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

It takes courage to argue.
More courage to listen.

I was 22 on the day I lost my father.
Not to death. But to conviction.

I stood gazing at a Hawaiian volcano in the distance, holding the phone to my ear when I heard the dreaded words: You're looking for a relationship, Ryan. I'm trying to survive.

He confirmed what I feared most: our relationship couldn't survive his conviction.

My heart dropped. Emotion swelled but stayed caged within me, as it had for years.

Silence lingered as I came to grips with the impact of his words: I no longer have a father.

My mind flashed back to the happy memories.

I saw my favorite picture of us playing in the snow together. Father and son. Love and bond.

All gone.

The split did not arrive unannounced. Our relationship had been unraveling for years as every conversation collapsed into politics and apocalypse, no matter what I tried.

I wrote about this unraveling more deeply in a past letter titled A Warning on Conspiracy Theories, where I traced how fear shaped my dad’s world — and mine.

I tried avoidance — dodging the hard topics, hoping we could just laugh together again.
I watched him entrench himself — convinced his warnings were love.
And I longed for a middle way: humility, openness, the courage to value truth over being right.

But I couldn't find it with him.

Every interaction wore me down — first with the fear of what it might become, then with the grief of what it could never be.

Finally, I came to him with an ultimatum: a relationship without politics or no relationship at all.

You're looking for a relationship, I'm trying to survive.

It couldn't work.

My story is extreme. Yet in some way, we all face this question: how do we hold on to each other across difference?

This isn't just about me and my dad. I felt it again this week as I watched the country reel from the assassination of Charlie Kirk.

Whatever you think of his politics, he was a father, husband, and human being.

He showed a kind of courage by simply entering the arena — by choosing to speak, to debate, to risk himself in public.

Assassination is not courage. It is cowardice — the refusal to face another human being across the table, the evasion of the hard labor of seeking truth together. It sees only the belief, not the person.

And when we stop seeing each other as human, the photos fade. The laughter disappears. The shared humanity dies.

All that remains is silence.

I still look back at old photos of my dad and me, aching for what's gone.

And I wonder: what photos could still be taken, what laughter might still ring out, if we found the courage to stay human with each other?

With love,
Ryan

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P.S. Did this letter land for you? I’d love to hear about it. Please hit reply and let me know.