I have been a self-proclaimed wimp all my life. I  have taken the comfortable, easy path. Change is scary. At work, we were told how resiliency is great and were assigned “Who Moved My Cheese?” as required reading. I always felt like these were just corporate excuses for bad decisions. Change and fear felt pretty similar.

Fast forward a few years. I keep hearing the word “brave” thrown around. In my mind, brave is the opposite of fear. Brave seems to be a buzzword. Be brave, be fierce, they say. Be brave. What does that even mean? Nelson Mandela was quoted as saying “I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.”

Writing my book has scared me to death, but I feel drawn. I need to write. To get these thoughts out of my head. To maybe help someone else feel less alone. I know deep-down that this process is what I need. It is the key at this moment to my healing. I need to get through this, but it scares me. Why? Am I scared of failing? Am I scared of succeeding? Sometimes I’m just scared I’ll quit. I think someone else needs to hear what I’m saying. How you can survive when you don’t feel like it. How you can continue putting one foot in front of the other. How you can become brave in your weakest, shittiest moments. How a non-brave girl like me can find love again.

Hiking the Elkhorn Crest Trail terrified me. Following my training plan was scary. I was pretty sure I would quit, but I did not. I doubted myself a lot along the way and I was pretty sure I was crazy to carry on, but I did it. I was scared that day during the hell that was Mile 16 that I wouldn’t be able to finish. I was scared that I’d look like a wimp as I limped in last in our group. I was scared that I’d disappoint someone. Mike, my family, myself. Someone.

Skiing sometimes is scary as hell. I am not scared when I go too fast. I have easily gone 50 or 60 mph and it’s been 100% exhilarating. I’m more scared about skiing in the powder. I feel out of control and I fear looking dumb. I hate it. I don’t want to fall down and look pathetic.  I don’t want to let anyone down. I have long family history of great skiers and I don’t want anyone to think “geez, I’m surprised Kristie isn’t a lot better than she is.” I panic sometimes. My brain is telling me I can’t do this when I know darned well that I am absolutely physically capable.

The thought of living without Mike has been paralyzing at times. He was always my sounding board, my voice of reason, and my pep talker. I could tell him about every doubt and not sugar coat anything. He knew when my bitchiness was actually fear and my tears looked like sadness but were really anger. He was, in my opinion, the better parent. He was patient and he knew exactly when to get all worked up and when not to. He knew what advice to give the kids when someone was mean to them. I was reactionary and emotional. I wanted to punch the kid that called Drew fat, rather than help him realize that life is full of negative people and the quicker you learn to deal, the better. Mike handled that one perfectly. I was tortured for months after his death with the thought that my kids would one day realize that they got screwed by losing their dad, but mostly they got screwed by being stuck with ME as their one-and-only parent. That is a pretty horrible fear. I didn’t feel like I really have any of the good answers and was not wise beyond my years like Mike was.

Decision-making has been very scary. Especially regarding the property stuff. Keep or sell the rentals? If they are killing me slowly with stress, best to get rid of them, but what if I make the wrong decision? Procrastination has been a very real bi-product of my fear. I’m scared what the accountant will say so I file an extension for the second year in a row. I am afraid of the emotional stuff I will find when I have to do to dig through the old computer to find our tax info. Very scary stuff.

Fixing stuff on my own is scary. I organized our garage last year and it was one of the most empowering things I’ve ever done. But it scared the shit out of me. I went WAY above my skill level and hung up pegboard and hung ski racks from the ceiling. I got my bike put up and out of the way on the wall. Every single time I looked for a drill or a hammer or whatever tool I needed, I stumbled across something of Mike’s. Some other memory that made me so happy and so sad. I unloaded tote after tote of his stuff. I was reminded that the guy had a million hobbies and dabbled in EVERYTHING outdoorsy. Every time I turned around, I had to see the flies that he started to tie but did not finish. And sometimes, even sadder, were all the ones that he did finish, but never got to use. The arrows he made for archery hunting. The box of Boy Scout stuff from the troop he helped lead for Drew and bunch of other great kids. All the parts of a life that is long gone, part of a life cut short, unfairly. I was constantly reminded of how big Mike lived and how much he loved life. And even though it makes me so happy and thankful for the memories, it makes me somehow feel inadequate and scared. Scared that this is the best my kids have.

Falling in love is scary. Letting someone in is scary. What if I let him down? What if I compare him to Mike and he doesn’t live up to those expectations? What if no one would be able to live up to that? Nothing could be more unfair to either of them. But it is darn-near impossible not to do that exact thing. Every time I am let down by things not going just how I’d like them to or him not supporting me the way I’d expect, I immediately am reminded about how Mike would have handled things. How Mike thought I was so spectacular that HE was the lucky one. Crazy, but he really did. He told me that all the time. Instead of running away and trying to shield myself from some type of future pain (real or imagined), I power through. Very bravely, in fact.

Here’s what I have learned, though. All those scary things are what have made me feel brave. Right after Mike died, my mother-in-law wrote me a beautiful letter that I will cherish forever. She said that she and John were very proud of me and that I had shown incredible strength over the past several weeks. They would stand behind me and the kids in every decision and would support me always. This was written from a very true place and has held true 43 months later. What struck me the most was that the strongest person I knew was telling me that I was strong. What the what? I’m not. Really, truly. I have been such a wimp sometimes and have depended on the strength around me for years. I’m not what I would consider brave. But guess what? If overcoming fear is brave, then I have done it THOUSANDS of times in the last 3-1/2 years. I have parented my very best when I have not felt at all equipped to do so. I never one time stayed in bed all day and decided to give up because I was too scared. I’ve thought about it a lot. A LOT. It is so tempting. I have two very good reasons to be brave, though, even when it’s the last thing I want to do. We got on a plane bound for Hawaii a few months after Mike’s death and it took every ounce of strength I had. We laughed and cried and swam and explored for two weeks and without meaning to, we healed a little bit. I felt lonelier and more afraid than ever before but I ignored that fear and went on living. I have become the master of “winging it” in the parenting realm. I am pretty sure I’ve said stupid things and made bad decisions, but I keep showing up. Every single day. Even on the days I didn’t want to or didn’t think I had the strength. I keep on keeping on. I have taught my kids some great things about perseverance and living life to the fullest. After all, 50% of their genes come from their dad. They will be okay. I plugged right through that garage project and learned a few skills along the way. On the days I didn’t feel like it, I did it anyway. 15 minutes a day until it was done. I am proud of myself and how bravely I handled that. I sold 3 houses and bought one. My God! Those are some big, stressful things. I did a bunch of yucky legal work and I got my will straightened out. Did it suck ass? Absolutely. Was it terrifying? Very much. I did it anyway. As time has passed, I realize how lucky my kids are. I am far from a perfect parent, but at least I show up. I know of a little girl Emrie’s  age whose dad died unexpectedly and her mom could not handle taking care of her. She sent her across the country to live with her grandparents. I don’t know the intimate details, but I can’t help but think “WHAT THE F*&K???” Seriously? Yep, I did some pretty hard shit that I didn’t want to do, either, but I did it. Looking in those sad eyes of my kids nearly ripped my heart out. Maybe it would have been easier to have shipped them off to spare myself that sadness. That was never an option. Not for a second. So, when I doubt my awesomeness or feel sorry that I’ve had to endure this, I try really hard to remember how far I’ve come. I cut myself a little slack because no one gave me a playbook to figure this all out. I have had tons of support and help along the way.  I have screwed up plenty of times, but I have sucked it up and kept on going. The way I see it, there has been no other choice.