She Carried Courage

I only met her once, but she’s someone I’ll always remember.

We boarded the bus heading to Seattle, and she took the seat right in front of me. Her smile was genuine, and her curly hair bounced as she greeted each new passenger who stepped aboard.

As the bus pulled away, she turned around and said, “I get nervous about my appointments, so when I talk, it helps.”

“Are you going to Seattle to the doctor?” I asked.

“Yes. You’d think after all these years of appointments and surgeries I’d get over my fears, but I haven’t.”

I nodded. I hesitated to ask about her medical issues, but she spoke openly.

She was born with a condition that most visibly affected the bones in her face, though other areas had required surgery as well. She’d lost count of how many procedures she’d endured.

“I write poetry so I don’t think about it,” she explained. “Poems that help people smile. But then I realized no one will see a poem sitting in my journal.”

She paused, then brightened.

“So since I travel on the bus and ferry and sit in waiting rooms, I thought—why not make buttons with a line from one of my poems?”

With that, she reached into her bag and pulled out several palm-sized buttons. Each one was handcrafted and printed with a short, hopeful line.

“Choose whichever one fits your day,” she said.

I studied them carefully—words from someone who understood what it felt like to be knocked down, but who refused to stay there.

I chose one and thanked her as she moved down the aisle, offering small circles of courage to strangers.

Rather than self-pity she chose poetry.

She had every reason to hide behind her fears, yet she met the world with a smile and a gift.

I keep her button on my desk. On hard days, I look at it and remember her joy. And I wonder what small thing I might offer that could brighten someone else’s journey.

Sometimes even a smile is enough.