A neighbor recently called me “brave.”
It temporarily stopped me, because I don’t consider myself a particularly brave person.
I have lived my entire life within the same ZIP code.
My first passport expired before I earned a stamp in it. And since then, I’ve had one international trip.
But my neighbor spoke of my bravery in a different context.
We were speaking, in very general terms, of my autoimmune disease.
We were speaking, in very general terms, about my pain level increasing as the day goes on.
Yet, she sees me outside on a regular basis, sweeping my front steps and my back patio. Watering my plants. Going for a walk with my son.
I don’t regard those activities as “brave.” They are merely the activities that make up a part of my days.
Am I brave? I don’t know.
So I did what I usually do when I’m not sure about something, when I need more information. I looked it up. I used my computer’s dictionary to read the definition of “brave” – “ready to face and endure danger or pain; showing courage.”
Am I “ready to face and endure danger or pain”?
I don’t have a choice. It’s just what I do.