The Quiet Unfolding of Courage

"Life shrinks or expands according to one's courage." – Anaïs Nin

These days, after walking my dogs, I spend most mornings in the yard weeding. There’s a tension between my desire to be in the garden—knowing that it means aches and pains—and the deeper rewards: heart-expansion, a more peaceful mind, and yard-beautification.

Beyond the garden, life is full of new commitments and experiences I’ve chosen—most of them pleasurable. But with this much newness comes a familiar surge of long-standing insecurities. What’s different now is that I no longer try to ignore those feelings. Instead, I believe that a successful life includes staying open to our own bewilderment. That kind of openness takes courage.

‘Courage’ comes from the Latin cor, meaning ‘heart.’ To encourage someone is to put heart into them. It really is the heart of the matter.

The problem is, we often judge courage by grand or external standards. We think it only counts if we’re rushing into a burning building. But courage can be quieter. It lives in both the head and the heart. Courage isn’t recklessness. Running into a fire without reason or equipment isn't brave—it’s unwise. But entering danger with awareness, preparation, and purpose? That’s courage.

We fear this kind of courage when confronting old wounds. The temptation is to run—toward distractions or away entirely. But I’ve learned that it's more powerful to greet these wounds as old friends, to sit with them gently, with curiosity and care.

Just like a firefighter suits up before entering a blaze, we need to approach our inner work with preparation: establishing safety, creating stability, and knowing our tools. Otherwise, we get burned.

Some people do the opposite—they flee entirely. They avoid their pain with substances, distractions, or emotional shutdown. That’s not courage either.

True courage lives between avoidance and recklessness. It’s the point where thoughts and feelings meet: we assess the risk, make a plan, and take one careful step forward. We feel the fear—and do it anyway.

Courage rarely comes naturally. Why would it? Our minds and bodies signal danger. Every instinct says "run." It takes an act of will to pause, turn toward the smoke, and walk in. But each time we do, we grow.

Over time, this practice reshaped how I spoke to myself. I began to say, “Well done for going to [fill in the blank] today,” instead of the usual chorus of “Get a grip... you’re being ridiculous… idiotic.” That shift—encouraging myself—helped build more courage. Because no one climbs a mountain with someone yelling at them from below, telling them they’ll never make it. We need to take this seriously.

Can you give yourself credit for your courage? Can you be your own encourager? Can you feel fear and act anyway? It takes heart: a superbly courageous variety of self-love. It really is what’s at the heart of the matter.