My daughter holds my hand tight, skipping along with a smile on her face. I stare at her, mesmerized.
It's dark out and all I can see are shadows and unknowns. My mind is racing with all the what ifs and I can feel panic rising. I wish I could fast forward time and just step from here to the safety of my bedroom and my husband's arms.
She is non-stop chattering, retelling stories of her school day, the dance she is learning, the friends she is making, the things that make her laugh, the thoughts that make her wonder. I remind her to watch where she is walking, because there is ice and darkness and cars to consider. She holds my hand tighter and smiles again.
"I love when it's just you and me, mommy."
I smile as I buckle her in, but I'm only half listening. I'm looking around, wondering what is hidden in the darkness and locking the doors quickly before hurrying down the road that leads us back home.
I breathe deeply, asking for peace and calm to cover the fears and I listen once more to my daughter's words. Her stories are full of details and emotion, because she always remembers faces and she feels everything deep and wide just like me.
But it doesn't bother her. She doesn't know what it is to be ashamed of the way her heart breaks over every little hurt and the way words stay with her long after they've been forgotten and forgiven. She simply lives and loves with everything she's got.
The conversation returns to her dance class and the recital that is drawing near. I ask her what it's like to wait backstage with a room full of people and if it bothers her that I'm not there.
"Well, I'm always nervous at dance, because I don't really know anybody. But that's okay."
Her words pierce my heart and I remember the way she danced tonight. She didn't pay attention to anything or anyone else besides the music and her own body. The music moved her in a way that took my breath away.
She may seem shy and even afraid, but she doesn't let it stop her. She simply does what is hard because she loves to dance.
I remember what my husband told me just a few days earlier. "Sometimes you have to do the hard things, even if you're afraid."
My daughter has figured out what I am still struggling to learn, because I've spent my life running and hiding from fear. Being brave doesn't mean not being afraid; being brave means being afraid but doing the things you fear in spite of fear.
So maybe this year is not really about no more fear. Maybe this year is really about being brave.









