The Day I Didn’t Feel Brave

It wasn't a loud kind of day. There were no decisions made out loud, no milestones crossed, no victories to post about. I woke up tired — not just sleepy, but worn out, deep down. The kind of tired that wraps around your bones and makes everything feel just a little too far away. Getting up felt like climbing out of water. I moved slowly, quietly. I didn't feel brave. Not in any heroic way. Not in any way at all.

There was no reason, really. Nothing went terribly wrong. But I found myself standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a cup I didn't remember reaching for, staring into nothing. I wasn't crying, but I could have. The world felt like too much. The noise, the news, the expectations — even my own small hopes for the day. It all pressed down like a heavy coat I didn't ask to wear. And all I could think was: I'm not strong enough for this today. I didn't feel ready. I didn't feel grounded. I didn't feel like the version of me I usually try to be.

But then, slowly, I moved through the day. I brushed my hair. I made something warm to drink. I replied to a message. I sat with my daughter while she talked about something I almost missed — but didn't. I folded laundry. I stepped outside for a few minutes, just to feel the air on my face. Nothing big. Nothing brave. But I did the next thing. And then the next.

Sometimes, bravery doesn't look like bold steps or grand changes. Sometimes, it's showing up when you don't feel ready. Sometimes, it's letting the dishes wait, letting yourself cry without rushing to stop. Sometimes, it's holding someone's hand when your own feels too weak. Sometimes, it's just not disappearing. That day, I wasn't brave in the way I thought I had to be. But I was still here. And maybe, in its own quiet way, that's enough.