I awoke this morning an hour before I was supposed to with a sinking feeling that seemed to hold my belly to the bed. Holidays are over, time to face the music. I lay, I tossed, I turned, I squeezed my eyes shut in hope that I'd wake up 4 months from today in sweet summer bliss. Alas, I opened my eyes to watch the rain hit hard on my window pane as if to knock me out of my dreamy state. So I got up. I showered and put on my clothes, I ate my breakfast and I brushed my teeth. I packed my backpack and guitar and I went on my way.
Today I realised that sometimes brave isn't a feeling. It's an action. Brave isn't something you'll magically wake up being, it's what happens when you take a step forward even though your knees are knocking. Brave is fighting even when you don't feel it. Brave is a verb in my life.
If I'm being entirely honest with you, I'm still battling homesickness. I still wake up in the night after a bad dream and wish I could wake up my Mum. I still want to collapse on my couch at the end of a rough day and have my Dad sort out my life plan. But life has moved on and it's beautiful just as it's breaking. I'm doing brave right now. I'm not in a particularly sensible mood but in the morning I'm going to get up, fling my feet over the side of the bed and put one food in front of the other in the hope that not feeling brave is temporary. I feel as though I'll grow into it this time round. I'm believing for braver things. Don't wallow, get up and get on.
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