Where She Still Lives.

I’ve been thinking a lot about bravery—what it actually means to be brave. Is it trying something new even when you’re scared? Even when the outcome is uncertain? Is it standing up for yourself, or for the people you love? Is it just surviving something hard?

My mom was one of the bravest people I’ve ever known. I don’t know if she was born that way or if life made her that way.

She had a really tough childhood, and she endured it. Then she left her home, her family, her friends—the only people she trusted—to come here from Peru with two small kids and no guarantees. She didn’t speak the language. She didn’t know anyone except my aunt and my dad, who, honestly, turned out to be a huge disappointment.

But even after he let us down, in a place that wasn’t home yet, she stayed. Not for him—for us. She left him too. She chose us. She chose herself. That’s brave.

She fought through so much—abuse, loneliness, illness, starting over in a new place—and she survived. She raised us alone. No money, no backup, no safety net to lean on. I don’t know how she did it. I don’t know if that was bravery or strength or just pure will. Probably all of it.

Maybe when you have no other options and you need to survive, bravery shows up and guides you. It pushes you to listen.

I don’t know if I’m as brave as my mom. I’ve always leaned more into fear and safety than the unknown. But my will to survive? That’s hers. That part of me is all her.

I am brave, though. Maybe not in an obvious way, but in the quiet, constant way. Just navigating life—being a mom, a daughter, a wife, a friend, a human in this wild world—that takes bravery. I do hard things. I speak honestly. I tell people I love them. I tell them they are worthy, and why. That counts for something.

Maybe we’re asking the wrong question sometimes. Instead of wondering what makes us brave, maybe we should be asking what makes us forget that we already are. Because honestly? Just being alive takes courage. Loving people. Losing them. Letting go. Starting over. Facing yourself. All of it.

I think about how we teach our kids to be brave from the very beginning—make friends, ride a bike, jump in the pool, go to school. We cheer them on through their fear, remind them they can do hard things.

And somewhere along the way, we stop giving ourselves that same grace.

Letting go takes courage—but so does holding on. And courage doesn’t exist without fear. You can’t be brave unless you’re scared first. That fear you feel? That’s not weakness. That’s your moment. That’s the opportunity to be brave.

I’ll be honest: I don’t always have the courage when it comes to me. I’m great at being brave for other people. I show up, figure out what they need before they even ask. I keep everything intact.

But when it comes to what I want or need? I hesitate. I overthink. I fear failure. And for what—my pride? Some comfort? A little control?

When you’re used to being the one who holds everyone else up, you start putting yourself last. You become the safe space for others—but not for yourself. You stay small, stay quiet, stay “safe,” because shaking things up feels like too much. Even when the thing you’re protecting was never all that stable to begin with.

And still—we keep going. Even when life tries to crush us. Even when we feel like we can’t. We do.

That’s bravery too.

We’re already all of it—brave, strong, capable. We just forget sometimes, because the world has a way of making us feel small.

So this is your reminder (and mine): you’re already doing the hard stuff. Every single day. You face the unknown every day.

Be kind to yourself.