Ever since I was young people have told me that I’m brave. Whether I was tap dancing all over the stage, sitting atop a float, or auditioning for every non-profit local play there was, I was always getting compliments on my guts, my determination. I’ve dyed my hair every color under the sun, never cried when a few extra inches got cut off. Upon moving to San Francisco on my own to start college, there was a collective shrug from my friends and family, as if to say, “of course Kalee would do that, why wouldn’t she?” I don’t get checked on a lot, my parents don’t worry about me- it’s just assumed that I’m trucking along, I’m doing fine. I recently had to take a personality assessment for work that boasted one of the highest levels of drive (for a female, they felt the need to add).

The fact that I have this blog is supposedly brave. There’s this concept that sharing my thoughts and ideas is this valiant act of courage. It’s not.

Just yesterday I went to the house of a guy who I’d been dating to ask him why he suddenly started ignoring me. I was called brave, but also crazy. That’s fine. I don’t really care- neither of those words came to my mind, that’s just how I deal with things. Communicating and being honest are not brave- however, I think avoiding communication, honesty, discomfort, and negativity are quite cowardly.

I don’t feel brave at all. I’ve been in positions where I’ve tried to defend my insecurities, my uncertainty, only to be met with eye rolls or disbelief. I personally believe that things like public speaking, working, finishing school, changing/finding careers, and travel are not scary. I don’t think change is scary in general. So I don’t feel brave. I never feel brave.

I’m super scared of birds. I hate going to the doctor. I can’t be alone for too long without getting upset. I have really high anxiety. It takes a lot for me to feel safe. I make up weird stories all the time to get out of things, to sound more interesting, to get people to like me. When I experience a setback I immediately think of myself as a failure. The expectations I have for myself do not feel high, they feel normal. The expectations I set for those around me don’t feel high at all, but I am continuously disappointed by friends, family, boyfriends.

I’m afraid of heights, of bugs, of large bodies of water, of breaking my bones, of submarines.

I typically don’t put much thought into what I wear, how I look, or what people think of me because those things will never change me. But that doesn’t make me brave.

I think the people that have found contentment are the bravest. These people who are so okay with their lives, their place in the world. What it must be like to not feel the need to search anymore, to not feel restless, to want to ask why. The people who can make lifetime commitments with only 2 decades under their belt, the people who have babies, who share themselves so effortlessly. Nothing that I’ve done is brave. Everything I’ve done is selfish, a search for security in a continuous state of discontent.

#pussy thanks for reading!

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