I Think It’s Brave

I think it’s brave
that you wake.

That somewhere before morning
you loosen your grip,
let consciousness slip,
let the dark hold your name
while you disappear from the ache.

Then dawn
places everything back in your hands.

Here.

Your body.
Your history.
Your life as it stands.

Carry it again.

And somehow,
you can.

God,
I think it’s brave
that you can.

That your bones can beg
for a kind of rest
sleep has never learned to give,

and still
you pull yourself from the sheets
and make the impossible choice
to live.

Two feet
against a cold floor.
Your weight
given back to the earth once more.

Nobody sees the quiet yes
inside a body deciding
to stand.

I think it’s brave
that you kept living
when you could no longer understand
what living was asking of you.

When people said tomorrow
like tomorrow was owed,
while you stood at the edge of tonight
with nowhere left to go.

Still,
you left little evidence
that some part of you
might arrive.

An appointment written down.
Clean clothes waiting
for a body
you were struggling to keep alive.
Shoes beside the door.
Your phone charging beside the bed.

Tiny domestic prophecies
from someone
who could barely see ahead.

I may still be here
when this is needed.

I think it’s brave
that some part of you
kept preparing to exist
when the rest of you
was pleading for rest.

I think it’s brave
that the waves kept coming.

The kind
that steal the sky,
fill your mouth,
make you forget
which way to reach your hand.

The kind that turn breathing
into begging.

Where every direction
looks like deeper water
and your own body
becomes another weight
your tired soul is dragging.

I think it’s brave
that sometimes you fought.

And I think it’s brave
that sometimes
you could not.

That there were days
you let the water take you under
because you had spent
everything you had
surviving another.

And still—

some ancient piece of you
kept reaching for air.

Sometimes you surfaced
because your body remembered
what you couldn’t anymore.

A gasp.
A breath.
Air taken almost by mistake.

Then another.

Sometimes survival
isn’t even a choice you make.

God,
I think that is brave.

I wish someone
had been there.

Not later,
when survival became
a story people could bear.

I mean then.

When the night had teeth.

When three in the morning
had no border,
no language,
no release.

I wish someone
had sat on that floor.

Not reached for a lesson.
Not asked you
to turn agony
into a blessing.

Just sat.

And said:

I know.

I know you are tired.
I know this hurts
where language cannot reach.

I know everyone says
be strong
when strong is another thing
they need from you.

I think it’s brave
that you are still here.

Not—
it gets better.

You needed a hand,
not a forecast
of weather.

Some wounds are wounds.
Some pain is pain.
It does not owe us wisdom
because you survived it again.

There were days
you wanted to give up.

Days when forever sounded cruel.
When surviving until bedtime
was an impossible rule.

So you survived until noon.

Then twelve-fifteen.
Then twelve-sixteen.

Sometimes a life
is not saved in years.

Sometimes it is saved
in sixty seconds
of staying here.

Nobody applauds a minute.

It simply moves,
and somehow
you move with it anyway.

12:16.
12:17.

No revelation.

Just one more minute
you did not leave.
One more impossible moment
you somehow agreed
to breathe.

I think it’s brave.

I refuse
to rewrite your suffering
into some beautiful instinct
that always knew.

You didn’t know.

There was no secret map
beneath your skin.
No future you
reaching backward
to pull you in.

There was only you,
hurting,
and one more breath.

There was only you,
beneath another wave,
salt in your throat,
your lungs on fire,
your body somehow
still conspiring
to keep you alive.

So I will say this
to every version of you
who never heard it:

I think it’s brave
that you got up.

I think it’s brave
that you kept living
when you forgot how.

I think it’s brave
that the waves kept coming
and somehow
you kept finding air
with a mouth full of water.

I think it’s brave
that there were days
you wanted to give up
and you stayed
to meet another.

Not because you knew
this life was waiting.
Not because you could see
who you would become.
Not because hope
came riding in
with the morning sun.

You stayed
without proof.

You stayed
without a plan.

You stayed
when staying
was all you could stand.

You stayed
when tomorrow
was too much to believe.

You stayed
without knowing
what staying would mean.

Maybe courage was never
wanting to stay.

Maybe sometimes courage
is wanting to leave
and surviving
the day.

So I will say it now
for every night
nobody did.

I think it was brave.

I think you were brave.

And God,

I wish someone
had told you that
while you were still
trying to stay.

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I think it’s brave that you wake. That somewhere before morning you loosen your grip, let consciousness slip, let the dark hold your name while you disappear from the ache. Then dawn places everything back in your hands. Here. Your body. Your history. Your life as it stands. Carry it again. And somehow, you can. God, I think it’s brave that you can. That your bones can beg for a kind of rest sleep has never learned to give, and still you pull yourself from the sheets and make the impossible choice to live. Two feet against a cold floor. Your weight given back to the earth once more. Nobody sees the quiet yes inside a body deciding to stand. I think it’s brave that you kept living when you could no longer understand what living was asking of you. When people said tomorrow like tomorrow was owed, while you stood at the edge of tonight with nowhere left to go. Still, you left little evidence that some part of you might arrive. An appointment written down. Clean clothes waiting for a body you were struggling to keep alive. Shoes beside the door. Your phone charging beside the bed. Tiny domestic prophecies from someone who could barely see ahead. I may still be here when this is needed. I think it’s brave that some part of you kept preparing to exist when the rest of you was pleading for rest. I think it’s brave that the waves kept coming. The kind that steal the sky, fill your mouth, make you forget which way to reach your hand. The kind that turn breathing into begging. Where every direction looks like deeper water and your own body becomes another weight your tired soul is dragging. I think it’s brave that sometimes you fought. And I think it’s brave that sometimes you could not. That there were days you let the water take you under because you had spent everything you had surviving another. And still— some ancient piece of you kept reaching for air. Sometimes you surfaced because your body remembered what you couldn’t anymore. A gasp. A breath. Air taken almost by mistake. Then another. Sometimes survival isn’t even a choice you make. God, I think that is brave. I wish someone had been there. Not later, when survival became a story people could bear. I mean then. When the night had teeth. When three in the morning had no border, no language, no release. I wish someone had sat on that floor. Not reached for a lesson. Not asked you to turn agony into a blessing. Just sat. And said: I know. I know you are tired. I know this hurts where language cannot reach. I know everyone says be strong when strong is another thing they need from you. I think it’s brave that you are still here. Not— it gets better. You needed a hand, not a forecast of weather. Some wounds are wounds. Some pain is pain. It does not owe us wisdom because you survived it again. There were days you wanted to give up. Days when forever sounded cruel. When surviving until bedtime was an impossible rule. So you survived until noon. Then twelve-fifteen. Then twelve-sixteen. Sometimes a life is not saved in years. Sometimes it is saved in sixty seconds of staying here. Nobody applauds a minute. It simply moves, and somehow you move with it anyway. 12:16. 12:17. No revelation. Just one more minute you did not leave. One more impossible moment you somehow agreed to breathe. I think it’s brave. I refuse to rewrite your suffering into some beautiful instinct that always knew. You didn’t know. There was no secret map beneath your skin. No future you reaching backward to pull you in. There was only you, hurting, and one more breath. There was only you, beneath another wave, salt in your throat, your lungs on fire, your body somehow still conspiring to keep you alive. So I will say this to every version of you who never heard it: I think it’s brave that you got up. I think it’s brave that you kept living when you forgot how. I think it’s brave that the waves kept coming and somehow you kept finding air with a mouth full of water. I think it’s brave that there were days you wanted to give up and you stayed to meet another. Not because you knew this life was waiting. Not because you could see who you would become. Not because hope came riding in with the morning sun. You stayed without proof. You stayed without a plan. You stayed when staying was all you could stand. You stayed when tomorrow was too much to believe. You stayed without knowing what staying would mean. Maybe courage was never wanting to stay. Maybe sometimes courage is wanting to leave and surviving the day. So I will say it now for every night nobody did. I think it was brave. I think you were brave. And God, I wish someone had told you that while you were still trying to stay.

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