Recently, an old friend of mine approached me and asked if I would contribute my story to a platform she is helping gather content for. People Are Brave was founded by a Nashville local, Josh Ellis, with the intent of providing a community where people can share their stories of venerability and bravery, while also being able to celebrate those people for just that.

The idea of such a space for individuals was appealing to me, yet I was uncertain as to why she would request that I share my story. Of course, we all have a story of vulnerability, of bravery, of triumph. But what made my story any different, or more significant, than another who had performed some heroic deed, or had overcome a great obstacle, or had the strength to share a truth for the first time.

My story, the one she was referring to, was nothing extraordinary. To put it briefly, she was asking me to tell the tale about how I came to be a writer and poet, one who shares work on a public platform for anyone to see, and who had been previously published.

See? It’s no extraordinary feet. Merely steps in the long process of becoming a published writer.

Admittedly, being flattered and smitten by the idea of my own bravery, like anyone else with low confidence, I jumped at the idea to share my in-depth story.

Reflecting back on the decision, away from my ego, I had to ask myself if I was still brave in the sense that she commended me for. I’d not written anything of significance in months. Hadn’t publicly shared work in about a year.

My typewriter (I believe hipster is the word you’re thinking right now) began to collect an abundance of dust. A poetry manuscript I’d been working on sat on my desk, scattered, untouched for weeks. Nothing had been created. Summer had passed by. Then Fall. And now, here we are, in winter, and, still, little has been accomplished.

So, was I still brave? Did her compliment of my achievement, regardless of how insignificant it may be one a larger scale, still hold weight?

Most of my life I’ve lived in the same small town of Dundalk. Most of the people who live in Dundalk tend to stay in Dundalk.

Another friend, years ago, when I was a teenager drinking in someone's basement, described the town as a black hole. Told me he was going to leave as soon as he could. Every now and ago, we run into each other at the bar. I’m not sure if he remembers telling me that, but I like to believe that he still holds true to his statement; that he will leave as soon as he can, whenever that may be.

To this day, I still live in Dundalk. I, too, plan on leaving as soon as I can, whenever that may be. But, for now, I’m still here.

How does that make me a candidate to share a story on bravery and vulnerability when for a year I’ve not left my comfort zone? Not in any extreme sense, that is.

I walked into the bar one night. Nothing brave about that. Anyway, I walked into the bar one night, sat down, and ordered a beer. The bartender brought it over, then she walked away and resumed talking to other patrons at the far side of the bar.

Another bartender, a young man, looked at me. That awkward eye contact was made, the kind where you linger for a moment too long then breakaway. As I looked down into the bubbling liquid, the young man approached me.

“You're not Coty Poynter, are you?”

I nodded. Took a drink and looked at him. Not feeling well, all I wanted was to be left alone.

“You write poetry, right? Published that book?”

“Yup. I do, and I did.”

He extended his hand to me and thanked me for writing. Thanked me for helping him get by in some dire times. Thanked me, and bought me a beer. It was a small, rare moment, but one that I won’t forget about. A moment that, for me, was monumental.

You see, I didn’t know the young man. He explained to me that he moved to Dundalk, and was raised there for a number of years that weren’t kind to him. He had his own dreams and aspirations, but he didn’t think that he’d achieve them. He didn’t have the means, or spirit, to do so.

In a small town such as Dundalk, there aren’t many options for individuals who don’t thrust themselves into the world. For some, Dundalk is as big as the world gets. Unless you find the means, find the spirit to escape, even temporarily, then chances are you will remain in such a small town, working a job that was handed down to you from family, or forced upon you by the same.

That’s not to knock the lifestyle. It is, as they say, to each their own.

But the young bartender, whose name escapes me, told me that reading my work helped him decided that he hated what he was doing. It helped him find comfort and peace, and brought forth the desire to pursue his dreams.

And it is here where I find the answer to my question of vulnerability and bravery.

At times, we consider only the large, impactful acts to be significant. If it isn’t grand, it doesn’t receive merit. Yet, there is great significance to the tiny moments we live through and experience, and there are simple acts we perform which takes a kind of bravery of there own.

It is around us, and within us, always. We just have to take a step back, breathe, and acknowledge that each chance we take, each line we write, each word spoken, is a subtle act of bravery.