Inevitably Brave: Own Your Brave
I’d had enough, I couldn’t bear another
thing. But experience told me I was only at a place of expanding what I knew. Glimmers of discernment helped me realize that my capacity was being stretched. Yet this spiritual truth, no matter how affirmative and positive, didn’t take away the grief I was feeling. It didn’t change the fact that I felt backed up against a wall, having given every ounce of what I had, only to find it still wasn’t enough. What do you do when you’ve given life, the situation, your all—and still fall short?
Trapped by this breaking point, I wailed in a way I hadn’t since childhood. The sound that came from my body didn’t feel like my own—it was primal, animalistic. Thick, viscous tears streamed from my eyes, hot against my skin, lingering on my face, but the room felt cold—still, indifferent to my pain. I wiped them with both hands, frustrated and even angry that I was crying…that I needed to cry, just to keep going. I was tired of giving God, the Universe, everything, only to get the short end. I was exhausted. I was drained. And still, I kept going. I was tired of waiting for a breakthrough to feel fulfilled again. I was exhausted by the work required to redirect negative energy and thoughts. I was tired of carrying the weight—my own, and the weight of others. I was tired of showing up, doing the work, and still not seeing the results I desired. My old reflex came back strong: run, run far away.
My throat ached from the strain of crying. My face was taut, the delicate skin beneath my eyes swollen. My chest and heart still felt heavy—heavier, even. Not even crying was bringing me the relief it once did, I thought. After wiping my eyes once more and rising from my bed, I looked over at the picture of my late grandmother on the nightstand. I grabbed it and hugged it tightly to my chest. In that moment, I realized what I needed more than anything was to be held, to hear those simple yet powerful words: “Everything will be okay.” That night, I slept with her picture pressed to my heart.
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This season, I realize, is asking something of me unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. There is an unyielding solidarity being summoned from deep within. It feels like a season of living from the difference—living from the byproduct of experience, growth, healing, and inner knowing.
It feels like a shift from knowing who you are to living from it—being wholly from that place. It’s the difference between knowing all the things you need to do to heal and show up for yourself, and now selfishly doing it. It feels like the Universe has shifted from making requests to making demands. It’s harder than ever to avoid ourselves, our truths, and the sincerity of those truths. Running and hiding is no longer an option. This season is asking you to live from your center, from your bravest and most sacred place. You’re being asked to face the winds of life, not only to stand but to rise.
Owning your brave may look like surrendering when you’ve done everything you know to do—when your mind has run its course and executed every plan it could devise. It may feel like defeat to your ego, but victory to your spirit. Recognize this, because the ego will fight hard to keep itself from dying. It feels like a time for leaving jobs, situations, and energy dynamics that no longer serve you, trusting this as your principal reasoning, despite the urge to rely on logic. It’s a time for choosing stillness over restless action—sitting with your emotions instead of trying to escape or avoid them. Being brave may look like finding the courage to break down, cry, and become completely undone.
—
The visual appeared without prompting.
I saw a figure standing tall. As I watched this person from behind, I noticed the wind moving swiftly, growing stronger. The leaves on the ground stirred, moving chaotically. The trees in the surrounding forest began to bend, their branches curling to meet the demands of the wind. I soon realized this wasn’t a natural wind. I crept closer to the person standing before me.
As I moved in front of the figure, somewhat anxious about what I would see, I realized I hadn’t considered it might be me. My eyes were closed, but a smile spread across my face. My arms were relaxed at my sides, palms facing outward. I brought my gaze toward the sky and looked around to reassess the scene—the trees, the leaves, and what felt like a hazardous wind. I had been wrong. I had perceived the moment with the eyes and heart of my past, not my present. This wasn’t the wind of a storm, I realize now. It was the wind of help, of support. The winds of spirit and ancestors were reassuring me, reminding me that I was surrounded—that I wasn’t alone. Watching myself stand there, I felt hope and strength being reclaimed from the places where they had slipped away. I felt peace making contact with every situation that had caused me doubt.
I remembered, because I had forgotten: I didn’t just get here. I braved my way to this place. Inevitably, I was always due to arrive here—at my own brave.
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