Please Don't Call Me Brave Anymore

"I was a heavy heart to carry, but he never let me down; when he held me in his arms, my feet never touched the ground."

- Florence + the Machine, Heavy in Your Arms

The day after the night when boats carrying 600 men, women and children capsized on the four-mile stretch of the Aegean Sea, I brought two bottles of wine to the Greek coast and drank myself into a black hole, praying to God that He would have mercy on me and not let me climb out.

I remember the sudden heaviness of my body, the leaden limbs. I remember waking up and not even realizing I had fallen asleep. Voices surrounded me, and various squadmates pulled my clothes back on as I cried and fought.

"What are we going to do? No cabs run out here."

"We need to walk. You get on that side and I'll get this one."

And so, with no shoes and vomit staining my clothes, we walked two miles up the coast to our hostel. I don't remember anything beyond the way my feet scuffed the cobblestone street and being suddenly carried up the hostel stairs, to a bed that wasn't my own. "People died today," I sobbed, the words falling like stones, heavy, recognition making it real. "People died today and I couldn't do anything."

The voices of a few squad-mates came through the fog from some place far away, reassuring me that it was okay, that nothing was my fault and no, no one was going to tell my mom.

I would go on to refer to this as one of the darkest moments in my life so far.

For years, I hid everything.

After a high school experience in which my little sister was diagnosed with cancer, my dad left, our family moved three times and I was hospitalized with depression, there had been enough strife. Once the storm settled, I was still planning on chasing empty things to cope with anger and loneliness - but no one would get hurt this time.

I was gonna do it alone.

And as time passed, it didn't matter if what I hid was big or small. It all sort of blended together in one big gray smear, where no one person knew more than a few truths about me.

I'd lie about a bad hangover being the flu, and in the next breath try to sell someone on the authenticity of my relationship with God. "I did a twelve-hour bible study this weekend! Did you know the Greek word for truth is 'aletheia'? As in, 'Aletheia and Kayla Zilch go together like snowstorms in July'? Biblical etymology is so satisfying. Coffee?"

I must have been nauseating to be around.

I didn't talk about anything that would require vulnerability. My emotional reward would come in the form of bystanders commenting, "You are so strong, Kayla. You are really handling [fill in the blank] well."

My version of "handling it" is how I ended up halfway through my Race before realising that although I was light years away from who I used to be, drinking was still my method of coping with strong emotion. And I wish I could tell you it only happened once, but it didn't. Drinking to suppress repeated itself two more times over the months - the only difference being, I hid it better.

The final morning I woke up hungover and aching, I talked to God for a really, really long time.

Afterward, I went to find my team leader. She sat with me, and together we waited in silence for several minutes.

Say something, I told myself. And just as quickly: No! Fight! Don't give up!

I took a deep breath. "I have a drinking problem. I'm afraid to feel. And I need to tell someone, because I need accountability."

The thawing out has been slow. 

I had to give most of my secrets away, and expose the ways I hid things. I had to learn how to cry without apologising, and to stay in the moment with a horrid, painful emotion - fully aware, fully feeling. 

The girl who came on the Race was not a writer, not confident, and not living free. But as the months have gone by, I've changed. 

And as God's worked on healing my heart, the most obvious change has been in my appearance.

As my heart softened, my appearance has softened.

I tried so hard to give off the appearance of a tough girl, because on the inside, my heart was paper-thin. Beauty scared me because it required vulnerability, and I had no confidence in my femininity. Getting past the hard exterior was like initiation: if you managed to get in, then I'd begin to be my true self. But I buried my compassion, emotion and beauty deep. Living as the real Kayla? Too risky.

Clothing and haircuts were like armor to me. 

As I've allowed myself to be loved and more fully known, the hard shell has gradually dissolved. Hats became braids, jeans became skirts, a buzz cut became a....whatever my hair is doing right now. I haven't cut it in 8 months.

Month Two.

Month Five.

Month Six.

Month Eight.

Month Nine.

My friend Leslie once said, "The more I know about you, the more I'll love you. Tell me everything."

Fighter mentality and loner mentality get mixed up a lot. I've frequently mistaken my dedication to shouldering a burden alone with being 'strong'. Dear reader, whoever you are, know this: true strength isn't fostered in secrecy and loneliness. I am learning this slowly.

The price for a life lived in total vulnerability and truth is the willingness to own the less savory, sometimes downright-awful choices we've made. I was an idiot to ever let drunkenness make an appearance on my Race, let alone stick around so long. But my desire to live a life free of secrets means a commitment to grow through every pitfall.

The Enemy wants to get us alone because he knows we're most vulnerable when we're isolated. I've fallen prey to this lie countless times, but you don't have to.

A friend of mine bought me a Giving Keys necklace the week before I left. The word etched into the key reads BRAVE. I took that necklace off today and laid it next to my sugar snap peas, for the first time feeling the absence of its heaviness.

If anyone needs it, send me an email and I'll mail it to you.

I don't need that reminder anymore. Lately, I'm thinking I need a new necklace - one that reads 'BREATHE', 'LET GO' or just 'CHILL THE %#*$ OUT'.
But BRAVE? I've got that.

I don't have anything to prove to anyone nowadays. Biblical strength is beautiful that way, because it's SO backward. Paul told the Corinthian church, "I'll boast all the more gladly in my weakness, so that Christ's power can rest in me. It's when I'm weak that I am truly strong." 

 Jesus died for this - the alcohol, the insecurity, the pain, the fear. That means you and I don't need to shoulder the struggle alone.

From one outrageously stubborn human being to another . . . won't you take off the identity of brave and strong, trust others to truly see you for what you are, and let yourself be carried for a little while?

He's waiting.