Boldness has taken an interesting turn since childhood. As a girl growing up in the desert, being bold meant facing off with the rivers of flash floods. Or when I was in seventh grade, I punched a boy in the face for picking on my brother.
I’m finding I’m not the same girl in my thirties like I was when I was seven or twelve. Somewhere between marriage, entering the work force and motherhood, I became less ardent to risk and clung more to safety. I hung back instead of moving forward. I camouflaged and tried to match magazine covers, only I didn’t realize it. I thought I was bold and brave and strong, until I faced an incredible period of loss, pain and change.