The Most Courageous People I Know
If you were asked to create your definition of courage without using a dictionary or online help, what would your answer be?
My pen is poised above a blank sheet of paper. I write the word courage at the top and underline it. Then, I shut my eyes, search deep within myself, and reflect on how my life has forced me into an intimate relationship with this word.
I write: Courage is the decision to face fear and take a step forward when daunting situations block or challenge the expected flow of life. Yes, I think to myself, that feels right. Courage sounds like such a strong ability, but it only emerges when fear grips me, forcing me to choose: move forward, unsure if my next step will help or worsen the situation, or remain frozen, letting fear become my constant companion.
I set my pen down and continue thinking about this word.
I’m attending the monthly Cancer Support Group that meets at our local medical facility. During my first two encounters with breast cancer, I declined joining any support groups, believing they were only for people who couldn’t handle cancer. But this third time, I find myself looking forward to connecting with others who share this experience. Here, no explanations are needed. We all understand what it’s like to hear the words, “You have cancer.” We’re used to living most of the time with outsiders who can’t truly grasp the medical maze, emotional turmoil, and daily battles of cancer.
When our facilitator asks our group of ten if anyone would like to share their definition of courage, silence settles in. Eyes drop to the floor. People shift in their chairs. To ease the growing discomfort, I raise my hand and hesitantly read my quickly composed definition. As I speak, heads nod as they respond to my words. When the facilitator asks for other definitions, the group agrees–my words resonate with their experience.
We’re asked to write more about our thoughts on courage.
Courage Around the Table
As I look around, I see courage in every person in this room. Each of us has faced the difficult moment when a medical professional held us in suspense through endless tests and procedures before finally delivering those life-altering words, “You have cancer” or worse yet, “You still have cancer.”
One woman was alone at her oncologist appointment, holding her 9-month-old baby while five months pregnant with the second, when she was told she had anincurable form of blood cancer. Another has lived for eight years with a cancer that, ten years ago would have been a death sentence in two. She knows she is on borrowed time. Another is a full-time caregiver for her 80-year-old mother with Alzheimer’s. Some will be on a form of chemotherapy for the rest of their lives. Others, like me, are in remission or supposedly cured. With cancer there are no guarantees, only probabilities.
Surrounding me sitting at this conference table are the most courageous people I have ever met. Each of us has faced the harsh truth that life is unpredictable and uncertain. And yet, we continue forward despite our fears.
But We Don’t Feel Courageous
But here is the surprising part: none of us would describe ourselves as courageous.
Why the disconnect? Why do outsiders see us as courageous while we, the ones fighting cancer, don’t?
We know both sides of this experience—the courage others see and the private struggles we endure. Yes, at times, we have been strong, resilient, and brave. But we also know the darker moments: the fear that wakes us in the middle of the night, the sudden waves of hopelessness, the anger, the sadness. We’ve cursed—silently or loudly—words that would make a sailor blush. At times, we’ve shut out the world, even those who love us most. We’ve screamed at God and the universe, demanding, “Why me?”
Can a truly courageous person experience these emotions?
After the support group ends, my mind can’t quit thinking about this word courage.
Courage Comes in Many Forms
As I think about other people who are also courageous, I think of my Godson, Rodrigo, when he was 3 ½ years old on his first day of preschool. All week we had prepared him for this day by buying special clothes with a powerful dinosaur on the front of his shirt. We read stories about the first day of school. In the car on the way to preschool, we sang happy songs about going to school. He was excited until we got out of the car. Clutching his teddy bear while holding his mother’s hand, we reached the 20-foot-long sidewalk to the door of the classroom. Waiting in the doorway were his teacher he had met last week during a home visit and several classroom aides.
His steps faltered and slowed as the reality of leaving his mother and me set in. Since his birth, he had never been separated from his family. All of his babysitters had been family.
Now he had to let go of our hands and walk into a classroom of strangers. Rodrigo froze as he stopped ten feet shy of the door. His body became rigid as he turned away from the door. He looked up at us with a face any adult can easily recognize as one preceding tears. We bent down and reassured him, coaxing him forward. His paralysis slowly melted into limpness as he turned back towards the door while releasing a long sigh. Clutching his well-worn, dark teddy bear named Chocolate, he walked away from us into the classroom.
His mother and I, also feeling overwhelmed by emotions of this important transition, finally allowed ourselves to cry.
What enables a person to access courage? I decide the answer is time and experience.
By the end of the week, Rodrigo was thrilled to be a “schoolboy.” His experience walking away from family will make it easier for him to do other things in the future that require separation from family and the ability to head into a new unfamiliar experience.
Experience Becomes the Teacher
Likewise, having been diagnosed with cancer three times, by the third time, I almost felt as if I should be reassuring my doctor, who looked more shaken than me. I wasn’t excited about another battle, but I knew I could navigate the well-worn journey ahead. Even if the prognosis had been worse, I knew I had the strength to face it.
Cancer isn’t the only obstacle I’ve faced. I’ve endured life’s many twists and turns—some expected, others not. A phrase I’ve adopted in difficult moments is:
“I’ve stood at the gates of hell, and this ain’t it.”
It’s my way of reminding myself that experience is a powerful teacher.
Like Rodrigo, I remind myself of the times I’ve faced fear and moved forward. And like him, I take a deep breath, hold onto whatever strength I can muster, and face life—sometimes only one immediate next step at a time.