Bravery

I never really considered myself a brave person.

I'm a hufflepuff through and through,

even on my most slytherin of days.

I've always valued kindness & compassion

over courage and heroism.

And yet,

Ironically I have casted myself

as the protagonist of this pathetic coming of age story.

The hero

HE-RO (noun):

“a person who is admired or idealized

for courage,

outstanding achievements,

or noble qualities.”

Okay, so let’s break that down:

Admired & idealized?

Give me a break.

In high school I was the clumsy,

attention seeking,

crunchy granola,

band geek,

with seizures,

and a boyfriend 2 years younger than me

who just so happened to have cancer.

Who was so mentally unstable 

and such an ostracized weirdo

that half the time I was too chicken shit

to even get out of bed.

Fast forward to 2018 and I'm an overweight 22 year old

with only 15 college credits,

no job,

living with my parents,

and oh yeah, I have a reverse brain tumor

aka my brain is atrophying

which causes me to seize all over the place

like some urinating retarded break-dancer. 

(Side note: I hate using the word

retarded

negatively like I just did

It just kind of wrote itself

and I guess I don't really have the heart

to backspace it out of existence.)

Anyways

Back to the whole hero thing:

Idealized for courage/outstanding achievements

Again, no

I spend most of my days

reading harry potter fanfiction

in bed,

showering in the morning only to change back into pj's,

and feeling downright sorry for myself.

And as far as accomplishments go

I'm also coming up short.

I mean,

I won a few "most improved" tennis trophies

when I was like 6.

And I won skittles the rainbow pig in 5th grade,

but that was only because my name

was pulled out of a hat.

In all honesty the most I have ever achieved

was not given to me in the form of a pity "you tried" trophy

or a rainbow pig named skittles.

It was something a fairly overweight 

10 year old camper

with precisely one dimple 

and impeccable manners

named jack brown

told me…

He told me that I would be a really good mom...

Now to you

that may seem like nothing

but to me

it was everything.

Because even though this is my life,

my story…

I'm not the protagonist

I'm not the hero.

It's my mom.

My mom is the brave one

I know this because she

always puts others

before herself.

Because she is patient & tolerant.

(Well except when she isn't

and that's usually only because she has damn good reason

not to be.)

She's humble.

I mean,

she usually only sings in front of people

once a year

at the church talent show

But when she sings,

my god,

it's pure magic.

And then she just walks off the stage

to thunderous applause, 

(well as thunderous as you can get

in a small congregational church)

blushing,

and shrugging it off

as if she hadn't just

out-bossed

the boss.

(Springsteen reference inserted here

due to the fact

that there’s about

a 96% chance

that the song she sang

was sung by her lord and savior

Bruce Springsteen.)

And, gosh she's brave.

And not even in a sword carrying way,

but with a quiet sort of resilience.

She's loyal to a fault.

And has never given up.

Never given up,

on me.

Even though,

trust me,

I've given her about a trillion reasons to

write me off as a lost cause…

But she’s unwaveringly tenacious,

I’ll give her that.

I suppose the most amazing thing about her though,

is she makes me feel brave.

Even when I'm terrified.

Even when I'm too defeated

or suffering from an acute case of ennui,

I just look at her

and find strength

because jack brown

one told me that I would be a really good mom.

And that gives me hope.

Hope that one day

I may have a kid

or kids

going through some insane quarter life crisis,

writing a poem,

that has actually have evolved into some

ridiculous rambling,

about how rad,

and brave,

and incredible a mom I am.

Just like my mom.

So honestly,

if I'm even

one tenth 

of the mother she is

I'd be a fucking hero.

Because to me,

motherhood is pure, unadulterated

heroism.

At least if you're as groovy

and fantastic

as my mom.

And if a 10 year old camper

with precisely one dimple 

and impeccable manners

named Jack Brown

can see a future

where I'm a really good mom,

a mother as phenomenal

as my own,

than that gives me hope...

So perhaps

I actually am brave?

After all,

what's braver than hope?