Maya loved the town pool, but she did not love the Blue Board. The Blue Board was the "big kid" diving board. It sat at the edge of the deep end, looking like a long, judgmental tongue sticking out at the water.
Every Saturday, Maya watched her older brother, Sam, sprint up the ladder and fly into the air. "Come on, Maya! It’s like flying!" he would yell, surfacing with a giant splash.
Maya wanted to fly, too. But every time she looked at the ladder, her legs felt like they were made of heavy lead. Her heart would go thump-thump-thump against her ribs, and her stomach felt like it was full of cold, wiggly "flutter-flies." That was the feeling of being scared, and Maya hated it. She thought being brave meant that the flutter-flies went away.
"I can't do it," Maya whispered to her mom. "I’m not brave like Sam."
Her mom knelt down. "Being brave doesn't mean you aren't scared, Maya. It means you are scared, but you do the thing anyway. Courage is just taking one tiny step at a time."
Maya took a deep breath. One step. She walked to the ladder. The metal was cool under her feet. Step. She climbed the first rung. Step. She climbed the second. Her heart was racing now, an exciting, scary rhythm.
When she reached the top, the world looked huge. The water looked a million miles away. The flutter-flies in her stomach were having a giant party. She felt the urge to turn around and climb back down.
But then, Maya closed her eyes. She imagined she was a soaring hawk. She took one more tiny, shaky step to the very edge of the board. She let out a big breath.
"I am brave!" she squeaked.
She didn't just fall; she leaped. For one magical second, the air rushed past her ears. Splash! The water was cool and bubbly. When Maya popped up to the surface, the flutter-flies were gone. In their place was a glowing, golden feeling of pride. She hadn't waited for the fear to leave—she had carried it with her and jumped anyway.