Brave Enough
Letters on fear, courage, and meaning — by Ryan Combes

They say the one who cares least wins. But what if love only grows when we risk caring more?

I sat on the roof of a box truck in the middle of the Nevada desert. The air was crisp as the desert chill descended on what was a scorched landscape just hours earlier.

We watched the hundreds of tail lights disappear into the horizon as they embarked on the long journey home.

Sitting there with my friend, the quiet gave me space to notice a hard truth I'd been avoiding in my marriage.

I made a confession: I’m scared to tell my wife how much she means to me. I’m afraid it would make me lose power in the relationship.

As soon as I said it, I knew it was true, and a hot wave of shame washed over me.

A lump gathered in my throat, and my shoulders rolled forwards, protecting myself from my own judgment.

This was not the husband I wanted to be. How could I claim to love my wife and yet be so afraid to tell her how much she means to me?

I knew the answer ran deep within me. Suddenly, a line of classic negotiating advice surged into my mind:

Whoever cares the least, wins.

My heart sank.

I'd struggle to give compliments, to sit in heartfelt moments where love ran deeply between us, or to not keep a mental scoreboard of the relationship.

Even in moments where love was right there between us, I couldn't let myself step fully into it.

My marriage shouldn't be a negotiation, a fight for power.

Keeping score might feel like safety, but really it's a wall I built between us. Every withheld word, every tally mark, just widened the distance.

I don't want to live guarded, always scanning for signs of betrayal that aren't really there.

I don't want to repeat how I felt with my father.

I wrote about this in a past letter called How Trauma Works—how old wounds can still shape the way we love today.

As a kid, I was forever on guard — anxious, small, waiting for the next shift. I'd hold back words out of fear, watch him redeem past "acts of love", or retreat when he withdrew affection at the first sign of disapproval.

That vigilance became survival then. But now, it robs me of a chance for a deep, unobstructed love.

I sat with that realization, the weight of old fears pressing in — until my friend finally spoke:

I feel powerful when I tell people how much they mean to me.

He saw power where I only saw danger. That contrast unsettled me.

Part of me still wanted to argue. Didn't caring make you more vulnerable? Didn't it give the other person the upper hand? 

But his words kept echoing.

Maybe showing how much I love my wife doesn't make me weaker, but makes us stronger. If I lead with vulnerability, she trusts to share her heart with me, and we become greater, together.

I learned to not care too much after being hurt by other relationships. Maybe you did, too.

Withholding words, avoiding intimacy, or pretending that things don't matter — all are ways that we protect ourselves at the cost of connection.

Blocking the chance for pain also blocks the chance for love.

Maybe courage looks like opening our hearts to both.

What would happen if you let someone see just how much they mean to you?

With love,
Ryan

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