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‘I don’t know how you cope with your illness,’ said my well-meaning friend. ‘You must be really brave!’
I flinched inwardly. I knew she meant it as a compliment, and I took it in the spirit in which it was given, but something in me reacted involuntarily. The notion of surviving chronic illness being reduced to my personal level of bravery irked me.
It’s always bothersome to be forcibly labelled as Brave (or any other label like Strong or Warrior or Survivor), rather than choosing it for myself. But beyond that, my inner knee jerk boiled down to the fact that most of the time, I simply do not feel brave.
I feel scared. I feel down. I worry about the future. I grieve what I have lost. I feel pain. I feel bone-deep exhaustion. I feel lonely (how many people do you know with lupus?) and invisible. I feel different to everyone else—especially when people tell me, ‘I don’t know how you do it’ or ‘I could never cope with something like that!’
Coping is relative too. On a good day, I cope by doing meaningful work, pausing to enjoy the present moment, finding humour in my day, interacting with others and dancing to the music. I could appear to others to be quite brave or strong on a good day.
Bad days are, by contrast, all about survival. I cope by taking pain pills, lying flat on my back, crying, breathing in and out and telling my loved ones what’s wrong. If things go from bad to worse, I cope by calling an ambulance. Do I feel brave on a bad day? That would be a loud and resounding No. On those bad days, I feel inept, pathetic, cowardly, weak and needy. Not exactly the picture of a brave warrior, is it?
There is good news, however. We can reframe our notion of what bravery looks like. Perhaps bravery doesn’t look like a triumphant warrior with their sword raised high in victory, cape flapping majestically in the wind. Not for me, anyway.
Perhaps bravery looks like being honest when things are bad instead of wearing a Brave Face. Perhaps real bravery is about reaching out for help. Perhaps bravery is calling in sick without guilt, or taking pain pills instead of trying to heroically endure, or screaming instead of bottling it up. Perhaps bravery is ugly crying—in front of others. Perhaps true bravery is being honest with God about our doubts, anxieties and needs.
Perhaps bravery looks like being honest instead of wearing a Brave Face.
Some of my bravest moments have been giving voice to my deepest fears and showing my true vulnerability to others and to God. That takes real guts. That takes courage. It’s always risky to be vulnerable; but the payoff can be huge.
Writing one’s story could be viewed as bravery. I felt the acute vulnerability of baring my soul in writing my latest book, Surviving Chronic Illness. But I’m glad I did it, because my story is now connecting with and helping others. That’s the payoff, and it’s totally worth it.
Am I brave? Perhaps I am. Not brave because I am surviving chronic illness; after all, I didn’t choose this. But brave in the way I face it; brave for reaching out to others when I need help; brave for praying brutally honest prayers with God; and brave for sharing my story.
Has anyone said you are Brave or Strong for living with chronic illness? How did you respond to that? Have there been signs of true bravery in the way you have responded to illness? Share your story. Let’s have a countercultural conversation.