I have put myself forward.
I have asked for my voice, my face, my story
to travel further than this island,
further than the safe circumference of Waiheke,
beyond the familiar eyes that know my whakapapa.
“Be brave,” they say.
Show up.
Show face.
Tell your story.
Make those around you proud.
Offer the tender parts.
Draft the letters.
Fill in the forms.
Translate your ways so others can see them.
Allow your story to come through
strong and tender,
broken and rebuilt,
buffed and battered.
So those who carry parts of you within them
can see themselves rise and shine.
Present and accounted for.
Real.
Raw.
But what happens after the bravery?
What happens to the words once they leave your mouth?
To the world you have opened?
What happens to what has been exposed?
Respect?
Rejection?
Reset?
Resolve?
Really, what happens after?
Or is that where brave truly begins?
In the unknowing.
In the unspoken.
In the unevaluated silence.
Brave is not just standing on the stage.
Brave is standing in the aftermath.
Brave is remaining steady when the challenge comes.
When voices question.
When hands reach toward parts you have not shared so widely before.
Brave is allowing yourself to be seen
and not retreating when you are.
Because the difference you can make,
the shape you can help form,
the care you can extend into the world
only exists if you step forward.
If people could know, hear, feel
what you have done,
what you have become,
what you carry
perhaps they would understand.
So will I be brave?
I think so.
For them.
For me.
For the next generation watching quietly.
For mattering in this world.
Because this hōiho year,
this year of steady endurance and fierce protection
is not a year to shrink.
It is a year to rise.
To shine outward and inward.
To be brave
and to remain after brave.