One of the incontrovertible facts I know about myself is that my emotional courage is greater than my physical courage. I can think of many examples of this, including a story I have often told.

Not that many years ago, we took a trip to Sea World to fulfill one of my husband’s lifelong dreams, to swim with the dolphins. He asked me to join him but knew, before he asked, that I would be much happier to stand on the shoreline and take photos.

I did plan, however, for both of us to take part in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, a walk along a small man-made body of water filled with all kinds of sea life. That sounded about my speed so I dutifully donned a wetsuit and we headed over. The staff person explained the process, telling us that we’d be wearing large round diving helmets and that we’d be tethered to both oxygen in our helmets and to each other.

She put the first helmet on me (adding a yellow balloon to help support the weight, which they do for children and, yes, small adults). Then she directed me to be the first one down the ladder rungs into the water. Two steps down, I felt water in my ears and my ears popping with pressure and I did not like it. Not in the least. I used the sign she told us to use if we were in trouble, raising my hand. I have to say that I did not raise it the slightest bit tentatively, I shot it into the air with all the strength I could muster

Suffice to say, that was the end of my Under the Sea adventure. Raising my hand in that way has also became my universal sign, with my husband, of things I am uncomfortable with, or unwilling, to do. My hand doesn’t always shoot straight up but I will definitely say that one thing or another would be a hand raiser for me. Just who I am and I accept it.

I also know that I have other kinds of courage, to face difficult situations, to have challenging conversations, to live through, and lead through, COVID in a residential elder care setting. I can, and do, face tough things.

But this week, I surprised myself in the area of physical courage. I had the opportunity to learn about a program of rock climbing that has been designed for individuals living with a diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease. We do a lot of work with these individuals and this was a new concept for me.

A couple of us went, with a group, to a rock climbing gym and I thought I would watch and learn but not climb. That virtual raised hand was ready at my side, sure that this was not for me, a person who doesn’t like heights and physical uncertainty. Yet, there we were, and the volunteers who were helping us were so kind and calm and reassuring, that I put on the harness and the ugly shoes and gave it a try.

As someone for whom exercise is like a religion, the physical act of climbing was not difficult. I moved fairly quickly about halfway up the beginner slope we were using and began to feel confidence grow. Did I make it all the way to the top? I didn’t. But I didn’t panic, I wasn’t afraid and I think I will get to the top the next time. Because yes, I want to do this again. In part, because I thought it was fun and, more so, to remind myself that the only limitations we have are the ones we place on ourselves. Freeing ourselves from fear, one more way in which we fill our full hearts.