Quiet Courage in the Rain
It was still raining, had been through the night. I poured a cup of coffee and stood by the window, watching the mist move through the trees.
A deer slipped out from the edge of the forest and into the open. Rain fell across its back, darkening the fur along its spine. It kept grazing, ears flicking, breath steady. The weather just was.
The umbrellas from last night were stuffed in an old wooden barrel by the door. I left mine there. Took my coffee and stepped outside.
A breath of moist air. Cold rain splashed my skin, dribbling down my nose and pattering on my jacket.
Later that morning, as the lodge slowly filled and people gathered with their mugs and plates, I found myself reaching for my sketchpad. Not because I had something to prove. Just because it felt like the right moment to let myself be more open and visible in a small way. Like going out into the rain without an umbrella.
We talk about courage like it has to be loud, like it only counts if someone notices. But some of the bravest moments are the quiet ones — the ones that begin without anyone noticing, that grow from a soft yes instead of a big push.
That's the kind of courage I'm learning to trust.
