Today I Choose to be Courageous – How to be Courageous

I used to be tied to everyone’s opinions. Wrapped up in them like a straightjacket made of other people’s expectations. At 30, I would have never started Enlightenzz. Never written about hot flashes in Target or panic on mountain roads. Never admitted I watch Game of Thrones four times through or read “fairy smut” to decompress.

But at 61, something shifted. Not overnight, not dramatically. More like ice slowly cracking on a frozen lake, little fissures spreading until suddenly you realize the whole surface has changed.

The courage to create Enlightenzz didn’t come from bravery. It came from exhaustion. Exhausted from wearing masks. Exhausted from being appropriate. Exhausted from keeping my mess hidden while everyone else pretended their lives were Pinterest-perfect too.

The first time I hit “publish” on a truly vulnerable post, my chest was so tight I thought I might be having a heart attack. My finger hovered over the button for a full five minutes. The voice in my head had a field day: “Nobody cares about your menopause. You’re not a real writer. What will people think?”

I hit publish anyway. Then immediately wanted to delete it.

The Anatomy of Late-Life Courage

Courage at 61 looks different than courage at 25. At 25, courage was bungee jumping or moving across country. Now courage is admitting I don’t have answers. Writing about the time I thought I was enlightened until life proved otherwise. Sharing that sometimes I eat cereal for dinner and call it self-care.

The physical sensation of courage hasn’t changed. Still that flutter in my stomach, the slight tremor in my hands, the way my breathing goes shallow. But now I recognize these as signals that I’m about to grow, not signals to retreat. My body’s alarm system still works; I just changed my response to the alarm.

Starting Enlightenzz required a specific kind of courage: the courage to be seen as a beginner at 60. Every tech issue, every formatting disaster, every time I had to ask my son how to do something “simple,” I had to swallow my pride and choose learning over looking competent.

The Fear That Almost Won

The fear was real and specific. What if no one reads it? Worse, what if people do read it and think I’m ridiculous? What if my professional contacts see it and think I’ve lost my mind? What if my kids are embarrassed? What if, what if, what if.

My shoulders lived near my ears for the first six months of Enlightenzz. Every notification made my heart race. Was it criticism? Judgment? Someone telling me to stay in my lane? The fear of exposure was so intense that some mornings I’d wake up and immediately check if I’d been “found out,” though what exactly I was hiding, I couldn’t say.

But here’s what I learned: courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s feeling your jaw clench, your chest tighten, your inner critic go into overdrive, and doing the thing anyway. It’s typing with shaking fingers. Publishing with a racing heart. Sharing your truth while every cell in your body screams “protect yourself.”

The Unexpected Physics of Courage

Courage compounds. The first vulnerable post was agony. The second, slightly less. By the tenth, I could hit publish without needing a paper bag to breathe into. Each small act of courage made the next one possible. Like building muscle, except this muscle was in my soul.

What surprised me was how courage in one area leaked into others. Once I could write about my father’s death and ugly grief, I could also set boundaries with energy vampires. Once I could admit I don’t understand my own finances half the time, I could also ask for help in other areas. Courage became contagious, infecting parts of my life I hadn’t even realized were ruled by fear.

The timeline mattered. At 61, with my doctor’s toilet paper roll spinning faster, the cost-benefit analysis changed. What’s scarier: someone judging my writing, or reaching the end without ever sharing what I learned the hard way? The proximity to mortality became rocket fuel for courage.

When Courage Looks Like Clicking “Publish”

Last week, I wrote about the time Curtis almost died and I became someone I didn’t recognize. Raw, unfiltered, included the part where I screamed at God in the hospital parking lot. My finger hesitated over “publish.” This was too much, too real, too naked.

The old voice started up: “Keep some mystery. Don’t share everything. What will people think?”

But then I remembered every article that helped me through dark times. Always the honest ones. Never the polished ones. The ones where someone admitted they didn’t have it figured out either. Those writers’ courage had been my lifeline. Maybe my courage could be someone else’s.

Published it. Hands shaking. Heart racing. Full body vulnerability hangover for two days after.

Then the messages started coming. “Thank you for saying what I couldn’t.” “I thought I was the only one.” “Your courage gave me courage.”

The Courage to Be Mediocre

Part of being courageous with Enlightenzz meant accepting mediocrity. My first posts were rough. Grammar questionable. Structure wonky. Tech skills embarrassing. But waiting until I was “ready” meant never starting. Courage meant being willing to be bad at something publicly.

This is particularly hard when you’ve spent decades being competent. I was a Chief Compliance Officer. I knew my stuff. Starting over as a beginner writer and website creator at 60 meant courage to look foolish. To have typos. To accidentally delete important things. To ask questions everyone else seemed to know the answers to.

The courage to be imperfect publicly has been the hardest and most liberating part. Every mistake I make and survive proves the world doesn’t end when you’re human in public. Every admission of “I don’t know” makes space for learning.

What Courage Costs and What It Pays

Courage has cost me some relationships. People who preferred my masked version. Who were comfortable with my playing small. Who felt threatened when I stopped asking permission to be myself. These losses stung but also clarified who belonged in this chapter.

But courage has paid dividends I never expected. Connection with readers who see themselves in my mess. Freedom from the exhausting performance of perfection. The surprising joy of creating something that didn’t exist before. The deep satisfaction of finally, at 61, becoming who I actually am instead of who I thought I should be.

My body has changed since choosing courage. The chronic shoulder tension has eased. The jaw clenching happens less. It’s like my body was using all that energy to hold in my truth, and now that it’s flowing out through writing, there’s space to breathe.

Daily Courage in Small Doses

Courage now is a daily practice. Every morning with my coffee, facing the blank page. Choosing truth over templates. Picking the real story over the safe story. Hitting publish even when my inner critic is having a field day.

Some days courage is big: writing about marriage struggles or financial fears. Other days it’s small: admitting I don’t understand NFTs or that I still can’t figure out Instagram stories. But each act of courage, regardless of size, strengthens the muscle.

The beautiful thing about courage at this age? The stakes feel both higher and lower. Higher because time is finite. Lower because I’ve survived worse than judgment. Failed at bigger things than blogging. Been embarrassed by more significant moments than typos.

The Ongoing Practice of Brave

Today I choose to be courageous. Not because I’ve conquered fear, but because I’ve decided fear is a terrible life editor. Fear would have me stay safe, stay quiet, stay small. Fear would have me reach the end with all my stories untold, all my paintings unpainted, all my truth unshared.

Courage at 61 isn’t about being fearless. It’s about feeling the fear in every cell and choosing creation over comfort. It’s knowing that my inner critic will always have opinions and deciding those opinions don’t get veto power anymore.

Starting Enlightenzz was an act of courage. Continuing it is a daily choice to stay brave. Every post, every share, every vulnerable admission is a small victory over the voice that says “who do you think you are?”

Who do I think I am? A 61-year-old woman who finally found the courage to tell the truth. To share the mess alongside the wisdom. To admit that I’m still figuring it out and that maybe, just maybe, that’s the most courageous thing of all.

Even if my hands still shake a little when I hit publish.