A week spent realizing how very brave I am. One of the bravest people I have known. It’s weird to be coming out the other side of the last few years with this perspective. A year ago I was so afraid and so hurt that I didn’t think I would survive it. I sincerely believe death would have been easier. I thought about it quite often. I felt so cowardly, but there were many times when the only thing stopping me was not wanting to be responsible for that much hurt in other people. You: my friends, the portion of my family whose feelings I care about and respect. I know you wouldn’t have blamed me. But it would have hurt, and there were a few people I love that would have never really recovered from it. You would have become as broken as I felt.

I see now that being brave isn’t about being fearless. It’s about seeing that fear, recognizing its depth, understanding that it can and probably will break you down to your very core, that you will be irrevocably changed, and yet refusing to run from it. Refusing to yield to it. Meeting your demons, staring them down, forcing them to be the ones to look away. To run from you. To fear you. Because the fear that had once overwhelmed you is no match for your strength. Because your fear has been transmuted into power.