THE VEIL AND THE WALK

The thing about courage is—it rarely feels like courage when you need it most.
It doesn’t come with a trumpet blast or a war cry.
It comes quiet. Bare-knuckled. Grit between the teeth.
Courage shows up when your hands are shaking, and you move anyway.
Not in spite of fear—but right through the middle of it.

Fear isn’t the enemy—it’s the fog.
A veil that settles over your eyes, thickening the longer you stand still.
Refusing to move… that’s the real danger.
That’s the death before the death.

And the veil? It has names.
Hopelessness.
Failure.
Disappointment.
Loneliness.
Abandonment.
What if?

Each one a lie dressed in truth, whispering that stillness is safer than the unknown.

But here's the turn:
Once you remember who you are—
And whose you are—
The veil burns away.
Maybe the storm still rages. Maybe the road is still broken.
But you’re no longer paralyzed.
You walk.

Not because you're fearless.
But because you know stillness will kill you faster than any risk.

So we walk.
Through shadow.
Through fire.
Through doubt.

Strong and courageous.
Even in the valley of the shadow of death.