The Quiet Kind of Brave:

What everyday courage really looks like in adulthood

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I have two sons.

Brian—the oldest—is a civil engineer, a father of three, and a master juggler of bedtime stories, finder of lost soccer shin guards, and someone who can cook turkey bacon so it’s actually edible.

Adam, my youngest, is single, self‑employed near San Francisco, and endlessly inventive. He’s trained llamas, restored vintage cars, and once lived off the grid collecting rainwater.

He’s done roughly one million things that would terrify me.

And yet—

Adam shakes his head at Brian’s kid chaos and says,

“He coaches soccer in the rain, wears a tie to ballet recitals, and stays calm when the washing machine floods the basement. I couldn’t do that. That’s brave.”

He was right.

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Brian with his three kids — proof that everyday courage often looks like patience, laughter, and a flooded basement.

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Bravery is personal.

And it doesn’t need to look the same to be real—even within the same family.

We tend to think bravery belongs to big moments.

Mountains climbed.

Jobs quit.

Risks taken in bold, visible ways.

But adulthood teaches a quieter version.

Sometimes bravery isn’t climbing mountains.

Sometimes it’s folding laundry when you’d rather run away.

Sometimes bravery looks like:

• Staying when you want to bolt—or leaving when you want to stay

• Responding gently when your nerves want to snap

• Saying, “I’ll handle it,” when you’d rather hide in your car

• Acting when procrastination feels safer

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With my son Adam at Lake Tahoe — a reminder that bravery can look like adventure, reinvention, or simply showing up for each other.

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That kind of bravery showed up for me in the studio.

Prints.

Stripes.

Lace.

Checks.

Perfect fabric scraps gathered from seamstresses who sewed the authentic Dutch costumes for my city’s Tulip Time festival.

Perfect, I thought, for a collage painting to submit to the poster contest.

I layered paint.

Glued fabric.

Rearranged.

Re‑glued.

Rearranged again.

Some fabric dissolved.

Some turned transparent.

Some curled like they were trying to escape.

My fingertips stayed tacky.

My studio table looked like a fabric tornado had touched down.

I laid out shapes.

Hesitated.

Second‑guessed.

Over and over.

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Finally, my husband—my biggest supporter—said quietly,

“You need to stop planning and just paint.”

His words nudged me to act.

To be brave.

Because bravery isn’t always an adventure begun or a summit reached.

Sometimes it’s a whisper:

Just begin.

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Bravery in the Studio

In my studio, bravery looks like starting again.

I paint.

I re‑do.

I explore.

Every brushstroke is an act of faith that the next layer will reveal something true.

Although my art is visible, its quieter message is meant for anyone who needs it—to comfort you, to guide you, and to encourage you to keep going.

Bravery isn’t about being fearless.

It’s about creating anyway.

Loving anyway.

Believing—anyway.