A Fire Born of Staying
Maybe bravery doesn’t come roaring in.
Maybe it slips in smaller —
quiet as a breath
you didn’t even notice you were holding.
A glance held
just a little longer.
A hand
not ready to let go.
A story
you almost didn’t tell.
A trembling yes,
already there,
waiting to be heard.
We wouldn’t need much.
A porch light left burning.
A room with chairs that don’t match.
Enough space
to show up half-open,
half-unsure —
to tremble a little —
and still be held.
We’d sit together
with our unfinished stories,
our bruised hopes,
each one quietly finding its place —
spilling and filling the spaces between us.
Grief beside laughter,
neither asking to be explained.
Bravery would pass between us —
not declared,
not demanded,
just caught
and carried,
like warmth cupped gently
between open hands.
Someone would crack —
their truth slipping free
from the carefulness.
Someone else would catch it,
steady it,
and hold it —
precious, still burning.
And something would shift.
Not loudly.
But surely.
Permanently.
You might not even call it bravery at first.
It might just feel —
like breathing easier,
like no longer being alone.
We wouldn’t leave certain.
We wouldn’t leave whole.
We wouldn’t leave bulletproof —
but we would leave braver.
Taking each other's trembling yeses,
weaving them into our own —
sparks to light
the quiet flames within us.
As flames find flames,
building,
burning,
small yeses rising,
coalescing,
consuming the darkness —
giving hope once more,
lighting the way.
P.S. Also available as a podcast.