Everyday Bravery: What My 3-Year-Old Taught Me About Courage I Forgot I Had

On the ride home a few weeks ago, Tre, using his vivid three-year-old imagination, told me there were scary things at his school.

It’s not Halloween, so I asked what he meant.

“There was an alligator,” he said.

In classic parent fashion, I responded, “Really?!”

And in classic toddler fashion, he replied, “YES!”

For a moment, I considered that maybe his daycare had a reptile visit and he’d mistaken a lizard for an alligator. But since I hadn’t received any excited updates from his teachers, I knew we were deep in the world of make-believe.

So, I played along.

“What other animals were there?”
“A snail.”
“Oh wow! Anything else?”
“A gorilla!”
“Was it big?”
“Yes! It smiled at me!”
“Did you hug it?”
“Yes!”
“Wow, you’re so brave.”
“I’m brave.”

I paused.

“Did you know your name means brave?
“No.”
“Say: ‘I am brave.’”

“I am brave!”

I almost launched into an explanation of fearlessness, but I caught myself — because what is fearlessness, really?

I thought about it instead.

Bravery isn’t fearlessness. Fearlessness isn’t even real.

I believe naming matters. The names we give people, the names we give things. They shape us. And I can already see the ways my son lives into his.

He’s brave when he runs after a kid bigger than him for messing with his older brother. He’s brave when he stands his ground (or defends his turn at a toy) without backing down.

But fearless? Not even close.

He’s terrified of Chuck E. Cheese and every other costumed mascot. (Which is why there will be no trips to Disney any time soon — because I refuse to waste my money just for him to scream in Mickey’s big ears!!!)

And I’m not fearless either. Bugs, heights, and public speaking still shake me.

Roller coasters especially. It’s why I never called myself brave.

Neither did anyone else…until I got divorced.

And then the real question hit me:

Why is bravery — especially for women — only recognized through trauma and survival?

You survived breast cancer? You’re so brave.
You survived domestic violence? You’re so brave.
You raised your kids alone? You’re so brave.

As if we had a choice.
As if the conditions that demanded our resilience weren’t thrust upon us.
As if surviving was optional.

We diminish bravery when we only recognize it in those who’ve endured trauma.

We turn it into something passive — something that happens to you, rather than something you choose.

But that’s not bravery.

Or maybe it’s Bravery with a capital B — the kind that’s praised after the storm passes.

I think that’s more survival though. It’s human instinct. The heart moves over and the brain kicks into overdrive. It’s our natural move to adapt, endure and persist.

But bravery — bravery with a lowercase b — the kind we often overlook?

That’s quieter.
That’s choosing when you have options.

Sometimes those options don’t seem as big as fighting cancer, or staying for the kids, sometimes it’s the choices at work, the fight to do right when you want to do wrong, the option to defend the person on the outskirts.

It’s pushing forward when societally retreating feels safer. It’s running ahead when every part of you wants to step back because of how you were raised or conditioned.

And even though it’s everyday, it’s still big and may not be seen as an outward victory, or notice, or exposure, or applause.

It’s the mother who asks for help instead of drowning in her depression.
The friend who tells the uncomfortable truth instead of nodding along.
The woman who negotiates her salary.
The man who shows up to a parenting class after growing up without a father.
The person who sets a boundary — and doesn’t explain it away.
The artist who shares their work, knowing not everyone will understand.
The entrepreneur building a dream between daycare pickup and never ending spreadsheets.

These moments are brave. Quietly, consistently, powerfully brave.

Choices. Made in quiet. Made with intention. Made anyway.

I watch my son in his imaginary world, hugging pretend gorillas and facing down make-believe alligators, and I realize:

He already understands something it took me decades to learn.

Bravery isn’t what you endure.
It’s what you choose.

He’d be playing with those alligators and gorillas not because someone pushed him into a jungle, but because he set his course in that direction.

Mulan wasn’t brave because she survived the war. She was brave because she chose to go in the first place. She walked toward battle when everything in her should’ve told her to run.

So I look at my little boy, telling tall tales about dangerous animals, and I think:

May you never learn bravery through trauma.
May you learn it through choices — through seeing the scary thing and walking toward it anyway.
Through helping when it would be easier to look away.
Through speaking up when silence would protect you.

And if trauma does come — because life is unpredictable and sometimes cruel — know this:

Surviving isn’t what makes you brave.

What makes you brave is getting up the next day and choosing to live with an open heart.

What makes you brave is how you carry your scars, not that you have them.

“I am brave,” he says again, beaming with pride, even though he doesn’t yet know the weight of those words.

But one day, he will. And, as has already been established, I’ll reply, “You are, Atreus.”