Trusting the Fog

Lately, I’ve noticed a quiet theme weaving itself through my conversations with friends. In our conversations, even though obviously, each story is unique, there's a common thread tying them together.

They're scared.

Not necessarily of something dramatic or catastrophic. But scared to let go of things they’ve outgrown. Situations, relationships, jobs, places — all that no longer spark joy or bring peace. And yet… they hold on. Not because it feels good, but because it feels safe.

That word keeps echoing.

Safe.
It’s such a gentle word, isn’t it? Soft. Comforting. It wraps around you like a warm blanket. But it can also become a net that entangles, a place we shrink into even when it no longer fits who we are becoming.

It made me pause and look inward, too. I know that feeling well — the familiar ache of staying somewhere (or with someone, or in something) because the fear of the unknown is scarier than the pain we already know.

And here’s the thing: There is nothing wrong with wanting to feel safe. Safety is foundational. It allows us to breathe deeply, to grow, to rest. (Even if so often I find we don’t rest enough!) But sometimes, what we call “safety” is just the absence of movement. It’s not a shelter — it’s a holding pattern.

Which brings me to bravery.

Bravery isn’t the absence of fear. It’s an action, despite the fear. It’s that quiet decision to step toward something we can’t fully see yet. And that kind of courage is intimately tied to trust — trust in ourselves, in our capacity to adapt, in the mystery of the future.

What I’ve learned through my own life and experiences is that bravery isn’t just a singular, cinematic moment. It’s not once-in-a-lifetime. It’s a practice.

Bravery is something you build like a muscle. You don’t have to be born with it — you grow into it. You learn that you can do hard things. And then you do them again. And again.

It doesn’t mean the fear disappears. It means the fear stops running the show.

Bravery is like getting back on the bike after an accident — knees still trembling, heart pounding. It’s hearing no after no after no, and still choosing to show up. It’s having the difficult conversation that could change everything… and choosing to speak anyway. Each time, something inside shifts. The fear may still be there, but so is your evidence: I’ve done this before. I can do it again. Bravery, in this way, becomes a kind of trust — not in the outcome, but in your ability to keep going no matter what it turns out to be.

So to all of us out there — pausing at the edge of change, fingers curled tightly around the familiar — may we remember that bravery doesn’t have to roar. Sometimes, it’s a whisper that says: it’s okay to let go now. And trust? That’s the hand we hold as we take the next step forward.

M.K.Čiurlionis “Fugue” 1908

M.K.Čiurlionis “Prelude” 1908