//On Courage

Sweaty hands and bumpy hearts, skin electrified and blood in motion – I felt scared. I felt nauseous. But also – I felt alive. I felt like I was stepping into a greater version of myself that I could barely imagine: A courageous version, a bold version, a defying and resisting something that would drag all the missing pieces along.

This describes the moment when I stepped forward on 8 March 2020, knowing that I would show myself in ways that are not part of the narrative, knowing that I would be vulnerable, knowing that I might provoke, knowing that it was an act of resistance and that it might make a difference. This describes the moment when I stood bare-chested in front of 400 people. This also describes the moment when I shaved off my hair in public. Whenever I stand on stage. Whenever I share my poetry. Whenever I know all eyes are on me. Whenever I know nobody is watching and I am still doing the right thing. Whenever I show and stand up for myself. Whenever I show and stand up for someone else. It describes every moment when I dare to listen to silence, when I dare to look at the shadows, when I disarm the ego, and when I tell you I love you – despite –

And here comes the other half of the truth: Courage can only be found and felt together with the word ‘despite’ – courage means there is an overcoming, or an innercoming, it comes with a weight that throws itself in the balance, reversing the scales. It is not an aesthetic scene – it is more of a messy motion, a wrestling of forces, and – quite often – a question of thin layered time, of millimeters marking and making the move. You might guess the counterpart of courage – it is called fear.

It is that thing that causes you to avoid, to hide, and to hold back, it is that thing that keeps you up at night, that keeps you from jumping high, that makes you sit and stand and stagnate, that makes you freeze and fight or take flight: fear will get in the way when you are about to dream, to dare, and to debark. Wherever there is courage, there is fear, which means that there is no courage without fear coming along with it. That is how it works. Courage and fear are basically married on the scales, they are intertwined in their opposition and will only find balance with one another.

This might sound simple, but it took me long to realize that fear will not disappear. No matter how long I wait, no matter how badly I want it to leave – it will stay: the fear of making mistakes, the fear of failing, the fear of falling. The fear of being judged, of being left out, of being alone. The fear that you would leave, or disappear, the fear of not being loved, of being abandoned. You name it – fear is manifold, and it is persistent. It might not always be rational, or logical, but it will claim its seat at the table.

So, what are the options? I kept telling my fears that there is no chair and asked them to exit the room, politely, patiently waiting for them to leave so that I could pursue my dreams. Oh well, that did not work. Then I started pushing, dragging the fears outside and closing the door – just to find them clinging to my sleeve again a little later, sometimes bringing its siblings all along: anxiety, mistrust, cravenness, timidity, procrastination, isolation. I know many of their masks, and I believe you do, too. But if all these fears really want to be here, I could just ignore them, right? I could just dare and do all the things I dream of doing, without questioning, without hesitating, just moving fast enough to leave my fears behind. That has worked out a few times – however, fear is fast, and it has always managed to catch up. Fear is smart, too. It smells the game that I am sometimes trying to play, it discerns all the traps and leaks through the gaps that I had not seen.

Eventually, I gave up: I have started offering seats at my table: one, two, many. Many fears taking a seat, taking their time to talk and to trust. And I figured that the only thing that fear wanted was to be seen, and heard, and understood. My fear wanted a compassionate nod, a valid place, it wanted to be something, to be visible. My fear was afraid – of not being acknowledged as such.

This realization has changed the game: My fears have started collaborating. It is still a clumsy-choppy semi-constructive conversation but: the table is round, and the edges are softened. And guess who now comes to visit more often? Courage. As the weight that throws itself in the balance, reversing the scales.

And in this act of counterbalancing, it has become easier to see through the messy motions: Fear cannot be reduced, but courage can be increased. Fear will not disappear, but it becomes more cooperative once it is being looked after, instead of over. It has become the messenger, but I am still the mediator, mapping my next moves.

Sweaty hands and bumpy hearts, skin electrified and blood in motion – I felt scared. I felt nauseous. But also – I felt alive. I felt like I was stepping into a greater version of myself that I could barely imagine: A courageous version, a bold version, a defying and resisting something that would drag all the missing pieces along – until they fall into place.