The Year I Taught Myself to Be a Little More Brave
If you’re anxious about something, do it anyway
Imagine you are eight years old.
You are at a community pool in Akron, Ohio, with your entire extended family — uncles, cousins, grandparents, and your older brother, whose opinion you hold in high regard because he can make realistic fart noises using his hand and armpit.
You have made the egregious mistake of climbing to the top of the high dive.
You are now standing at the edge of the diving board, looking down into the blue abyss miles below you.
Okay, like, 16 feet below you.
It feels like you’re about to jump out of a plane. Or off a bridge. Or into the ocean in Jaws after you’ve already seen that one unfortunate teenager get pulled under.
The fear feels insurmountable, but so does the ire of the five kids in line, including four on the ladder and one standing behind you at the other end of the board, glaring, his sun-kissed arms akimbo.
“Just go!” he whines.
His plea is one of dozens you’ve heard for the past 10 minutes while staring into what, to everyone else, is a calm pool of welcoming blue water.
