How I Grew to Realize the True Meaning of Courage
My journey in fashioning my own set of armor
Courage, that easily recognizable, exceedingly desirable but seemingly unattainable trait. It is commonly understood to mean the act of strutting along one’s chosen path, unaccompanied on the journey by fear. The image of the brave knight, riding into battle in full armor, comes to mind. At moment’s notice of death, yet not stymied by dread. What is conveniently left out of this description is that of the vulnerable man within. Sweating profusely, he is clad in forged metal that protects him as much from prying eyes as unsheathed swords. For courage does not arise from the lack of fear, but rather its overbearing presence. The ability to act without succumbing to such a vice-like grip is the mark of a stolid spirit. This realization did not dawn on me until quite recently, but it has remained with me ever since. It has taken me years to craft my own armor; one that was molded, tempered and quenched by the experiences that have shaped my personality.
Reserved and withdrawn by nature, I have tended to keep my recollections of such experiences close to the chest, hidden from outside view. They have been dulled by the passage of time, blunted through repeated exposure, occluded by self-imposed blinds. As a result, they have been entombed in the far reaches of my memory. The same is true for a lot of us, I believe. Occasionally, though, when we are in our most vulnerable state, they are unwittingly excavated, examined and catalogued. What insights might they encapsulate within, that may help us reconcile with and learn from our own history? Over the years, doing some digging of my own has aided me immensely in contextualizing the experience of fear, and the power granted by overcoming it.
Growing up, I was quite timid and unassuming, just trying my best to fit in and be welcomed into the tribe by my peers. Alas, the spectacles I sported from age five, my unusual name and my lack of physical advantages served to despoil such hopes, deferring them to a later time. For at a young, tender age, any form of exceptionalism is what you expressly wish to avoid. I recall several instances in which, incapable of pulling my own weight, I was shoved around, mocked and excluded. From sporadic incidents, they evolved to become periodic, with regular tormentors picking on me at every chance they got.
Thus, while I was still developing my own sense of self, I found myself in a particularly vulnerable state, with fear stalking me at every turn. I learned to shrink away from confrontation, tiptoe my way around hunters’ traps, and be careful not to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. Eventually, I grew ever more reserved and withdrawn, masking my true feelings and emotions, fearing that they could and would be used against me. Funnily enough, it got to the point where my high school math teacher would complain that I was the only one not laughing at her classroom jokes. It became a badge of accomplishment for my friends and acquaintances, if they could coax me into cracking a smile.
Back then, courage was epitomized by its portrayal in movies, by tough, indomitable action heroes. The kind who would frequently be asked during a sober moment, “how is it that you are so unafraid?”. To me, that state of mind seemed to be but a fixture of fairy tales, a vanishing dream rendered toothless by the harsh pliers of reality.
The big breakthrough came late in the eighth grade. Gradually, through the encouragement of a doting teacher, I grew to become comfortable in my own skin. My academic excellence, newfound camaraderie and teaching ability aided in establishing a sense of self-worth. Helping people with classwork, to the extent of inviting them into my home for special coaching sessions, reinforced the belief that I could provide value. From merely trying to survive school, I was starting to legitimately thrive in it. Doubters and dampeners still abounded, but I had learned to tune out their frequency. Dreams of becoming the school topper and being honored in front of the entire school started to crystallize in my mind. I was quite fearful of not ‘living up to my potential’, as my parents might say, but decided to push ahead and give it my best shot. It was then that the first spark in the forge was struck, by an incident I remember vividly.
I was sitting in an autorickshaw with a friend, on a warm, sunny day in the tenth grade. We had just finished writing a subject test, as part of the penultimate trial of the grade. These tests were intended to mirror the experience afforded by the board examinations — the first boss in high school, so to speak. As we were discussing our answers to various questions on the test, a senior who was strolling by approached us. Without provocation, he accusingly enquired of me how I dared to have the nerve to entertain the thought of besting two of my peers, friends of his, to secure the ultimate prize. I had no chance at defeating them, he jeered, so it would do me well to drop any such pretenses before getting burned in the attempt. He was pouring water over the seeds of doubt that were ever present in my mind, always threatening to sprout and hold me back.
I was in no mood to give up, however, not having made so much progress just to give it all up in the final lap of the race. Undeterred, I remember staring back at him defiantly, determined to wipe that grin off his face and replace it with a scowl. I thought to myself, fear and doubt can be turned into an opportunity to prove oneself, and here he is, providing me with one. I must thank this kind man when I emerge triumphant, for providing me so unwittingly with a generous helping of additional motivation to realize my dream. I put my head down, and drowned out the noise, willing to give it my all. When I did ultimately beat out the competition to rise to the top, my victory was undoubtedly sweetened by the visage of my now nonplussed interlocutor.
It is standard practice in psychology to treat phobias — irrational fears, I mean — by way of exposure therapy. Eminent psychologist Jordan B Peterson gives us a glimpse in one of his lectures. How do you treat someone who has developed a paralyzing fear of elevators? You encourage them to take small steps, one at a time.
Could you perhaps stand ten paces away from the elevator?
Good, now how about five?
Excellent, do you think you could just stand outside for a bit?
All right now let’s move slowly inside.
Steady there, breathe deeply.
Mind if I press this button, here?
Easy does it, good job.
Let’s keep going.
The key, of course, is voluntary participation. A desire to overcome, to perform and to prevail.
Until I reached the eleventh grade, I could not bring myself to tolerate the very idea of public speaking. In class, as the teacher would call out names at random for a recital or graded speaking assignment, I would close my eyes, swallow deeply and pray that mine wouldn’t be next. I was just delaying the inevitable, of course, but I had not the will to submit to my fate. Class after class, it was silent torture before the expected release. I never imagined I would grow to someday love the act, to relish performing in front of a crowd. So it was with mixed feelings that I sat at the head of the auditorium on a fine morning in June, summoned back to school to deliver my topper’s speech to an audience of keen-eyed teachers and enterprising students.
Alone in my misery, I felt as though all eyes were trained on me, even before I had occupied the podium. However, once I began to unspool my prepared lines on stage, a transformation started to take place. The spotlight was on me, and I had finally risen to the occasion. I tried to inject a measure of gravity into each line, doing my best to inspire those before me that they could be standing here too, one day.
And then it was over, just as quickly as it had started. As my ears registered the thunderous response, I made my way back to my seat, trembling uncontrollably. Sitting down, I felt lighter, freer and for the first time, emboldened to deliver. I could sense that the fear had loosened its iron grip. To date, I still do experience the tremors, but they only serve as an unwelcome distraction. A new fire was kindled within me on that day, a torch to illuminate my path and ward off the specters that haunted my dreams.
These victories were sweet and deeply rewarding, but I still had doubts about my ability to handle new, unforeseen challenges. I reasoned that perhaps I was just naturally adept at studying and speaking, and that those skills might not carry over when fighting new opponents. As luck would have it, I didn’t have to wait too long before the invitation to battle arrived. The experience that promised to solidify my inner conviction, that I could truly overcome any obstacle life might throw at me, unfolded in the summer of ’17. It was in the form of the final realization of a fear my dad had held ever since I was a child.
An introvert in the deepest sense of the word, I would recuse myself while the other kids played sports in the park, preferring to stay at home and read books instead. I didn’t get much in the way of physical activity, as a result, which was a source of constant worry for my dad. He’s a type-2 diabetic, having been diagnosed in his early thirties. Our family has a history of the disease, and since it has a hereditary element to it, I was naturally at risk. It was thus more of a challenge in trying to delay the inevitable, in my case. As a result, he took it upon himself to encourage moderation in my diet, in an effort to keep the demon at bay. But life doesn’t like to conform to the plans of us mere mortals, and so decided to throw us a curveball in a fit of playful rage.
That summer, following my ascent to the top of the tenth-grade leaderboard, I suddenly started to develop a voracious appetite. Concomitantly, I began shedding kilograms of weight in the span of just a few months. My mother, adhering to her maternal instincts, believed I just needed to be fed more, and followed suit. However, it seemed as though nothing would stand in the way of the crashing tide. Soon, the telltale signs started to emerge.
Ants in the toilet, frequent bouts of lethargy and cravings for sweet treats. The day arrived when we could ignore them no more. My dad brought out his glucometer — used to test for the level of sugar in the blood — and decided to prick my finger so we could uncover the truth and unmask the demon that had lain dormant for so long.
The number on the screen jumped out at me like a ghastly neon sign, burning itself into my memory. It was 475, putting me squarely in the danger zone — for reference, it normally lies in the 90 to 140 range — for hospitalization if left unchecked. As we made a hurried trip to the endocrinologist, I could feel my heart sink. It had come sooner than expected, hadn’t it? How could that be? When my dad left me in the car to check if the doctor was in, I took a moment to reflect. This would be one of those before-after moments in my life, a leech I’d have to carry around with me for as long as I lived. Things would never be the same again.
For the first month afterward, I was under strict instruction to avoid consuming sugary foods, at all costs. Those days, I remember glancing longingly at storefronts selling baked goods, ice cream and doughnuts as I passed them by, wondering if I would ever get to savor those forbidden pleasures of life again. My outlook was rather bleak, my spirits at an all-time low. I felt angry and disappointed with myself for having failed so early in the challenge to defer the disaster.
In the ensuing months, we learned that I had type-1, insulin-dependent diabetes. An auto-immune disorder, caused by a freak accident in which the body’s white blood cells target the insulin secreting beta cells in the pancreas, mistaking them for foreign intruders. Before contemplating the consequences of this diagnosis, I first breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t my fault, after all.
That was hardly cause for celebration, as I would soon find out. Following the treatment plan would prove to be no piece of cake. I would have to conform to a strict diet and take insulin shots before every meal. A delicate balancing act would have to be undertaken, between the three vectors of diet, exercise and insulin intake. The slightest of mistakes could have potentially devastating consequences, if not promptly corrected.
Those initial months were grueling, without doubt. A lot of re-adjustment had to happen on my part and that of my family. As I was still grappling with the ramifications of harboring this uninvited guest, I realized that I had a choice to make. The demon had been unleashed on me by sheer bad luck, but it was up to me to decide how I dealt with it. Do I walk around for the rest of my life with a chip on my shoulder, eternally resenting those who didn’t have the same burden as me to bear? Or do I rise to the challenge and adopt a healthier lifestyle in terms of both diet and regular exercise, to make the best of a terrible situation?
It was then that I realized that happiness was a roommate you chose to cohabit with, rather than a guest who visited you from time to time. I had the agency to orchestrate my response to this unfortunate accident. My choice was made.
I decided to dive headfirst into researching the nutritional values of various foods, and experiment with different workout and insulin regimens. I trudged along my chosen path, occasionally faltering and rolling back down, but picking myself up and trekking on, determined to conquer the summit. Progress towards flattening the blood glucose curve was gradual but palpable.
Eventually, though sheer will and determination, I reached the healthiest phase of my life, where I was in total control of my body. My skin and muscle had never looked so alive and well, the visible manifestations of nerves of steel that I was slowly but surely reinforcing. The six years of formative experiences that followed, featuring an ongoing battle with my dynamic and unpredictable demon, strengthened my mettle and amplified my inner cheerleader’s voice. My self-confidence grew by leaps and bounds, and I finally acknowledged to myself that if I put my mind to it, I could surmount any obstacle and realize the loftiest of my dreams.
Oftentimes, when we are approached by fear on the wayside, we opt to shrink away, hide behind the underbrush, pretend to be invisible. Over time, this habit begins to harden and to take unconscious hold of our behavior. We become enslaved by it, deaf to the bleating cries of our conscience. As we sink deeper and deeper into this quicksand, resistance becomes feebler and feebler until the cry is drowned out by deafening silence. An easy trap to fall into, but notoriously difficult to climb out of. It might be comforting in the short term to find refuge in safety and familiarity, but eventually we feel suffocated and claustrophobic in our gilded cages.
The essence of our spirit needs room to grow and evolve, which inherently entails travails in the unknown. Preparedness can take the edge off, but the body remains. An encounter with the unexpected will undoubtedly be nerve-wracking and destabilizing, but it is necessary to break out of the mold. Caution is advisable, though, so we must take care not to venture out too far, anchoring to some semblance of normalcy, lest we find ourselves dashed against the rocks by the stormy sea. Further and further out, slowly yet deliberately, we explore the depths of the darkness, seeking the treasure buried within. Let us aim to strike the right balance between the two, for an excess of order is a tyranny and too much chaos leads to insanity.
