Dear courage

I am searching for something, but I do not know exactly what it is yet. I am 5 years old. The thing I am searching for seems essential to survival, but I am too little to even know what I am looking for.

I feel shame and discomfort deep inside of my little body. Why are they laughing? Is something wrong with me?

I hate this game. I hate this school. I cannot tell anyone.

I come back because that is what kids do. They go to school. This day will be different, I think. Turns out it isn’t. We are still playing this silly game, and they are still laughing. I should just change my name to Goose.

Now, along with my shame and discomfort, I feel angry.

I feel the urge for that unknown thing again. It is something I desperately need.

I return again the next day. I begin to feel something. It feels strong inside my body like something needing to come out of me.

I want to hide, but I can’t.

At first my voice sounds like someone else’s voice. “Don’t laugh at me. I do not want to play this game anymore.”

I did not find you; you found me.

After that, we were stuck together like glue. I needed you to succeed.

I needed you to be with me, all the times I felt alone.

When bullies mocked my walk in the hallway of my elementary school, I needed you to keep moving forward. You were to the key to not giving up.

You gave yourself to my friends who stood by my side and stuck up to the bullies. They were my heroes.

You rode with me on many gurneys that headed into operating rooms, leaving my parents behind. You were still there when I woke up, screaming in pain.

Together, we conquered recoveries and beginning again.

We walked through the halls of my middle school and high school, hand in hand.

As I left the safe place of my parents’ house, we went to college together. You stood by my side, watching me make dumb mistakes.

When I moved to a new state after college, you followed. Together we tackled new jobs, and hundreds of home visits. Most of the time, I didn’t know how I would even be able to get inside.

When the time came for me to have babies, you went before me, motioning to me that it would be ok. I trusted you. I followed your voice.

You were a constant companion as I navigated disabled motherhood. You were my guidebook, my hope. My children met you through me.

Like a loving friend, we opened the door together when my custom wheelchair was delivered to my home. Together, we took a seat. You whispered, it will be ok.

You continue to hold my hand, as each day brings something new.

I do not know what tomorrow holds, but I do know that you will never leave me as long as I am here on earth.

You are not heroic, but humble. Beautiful and pure.

Thank you, courage, for saving me.

Until next time …

Amy Shinneman is a former National Ambassador for the Muscular Dystrophy Association, disability blogger, freelance writer, wife, and mom of two boys. You can find her blog at humblycourageous.com and reach her on Instagram @ashinneman.