I have forgotten how to be brave. I used to be braver. I told my friend this when I realized I was second-guessing my decision to bleach my hair. Will it look nice? Would it be too much?
Too much?
You don’t have to look at me twice to know I’m different. People often call me weird, bold, they say they love my confidence. But that confidence was never some planned performance. It was a byproduct of simply living, existing as I am.
It started in university, the first time I had some kind of freedom and control over my life. So I wore what I wanted. There was so much I wanted to express, and fashion became my tool. Still is.
I’ve had pink, green, and purple hair, just to name a few. But somehow, going blonde felt scary. Almost… intimidating. It wasn’t just about my hair.
It reflected how I’d started to live my life: carefully. Careful with risks. Careful with expression. Caring too much about being perceived, even though I can’t quite describe what that even feels like.
I’ve been sitting on the tattoos and piercings I’ve wanted for years. Doubting the creative direction that feels most like me, because it might be “too much.” Even the clothes I want to wear sometimes – too much.
I don’t know exactly when this all began. I thought it was just adulting. I’ve always felt not adult enough, so when these doubts crept in, I thought, well, maybe this is what growing up looks like.
But then it hit me
That thing people always say. That as you get older, you lose your spark. You forget the hobbies that once made you smile just by thinking of them. Colors that used to make you feel suddenly seem childish or “not grown.”
And slowly, you fade.
One day, you wake up not knowing who you are. Your favorite color is black. And you find expressive adults childish, annoying, or too much.
Then this morning, I read an essay by Joy titled “Teaching Myself to Remember My Face.” She wrote about remembering herself through memories, and I thought of how recalling who we were can help us find our way back to who we are and who we are not.
It stirred something in me.
Because I’ve spent so long running from memories that left a sour taste in my mouth. As if pretending they didn’t happen would make them disappear.
A single day missing from my past could mean I never got here. If I hadn’t applied for that master’s program, I wouldn’t have a master’s degree. I wouldn’t be living in the UK. If I hadn’t been bullied in school, I wouldn’t have learned to stand up for myself.
The version of me that’s been the bravest yet, that version only exists because of those moments.
I am, because I have been.
And since I have been, there should be proof, even if it arrives as a memory that makes me cringe, ache, or feel uncomfortable.
I finally understand it now:
Growing up doesn’t suck the joy out of the things we love. Letting it does. I don’t want to live as what an adult is supposed to be. Everything is a social construct anyway. We’re all just trying to show up every day, pretending we know what we’re doing on this rotating piece of rock.
And me?
My life can be different. It has been different. It can continue to be different.
But somewhere along the way, I started forgetting my dreams. Started shrinking the vision I had for my life. Because it takes bravery in this very capitalist society to believe I can, and even more to act like I can.
I’ve worked so hard to be myself. To remain soft. To love what and who I love. To express myself. To create. To live through my worst moments, knowing I can survive them.
I didn’t become this woman by playing it safe. I didn’t build this version of myself by shrinking.
Let this be your reminder, too:
You’ve always been brave. It’s okay if you’ve forgotten. I’ll remind you.
You can wake up earlier or later. Take a walk. You don’t have to remain loyal to habits that no longer serve you. You don’t have to call that old friend who drains you. You don’t have to answer entitled family members who dampen your joy.
I think the first step back to being brave is seeing myself, as I am now, and accepting where I am.
Accepting that maybe the pressure I’ve tied to adulthood does not have to be my lived reality..
I’ve bleached my hair. And in doing so, I remembered something I thought I’d lost: I can live in many different ways. I can change and still stay true to myself. I trust myself. I can bet on myself. I have and it’s never let me down.
I can do hard things.
And I can walk myself home, back to being brave.
Until next time,
Funke