The Summer I Learned to Be Brave

I was nine years old the summer I learned what bravery really meant.

Back then, bravery was a word I only heard in comic books or action movies. Heroes wore capes. Soldiers marched into war. Bravery wasn’t for kids like me skinny, timid, the kind of child who clung to his mother’s hand too long in crowded places.

That summer, my cousins came to visit from another city. The house filled with noise, laughter, and the kind of chaos only kids can create. We spent most afternoons running in the fields behind my grandfather’s old house, chasing each other through the tall grass until our clothes were stained green and our knees scraped.

At the edge of the field stood a massive tree, its branches stretching toward the sky like arms. To us, it was no ordinary tree — it was a challenge. The older cousins had made a game of climbing it, daring each other to go higher than before. Whoever reached the thick branch near the top was crowned the “king of the tree.”

I always stayed at the bottom.

“Come on, don’t be scared,” they teased. “It’s easy!”

But to me, the tree might as well have been a mountain. The bark looked rough, the branches too thin, the height dizzying. I’d picture myself slipping, crashing down, everyone laughing. So I shook my head, pretending I didn’t care.

One day, my cousin Ali — just a year older than me — made it to the top. He stood tall on the branch, arms outstretched like a hero in a movie. Everyone cheered. For the first time, I felt not just afraid, but left out.

That night, I lay awake on the thin mattress in my grandfather’s house, listening to the summer insects sing outside. My chest ached with a strange mix of envy and shame. I wanted so badly to climb that tree — not to be king, but to prove to myself that I could.

The next afternoon, while the others were busy racing each other, I walked to the tree alone. My palms were sweaty, my heart loud in my chest. I placed one foot on the lowest branch. It wobbled. I almost jumped back down, but then I remembered Ali’s grin, everyone’s applause, and how small I had felt.

So I kept going.

Hand over hand, step by step, I pulled myself upward. The bark scraped my arms, the branches shook beneath me, but I climbed anyway. Every inch higher made my breath sharper, my knees weaker. At one point I froze, staring at the ground far below, and nearly cried.

But then something shifted.

I realized I was already halfway up. I had already done what I thought was impossible. If I climbed down now, the fear would win.

So I took a deep breath and kept going.

When I finally reached the thick branch near the top, I didn’t stand like Ali had. I didn’t spread my arms or shout in victory. I just sat there, clutching the bark, feeling the warm wind brush against my face. From up there, the world looked different — wider, softer, almost magical. The fear hadn’t vanished, but it no longer controlled me.

That’s when I understood: bravery isn’t about not being afraid. It’s about moving forward despite the fear.

I stayed there until my cousins noticed. “You did it!” they shouted from below, their voices echoing with surprise. For once, I wasn’t the quiet boy at the bottom. I was part of the laughter, part of the adventure.

The rest of that summer, I climbed the tree again and again. The fear never fully disappeared — my hands still trembled, my heart still raced — but each climb got easier. Each climb reminded me of the boy who had been too afraid, and the boy who had decided to try anyway.

Now, years later, I don’t remember every detail of that summer. But I remember the tree. I remember the bark scratching my skin, the dizzying view from above, and the rush of realizing that I was braver than I thought.

Life has thrown me much bigger challenges since then — losses, heartbreaks, decisions that shaped my future. But every time I’ve faced something that felt too big, I think back to that tree.

And I remind myself: bravery isn’t the absence of fear. It’s climbing anyway.

And this was the end of my fears.