An Excerpt from Letters from the Netherwood
I coined the phrase wild-hearted bravery because I needed words for a specific kind of courage. It is the kind that doesn’t wait until fear disappears. It is kind to show up while your hands are still trembling.
When I was younger, bravery looked loud, quick-witted, fearless, and unbothered.
But adulthood taught me something important. That the bravest moments are not always dramatic. Sometimes they’re quiet. Sometimes they cost you comfort. Sometimes they mark the moment you remember yourself.
In this week’s letter, I share two stories. One story is from my tweens. Another is from my early twenties and still lives in my bones.
In the latter, I was postpartum and healing from a cesarean section. I sat at a kitchen table across from a man who had spent years tearing me down. His voice rose. The apartment tightened. My children got unnaturally quiet—the kind of quiet that acts as an alarm.
And then something rose in me.
Not confidence. Not certainty. Not a perfectly planned speech.
A boundary.
“You will not speak to me like this in front of my children at the dinner table.”
That moment did not fix everything overnight. But it drew a line in the sand. It was the beginning of choosing protection, truth, and dignity—even while fear was present.
If you’ve ever felt that inner fire rise, you are not alone.
Read the full letter on Substack
Letters from the Netherwood: Wild-hearted bravery
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