than most adults I know. They move through schools and spaces that often misunderstand them, yet they keep asking questions and telling the truth about how they feel. When my child looks at me and says, I am overwhelmed, and trusts that I will listen, that is courage. When they walk back into a classroom after a hard day, that is courage. When they let themselves be fully who they are in a world that keeps trying to shrink them, that is courage.
My family has taught me that courage is not always loud. Sometimes it is a conversation at the kitchen table where someone finally says, I am not okay, and we choose to sit in that truth instead of smoothing it over. Sometimes it is my kid trying a new coping skill in real time instead of shutting down. Sometimes it is me admitting I need help with something simple because my brain is tired and my eyes are done.
In recovery spaces, there are whole rooms made up of courageous faces. My face and those of many others arriving at a recovery shelter with one bag and a history that would break most hearts and still checking in and finding our bed and taking a breath. It is the faces of those of us who chose to share our story for the first time, our voices shaking but our words clear. Courage is on the faces of all of us who have had to walk back through the door after a relapse, carrying shame and hope in the same body, and still choosing to sit down. Every time we come back, that is courage.
Courage in my community looks like people who keep showing up even when they are not sure it matters. The fellowship members who make coffee before a meeting, so others have a warm cup waiting. Those who ride three buses to therapy and still text a friend afterward to see how they are holding up. A staff member who takes a few extra minutes with a person who is struggling, even though the day has already been long. Neighbors in recovery houses share food, rides, and information in small acts that help keep others afloat. These are quiet forms of courage that most people never see, but they are there.
The many faces of courage are not limited to people in recovery. Courage lives in people who have never used that word for themselves. It can be the teacher who keeps adjusting the way they reach a student instead of giving up. It can be the nurse who walks into one more room with a soft voice after a hard shift. It can be the cashier who holds their patience through a long line and then goes home to care for family with what is left of their energy.
Courage can be someone who decides to go to therapy for the first time and sits in the parking lot breathing through the urge to drive away. Courage can be someone who leaves a relationship that is eroding their spirit, or someone who stays but insists on safety and respect and real change. Courage can be learning to say no after a lifetime of saying yes, or learning to say yes when fear has always made the decisions.
People who do not think of themselves as brave are practicing courage in meaningful ways. The parent who gets up for another early shift so there is food on the table. The student who keeps returning to class after failing more times than they want to admit. The older adult who chooses to learn new skills or a new language even when it feels intimidating and unfamiliar. These are not footnote moments. They are courage woven into daily life.
For me, courage is not a feeling of power. It is a decision to stay honest. It is choosing to live my recovery out loud so silence cannot drag me back into the dark. It is letting my kids see me as a full human being who is still learning, not a perfect parent who never struggles. It is standing beside women in recovery and saying, you are worthy and believing it because I have seen what is possible.
The many faces of courage remind me that bravery is not reserved for a select few. It grows in anyone who keeps reaching for something better, even when their hands are shaking. It grows in anyone who keeps telling the truth, even when their voice is unsteady. It grows in anyone who chooses to stay, to feel, to try again.
If you are still here, still trying, still holding on for yourself or for someone you love, you are already wearing one of the many faces of courage. Whether you see it or not, it is there. Give yourself the credit for your courage that you so deserve and go put on that cape and be proud of your badass courageous self!
Love Always,
Nora
Nora In Recovery 