Hannah watson
May 24, 2018
Honors class essay
Someone once said,
“Courage is not the absence of fear;
but action in the face of fear.”
There are a lot of different types of fear—
but the worst is a prolonged fear,
waiting for the other shoe to drop—
for the seemingly inevitable to happen.
It grips you in the gut,
and won’t let go.
It washes over you like a dark cloud, drowning any bit of happiness.
You feel like you are being
shoved underwater,
and your lungs are bursting
for a fresh breath of air.
And yet,
somehow,
one finds the strength to continue.
Somehow in the face of terror
we walk on.
It feels as if we are stuck
in an alternate reality;
a place in between the present and the future. An alternate universe
in which what is down is up,
and up is down.
I have found that
true strength is often hidden from view:
not revealed until it is needed.
It then leaps forth,
allowing us to do things
we never even imagined we could do.
Lying dormant
for all the time when we didn’t need it…
and then it is here,
when we least expect it…
Pain and fear
are often debilitating emotions,
but strength trumps both;
surrounding them in a
protective cocoon of armor.
When we go through hard times,
the pain and fear come in waves,
but the strength is there,
underneath it all.
Undying; Unflinching;Unmoving.
Three months ago,
my dad became very ill.
He was taken to the hospital
where he was put into a coma.
My dad is tough.
Being an Ex-Marine,
he is not a baby when it comes to illness,
but this time was different.
He is the rock in our family.
The only one to work,
the person who takes care of the bills
and the checkbook.
He always makes sure we are
safe and secure and happy;
taking any unnecessary stress upon himself. He is the most selfless person I’ve ever met.
I have never been more
afraid than I was that day
when he went to the hospital.
It was the worst fear
I had ever experienced.
It lasted and lasted.
A feeling
deep in the pit of my stomach
grabbed on, and wouldn’t let go.
It seemed like stepping outside of oneself.
The pain didn’t seem real.
This was not happening.
It couldn’t be.
I remember when he was in a coma,
on life support.
I could hardly even look at him.
It hurt to see my dad like that.
Big, strong, brave dad.
He was none of those things.
He just laid there in bed—asleep;
a shell of his former self.
Tubes sticking into and out of
everywhere imaginable:
looking so fragile,
weak
and sick.
His breathing didn’t look normal.
Mechanical ventilation
made his chest move
up and down
in jerky, unnatural movements.
Three months later,
he finally came home.
He is still so weak and fragile.
He can’t walk for more than
four to five minutes without oxygen
and having to sit down
and rest for a good ten minutes.
But we are beyond relieved
to have him home.
People told me—
when he was so very sick—
to be strong.
Strong for my family;
strong for myself.
But I felt so weak,
and yet at the same time,
stronger than I ever had before.
I was afraid,
so immeasurably terrified.
The strength that comes with the fear
is a different kind of strength.
It isn’t a loud cocky-strength,
but a quiet confidence
that builds up from the floor,
into the place you need it most.
My heart felt, and still feels heavy;
shook to the core
and broken into a thousand pieces.
But I know it will mend,
and the places it was broken
will be stronger than it was before.
The scars on my heart
are proof that I have lived,
and lived fully.
Through this challenging time,
I have learned
that I am stronger than I think,
and braver than I believe.
So here we are,
Full of pain,
hope,
and courage…
and we go on.
There is no other choice.