One Might Call me Weak

One might call me weak. I not only have fears, I have crippling mountains! When I feel the glaring eyes of the monster under my bed my legs feel weak, my heart beat quickens, and I feel the insufferable urge to run.

One might call me weak, and I can definitely say I agree. If weakness is defined by fearing the the unknowable of a dark room, by being afraid to take a stand when I know I’m the only one who can; if weakness means being filled with anxiety and fear, then, yeah, I’d most-definitely say I’m weak.

But of course being weak doesn’t mean one can’t also be brave. Being brave doesn’t mean you can’t be afraid. It doesn’t mean my legs don’t freeze in place and my blood doesn’t run cold at the first sight of something that fills even the most ignorant man with fear. Bravery doesn’t mean I don’t hold fear, it just means I’m stupid enough to feel my anxiety and ignore it anyway.

Being brave is defined as holding “the quality or state of having or showing mental or moral strength to face danger, fear, or difficulty.” So yes, when called weak I’d definitely agree. But if being weak means being afraid and being brave means facing that fear anyway, I’d like to say I’m brave too.

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