Courage

“You’re really brave.”

How many times have I been told this recently?  Too many.  Far too many.  Because it simply isn’t true.  Courage is being scared, terrified, and continuing on anyway.  And really, I haven’t been scared.

            So when someone has told me how brave they thing I am all I’ve felt is an overwhelming feeling of guilt because I struggle to think of a single time I’ve been truly scared and overcome it any sort of commendable way.

            No.  I’m not brave.

            Sitting here and looking out into Russia with thought of Moscow dancing through my mind I realize that I’m truly frightened.  And that I’m a coward.

            I’m a coward because I blame the rain or jetlag or simply having too many things to do as the reason I haven’t been yet.  But the real reason is that the idea of venturing out into the biggest city I’ve visited, boasting only a dozen or so Russian words, alone makes my breath catch in my chest.  My heart flutters, fast and weak.  I find myself unable to swallow down the growing lump in my throat.  And I would rather hide in my apartment and wait for someone to come and hold my hand through it than risk being any more scared than I already am.

            I don’t want to be a coward.

            I wanted a chance to be brave.  And I suppose this is it.

            Moscow, here I come.