Dear… on Apple TV.  And the episode that’s playing in the background (because I am not one who can write in the quiet…which makes no sense, but I’ve never really claimed to make much of that anyway) is Dear Lin Manuel Miranda, which, just in case you’ve been living under a rock for the last decade, this man is the brilliant writer behind Broadway explosions (some turned movies) like West Side Story, In The Heights, and Hamilton.  I have watched Hamilton a minimum of 300 times, not counting the hours I’ve spent listening to the Hamilton soundtrack.  Anyway, as this documentary is playing as background noise, he said something that made me stop, rewind it, and play it again.  “So much of writing is just about meeting the moment you’re in as honestly as possible.”  I don’t know why that single statement affected me so strongly, but it brought me to tears.  And I deleted the last three attempts at my article this month, which is already, unsurprisingly, very late. 

 

The other night, when I was trying not to stress, unsuccessfully of course, about what I was going to write about this month, my very well-meaning husband was like, just tell AI to write it, and then it’s one less thing you’ve got on your already overloaded plate.  He was trying to be helpful because he knows that I carry a heavy load.  But I feel like there might have been a very exorcist-esque moment in which my head slowly spun, wild-eyed with shock and horror, and words were said…not ones I’m likely ever going to admit to but, said none-the-less. Now, in his defense, he’s not a writer. I don’t even know that I consider myself a writer, but I do know that when I write, whether it’s an article, a social media post, or a letter, it’s whatever ten levels past extremely personal is.  My writing is part of who I am, and when I share it, the only way I can explain it to people who don’t understand is that it’s something like walking around Times Square completely naked, with every thought and feeling I’ve ever felt in my soul printed in BOLD for everyone to see.  Dramatic, you might say.  Especially, given that I rarely write without using humor as a coping mechanism, and I’m sure my English teachers are appalled by my lack of proper writing etiquette and all of the things they worked so hard to impart to me.  But, messy as it may be, it’s mine.  And even more importantly, it’s me.  Just in print. So, short story long, I did not follow that particular piece of advice from the man I love, and proceeded to start about six additional versions, none of which felt right.  However, that quote, about meeting the moment as honestly as possible sparked something in me that I needed to start my words.  From scratch.  Again.  And while this may be less marriage-related, it is very human-related, and we’re just going to have to accept that this is me, meeting this particular moment, as honestly as possible. 

 

Bravery and Compassion 

While I don’t normally find myself contemplating these things, and definitely don’t think of them as a bundle deal, lately, it’s something I keep coming back to.  The way I’ve always heard bravery described or seen it portrayed on screen is likely how most people think of it.  Strength under pressure, fearless, standing up to literal and metaphorical giants, head held high, knight in shining armor kind of brave.  As girls, especially those of us who were girls a little longer ago than others, many of us grew up reading and watching fairy tales filled with damsels in distress, waiting.  I remember wondering, more often than not, What they could possibly be waiting for? And, why, for the love of all things good and holy, did Cinderella go back to her evil stepmother?  Actually, I have a lot of unanswered questions for Cinderella.  But the waiting thing? That’s my real question. 

 

I’ve mentioned several times in the past that I was raised in a very traditional and conservative home.  My dad went to work.  My mom stayed home and raised us, kept us clean and fed and loved, while homeschooling (which I now know classifies her as a saint all on its own) and somehow seemed to retain some sanity.  She took odd jobs during our youngest years, cleaning the church, scrubbing toilets and floors and the things people don’t think twice about leaving behind, yes, even in church. Years later, as an exceptional and embarrassingly underpaid teacher, worked summers at a local pharmacy/corner store to give us many things we didn’t deserve but still wanted. Yes, I do know she’s better than me.  We’ve established this, I’ve accepted it. I don’t doubt she’ll be giving me an earful on this later, but I can live with that too, so let’s move on. 

 

I watched my mom manage schedules and meals and budgets and kids, without being able to google “How do you know when you’ve lost your mind?” or “How much therapy will my kid need if I lock myself in the bathroom for 5 minutes?” While she juggled all of these things, I also saw that she didn’t wait.  For anything or anyone. If something needed to be done…she did it.  If clothes needed washing or the milk was left on the counter, she took care of it.  When someone was struggling, she didn’t ask what they needed.  She just showed up, emptied trash, washed dishes, started laundry, left a meal (or 4), and was gone before anyone realized that a real-life fairy godmother showed up exactly when they didn’t even know they needed her.  My mom didn’t wait.  She acted.

 

I realize this feels like it’s gone off the rails a little, but don’t quit on me yet.  The stories I read and movies I watched told me that if women waited long enough, at some point, the hero of the story would show up and they’d ride off into the sunset, without any of the less-than-gentle problems that real life delivers.  I thought bravery looked like Prince Charming on a white horse.  However, little did I know that I had already been given a beautiful portrait of bravery, the kind of brave I wanted to be.  My mother. 

 

I can promise you, she would not give this kind of description of herself, and also probably remembers being driven to the brink of insanity and questioning her life choices like the rest of us. The things I watched her endure as a mother, a wife, a woman with grace and gentleness when not a single person or situation she lived through deserved either of those things….well, let’s just say that while she won’t ever see herself this way, you can trust me that my version is the most accurate. My dad, her husband of 45 years, still tells me almost every day that he had no idea that he could love anyone as much as he loves my mom.  He will also tell you a million other ways that she was, and still is, a beautiful representation of true, unconditional, relentless and brave love. And her kind of bravery isn’t what I thought of as courage.  She wasn’t fearless.  She wasn’t visibly tough.  She cried at romantic movies. She was soft and kind and probably didn’t set enough boundaries and most definitely had never heard of the term self-care. Even if she had, she wouldn’t have given herself the same kind of grace she offered others.  She would rather lick a toilet seat than be in the middle of any kind of confrontation (so obviously this trait is genetic). However, for those she loved, she would stand tall, no matter how much her voice shook, and speak up bravely for us, no matter the consequences it would bring for her. 

 

Bravery isn’t fearlessness. 

Bravery is experiencing trembling fear and yet,

 doing what needs to be done anyway.

 

My mom’s brand of courage is witnessing other’s (my) failures, how we (I) failed ourselves, and even how we failed her, standing on her faith and choosing to see the mountains we climbed instead.

 

She isn’t perfect.  Or at least I’m assuming, since she is human even though I rarely see her as anything short of superhuman, and also hoping that one previous sentence gets me a little latitude after I’ve put her front and center in an article posted on the internet, therefore living forever.  If I were Catholic, I would definitely be throwing her name into whatever hat holds those eligible for sainthood.  Now that I’ve been married for over 18 years, I don’t doubt that there were plenty of opportunities for her to have thrown in the towel on her marriage and raising kids who did not make anything easy…except for the fact that it would have just been one more thing to wash.  She had a million reasons to doubt her life choices and make a run for it.  But I’m sure that thought never (okay, probably at least rarely) crossed her mind.  Because she is exactly the woman that God made her to be…filled with quiet strength, unwavering faith, compassion and courage that makes her a force to be reckoned with. 

 

And you know what? The longer that I live, the more I see every single woman that I know, or have known, has been fighting a battle that no one ever bears witness to.  At some point, every woman I know has found herself ugly crying in a parked car.  Then she wipes her face, throws sunglasses on and smiles and makes small talk with the cashier/neighbor/stranger/friend/spouse, never letting on that she’s barely holding it together.  She dreams dreams that don’t often come true, makes plans that never happen, cooks meals no one will eat, and often wonders if she’s actually invisible.

 

Maybe she lives her love out loud, but still doesn’t feel safe enough to let her guard down.  Or maybe she wears her heart on her sleeve and cries during musicals, or loves a good horror movie and practical jokes. No matter our backgrounds, personalities, nature vs. nurture or whether or not we know all of the lyrics to every Snoop Dogg song prior to 2004….despite every difference, we are part of an exclusive sisterhood. One that spans generations long before and long after us.  While the world around us does it’s best to convince us that life is a competition, I think one beautiful thing that being so easily connected through technology has created is a realization that when we compete with each other, more of us lose than win.  But when we pull someone up who is drowning under a sea of grief or struggling to see a sliver of light at the end of a seemingly endless tunnel, we’re telling them that their struggles aren’t theirs alone.  The weight doesn’t have to be carried alone.  And when she can see out of the abyss, she’ll emerge even stronger.  Then she will have the ability to see others around her who need a life raft too, and because of the kindness of friends, family and even sometimes strangers, she has the strength to help pull up someone else who may be sinking like her.  And this, my friends is one of those times that the word begets pops into my mind.  Because compassion begets kindness.  And kindness begets action which begets healing.  And healing begets even more courage and bravery to face those giants, both real and imagined and teach others to fight the good fight and to find “good trouble” as John Lewis famously spoke about.  Because we all need support and someone who will hold us up when we’re too tired to stand on our own.  Heck, Moses had people who helped hold his arms until every single person made it through the sea on dry ground, and even Jesus had a close circle who supported and helped spread His message of hope and healing and performed miracles showing the world the real-life power of faith and hope. 

 

So even when we might feel alone, don’t forget that there are millions of other women who may not have walked in your shoes but have walked in their own and know how to take the next right step, even if that step is one that you take barefoot, through broken glass and feeling lost.  But a step is a step is a step is a step.  And each one is one that leads you closer to the place you can stop, rest, reset and encourage others to take their own next tiptoe in the right direction.  The direction taking them to realize their dreams, where their faith, which while at times may be wavering, never gives up, never loses hope, never backs down.

 

Just know that right now, whether you find yourself on a mountaintop, down in a valley, or even somewhere in between, you don’t have to walk this path alone.  You have women who have forged their own path so that you could see a way to create yours.  There are women who believe in you fiercely, bravely and without doubt in who you are and your ability to become exactly who you were made to be.  Women who will stand in the gap, lift you up, show up with wine and a good movie, never once noticing the mess that you think is holding you back.  All you have to do is reach out your hand and let us hold yours, knowing together, we are so much more than enough.  So don’t give up.  Don’t doubt your bravery just because fear tries to hold you back.  You are and always will be the hero of your own story and the rest of us are so lucky to play a supporting role in shining a light on the beauty and strength even in the most broken places. 

 

“Women who believe in each other can survive anything. 

Women who believe in each other create armies that will win kingdoms and wars.”

Nikita Gill