What makes something brave? Is bravery in the action, or in the intent behind the action? I don’t think I’m brave. I’m white and attractive and middle-class. My parents loved me and I have no student loan debt. Anything else about me – my queerness, my spirituality, my chronic illnesses both physical and mental – is invisible, or at least easily hidden. And yet, I have been called brave. Why? Is it brave to live your life honestly? Is it brave to let the secrets inside shine through your eyes and your mouth like a lantern in the dark? I couldn’t live any other way. I am stubborn, oblivious, dancing to my own drum and completely forgetting others can’t hear it. Does that make me brave? I’m not open about my quirks only because I want to expand closed minds; I’m open about my quirks because I don’t know how to hide them. I forget some people even expect me to, that not everyone embraces the individuality of those drums. Being vocal, political, radical, it’s just in my blood and body and soul. I defend my community with tooth and claw because that’s who I am, and I walk my own path regardless of the obstacles standing in the road. So is that brave? It doesn’t feel brave. It just feels honest.