Courage Has a New Spot on My Desk

Years ago, probably in the midst of my divorce, my mum gave me a Willow Tree figurine called Courage.

She stands with her arms raised high and wings stretched behind her. The description that accompanies her reads, “Bringing a triumphant spirit, inspiration and courage.”

Mine has a broken arm. Typical Bobo Lori. I don't even remember how it happened. But she survived.

She used to sit on a shelf in my office. Recently, I moved her to my desk. Front and center. I need her where I can see her. She was designed with both arms raised triumphantly in the air. Mine only has one. The other broke off somewhere along the way. I don't even remember how it happened. But there she stands. Broken arm and all. 

Still Courage. 

And I've been thinking a lot about courage lately. Not the kind required when everything is falling apart. I've known that kind of courage. This feels different.  Things aren't falling apart. In many ways, they're coming together.

And I think that might scare me more.

The Safe Choice

I've always been good at knowing what to do when someone gives me a roadmap. Give me a syllabus, a deadline, and a rubric, and I'll get the assignment done. I'll work hard. I'll probably care way too much about the difference between a 94 and a 97.

Give me a job to do, and I'll do it.

Give me a problem to solve, and I'll figure it out.

There's comfort in knowing what's expected of me.

Recently, I found myself considering a master's degree. On paper, it made a lot of sense. The program aligned beautifully with work I've been doing for years around communication, leadership, employee experience, and culture.

There are plenty of good reasons to pursue another degree, and for someone else, or perhaps even for me in another season, it might be exactly the right choice.

But as I sat with the decision, an uncomfortable question surfaced.

What if this isn't just an opportunity?

What if it's also a really respectable place to hide?

Oof.

Because a degree would give me a roadmap. The other path I'm considering doesn't come with one.

What If I'm Not Afraid of Failure?

I've spent a lot of my life hiding. I spent eleven years working as a web developer, largely behind a computer. I've spent more than thirty years at a desk. I've hidden in my body, too. Feeling frumpy. Uncomfortable being noticed. More comfortable helping from behind the scenes than stepping into the spotlight myself.

But lately, I've been feeling pulled toward something different. I have another book nearing publication. I'm building presentations and pursuing speaking opportunities. I have years of writing, stories, experiences, and ideas that I want to share with a broader audience.

I've been saying for a while that I want to broaden. But broadening requires being seen.

And there it is.

Maybe I'm not afraid I'll fail.

Maybe I'm afraid I'll succeed.

Because success would require something from me, too. I'd have to be visible. I'd have to tell people about my work. I'd have to send the pitch. I'd have to walk into rooms where nobody invited me first. I'd have to say, This is what I do. This is what I believe. This is what I have to offer.

I'd have to take up space.

Marianne Williamson famously wrote that our deepest fear isn't that we're inadequate, but that we're “powerful beyond measure.” She follows it with a question I've heard many times over the years:

Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?

And then: Who are you not to be?

Oof again.

Getting Ready to Get Ready

There’s an expression that is something like “getting ready to get ready.”

F*ck that. With a capital F.

Because at some point, preparation can become another hiding place. One more class. One more credential. One more certification. One more revision. One more website tweak. One more book about how to do the thing instead of actually doing the thing. One more thing I need to learn before I put myself out there.

Preparation isn't the problem. Learning isn't the problem. Growth certainly isn't the problem. But I've started asking myself a harder question:

Am I preparing because I need to be more prepared? Or am I preparing because preparation feels safer than being seen?

Because how much more ready do I need to get?

• I have five books.

• I've been published twice in the Chicken Soup for the Soul series.

• I've spent decades learning about people, communication, resilience, leadership, connection, and what helps us thrive.

• I've built the presentations.

• I've written the blogs.

• I've lived the stories.

• I've done the work.

More than ten years ago, I sat with a group of fellow entrepreneurs and cried when I finally said something out loud:

I want to be an inspirational writer and speaker.

It felt enormous. Almost embarrassing in its vulnerability. Who was I to say that? Who was I to believe I could do it?

For years, I think I've thought of that woman as someone I was becoming. Someday. When I was ready. When I had enough experience. Enough credibility. Enough confidence. Enough proof.

But lately I've been asking a different question.

What if I'm already her?

Mic drop.

I am doing it. I'm a writer. I'm a speaker. Even though I prefer to connect from the circle instead of speaking from a stage.  I'm building a body of work that reflects what I've learned, what I've lived, and what I believe.

Maybe I don't need to keep preparing to become the woman I want to be. Maybe I need to notice the woman who's already here.

Choosing Courage

There are no guarantees on the path I'm contemplating. Writing and speaking don't come with a syllabus. Nobody tells me what to do next. Nobody gives me an A for sending a pitch that doesn't get answered. Nobody promises that promoting a book will make it successful. Nobody guarantees that one speaking invitation will lead to another. There is risk in choosing a path without a roadmap.

But there's another risk I've been thinking about. The risk of spending another year preparing for a life I'm already capable of living. Another year waiting to feel completely ready. Another year polishing and planning and learning while the things I most want to create remain safely tucked away. Another year playing small.

I don't want that. I want to take my shot. I want to give my creativity and craft everything I have. I want to play and dream with the man I love while we're both able to. I want to find out what might happen if I stop waiting for permission and start trusting the work I've already done.

And that's why Courage has a new spot on my desk. Broken arm and all.

She's not there because I'm fearless. She's there because I'm done getting ready to get ready. Because I'm ready to stop confusing preparation with courage. Because maybe courage isn't believing I'll succeed.

Maybe courage is deciding I'm willing to find out.