by Dr. Kevin Dean, President & CEO, Tennessee Nonprofit Network
The summer sun beats down on Pigeon Forge, a vibrant, chaotic symphony of mini-golf windmills and the dulcet tones of dueling banjos. My friends and I are at The Island, an entertainment complex that feels like a fever dream of shops, restaurants, and attractions all vying for your attention. At the center of this sensory overload stands a monolithic, four-story ropes course. It is a terrifying, beautiful labyrinth of planks and wires suspended impossibly high in the air, a monument to human audacity and the questionable judgment of parents everywhere.
As we meander by, we spot a boy, no older than ten, standing with his father. The kid is staring up at the course, his face a complex roadmap of emotions. There’s a mix of awe and terror, a hint of “I can do this” mixed with a healthy dose of “I think I’m going to throw up.” His small frame seems to shrink as he takes in the sheer, dizzying scale of the thing. His eyes, though wide with a natural, logical fear, are also filled with what I’ve come to call “brave curious.” He’s clearly intrigued. He wants to do it. He’s taking a mental inventory of the climbing harnesses, the helmets, the cheerful, indifferent teenagers working the lines. But it’s also obvious that the massive structure is deeply, profoundly daunting. We go off to grab a bite to eat, and I give a silent, empathetic nod to the little guy, fully expecting that we’ll return to find him safely on solid ground, having opted instead for a giant funnel cake or a session in the arcade.
But when we come back, things have changed. A crowd has formed at the base of the ropes course, all craned necks and upward-pointing phones. And there he is, a tiny figure in a bright orange harness, standing on the fourth story. He’s conquered the entire course! He’s a ropes course ninja, a pint-sized conqueror of heights and wobbling platforms. The final, most terrifying challenge looms before him: a bungee jump, a literal leap of faith from the highest point of the structure, a plunge into the great unknown of gravity. I stop, my heart swelling with a mix of admiration and second-hand vertigo for this courageous little human. This is his moment of glory, the final act of a hero.
He hesitates at the edge. His toes curl over the lip of the platform. He’s taking in the scene below—the long, long drop, the sheer leap into the abyss, the crowd of strangers and his screaming father. It’s an incredibly scary jump—one I wouldn’t dare to make myself, mostly because I would likely pass out and have to be hosed off the platform—and his hesitation is completely understandable. This is the moment of truth, the final breath before a brave act. He’s in the throes of “bravery anxiety,” that fluttery, logical fear that precedes doing something new and terrifying. He’s weighing the options, taking a moment to gather his resolve, to talk his little ten-year-old brain into believing that this is, in fact, a good idea. I am certain he’s about to make the plunge.
Then, from the crowd below, a voice shatters the moment. It’s his father, and he’s not providing gentle encouragement. He’s providing the kind of tough love that only serves to make you want to curl up into a ball and wish you’d never been born.
“Jump, Kyle! Come on, man! Don’t be a scaredy cat! Just do it! Just do it!” he screams, his voice echoing off the buildings, a sound so aggressively unhelpful it should be banned by the Geneva Convention.
The father’s screaming is the final blow. I can see the boy flinch. All the careful, internal work he was doing—mustering the courage, talking himself into it, visualizing a triumphant landing—was destroyed by the external pressure. It was a one-two punch of public shaming and parental expectation. He recoils from the ledge, unhooking his harness from the bungee system. He turns, walking dejectedly down the steps, skipping the final, heroic leap to the bottom.
His father, in one fell swoop, had destroyed his courageous moment. The boy’s brave act was cut short, not by his own fear, but by the misplaced and unhelpful pressure from someone who should have been his greatest champion.
Bravery in a Burning Building
Being brave in life is rarely an easy thing to do. It takes guts, fortitude, and sometimes a healthy disregard for your own well-being. Superman can fly into a fiery building to save an old lady’s kittens, but the rest of us might not be so quick to rush into an apartment building on fire without first carefully weighing the options. We’re not super-beings; we’re normal humans with a mortgage and a fear of fire-related hair loss. Our world comes with many challenges, and being brave in the nonprofit sector, like running into a burning building, can often have serious consequences, many of them unintended and comically inconvenient.
We live in a world that often celebrates the boldest, most immediate acts of bravery while simultaneously shaming those who hesitate or take a more cautious, “let’s not die today” approach. But this isn’t always fair. The reality is that the nonprofit sector is a minefield of burning buildings. If we speak up about an important issue publicly, we might risk losing critical funding, which would then lead to an even more awkward conversation with the board about why our programs are now being run out of a storage closet. If we stand up to a bully coworker, the tables could be turned on us, and we could find ourselves on the receiving end of a very public, very painful power play where our grant reports disappear from files and our computer mouse no longer works. Being a nonprofit employee is an act of daily bravery. You are often dealing with complex social issues, limited resources, and the crushing weight of community expectations, all while trying to remember where you put your lunch. It’s not a place for the faint of heart. And when people aren’t able to be brave all the time, or they hesitate in some way, they are often criticized for it, as if cowardice is a contagious disease.
The Bravery Continuum: From Curious to Confident
I believe that bravery is on a continuum, and it’s time we give people grace and a little more space to navigate it. The continuum begins at a place I like to call “brave curious.” This is where the little boy was when he first looked up at the ropes course. He wanted to be brave, but he didn’t quite know what bravery looked like in this specific, daunting, and incredibly high situation.
People who are brave curious are the ones who look for role models. They ask lots of questions. They assess the situation to ensure that bravery is warranted. They weigh their options and the potential consequences, like whether a certain brave move will lead to them sleeping in their car. If someone begins pushing them to be brave before they are ready, they may recoil, just as the boy did. This stage is not weakness; it is an important and necessary time for a person before they do a brave act, especially one that is new or foreign to them.
For example, a junior program manager might be “brave curious” about speaking up in a board meeting about a new, potentially controversial program idea. They’ve never presented to the board before, and they’re afraid of being shot down, metaphorically of course. They might be brave curious about asking for a raise, but they don’t know the exact words to say. They might be brave curious about calling a difficult funder, but they don’t know what to say. Instead of being pushed to “just do it,” a wise executive director would encourage them. They’d say, “Let’s walk through your talking points. What are the potential risks? What questions might they ask? Let’s practice.” They would be a role model, showing what it looks like to navigate that brave space. By giving them the tools and the support, you’re not just pushing them to jump; you’re teaching them how to fly, or at the very least, how to land gracefully without breaking anything. When we support someone who is brave curious, we are not just helping them make a single brave move; we are investing in their long-term capacity for courage. We shouldn’t put a time limit on bravery, and sometimes it is more politically expedient and more strategic to make a brave move at the right time.
Then there is another part of the bravery continuum: “bravery anxiety.” This is like the child on the ropes course just before he jumped. He had made it to the edge. He was right there, but he hesitated. He looked scared. He seemed like he might back out. I truly believe he would have jumped before his dad started berating him. He was at a moment of peak tension, where the internal doubt and the external reality of the risk were in perfect, terrifying harmony. He needed a quiet moment of focus, not a screaming, public spectacle.
We need to give grace to people who may have “bravery anxiety” and don’t do the brave thing we want them to do when we want them to do it. I have seen this often in my career. I’ve also been on the receiving end of the criticism. “Why don’t you take on that awful [insert evil funder, politician, nonprofit CEO, corporation here]?” If only it were so easy. There is the eternal question of “Do I want to be brave, or do I want this organization to exist?” Someone could be brave, but they are beaten down for not following the bravest path or doing the bravest thing immediately when other people think it needs to happen. For instance, a long-tenured employee who is well-respected in the community might be hesitant to publicly criticize a long-standing, but now outdated, policy. They are not a coward. They have “bravery anxiety.” They are worried about the political fallout, the impact on their relationships, and the fear that their dissent will make them a pariah. They have come to the edge of the platform and are hesitating, and what they need is support, not a public shaming. When a person is about to be brave, it’s our job to be their support system and help shepherd them towards that “big jump off the ropes course.” And, ultimately, if a person isn’t showing the bravery that we expect from them or that would mirror our own bravery, we can’t write them off. It’s our job to help them prepare for next time.
This is not to say that we should give passes to people who are cowards. We all must be brave, and we need to show up bravely. We shouldn’t tolerate intolerance. We shouldn’t let bullies win. We shouldn’t let criminal or unethical behavior stand. We shouldn’t let Martha drink all the darn coffee in the morning without refilling the darn coffee pot in the morning!!! (Ok, let that go, Kevin. Let that go.) It’s what is required of us in the nonprofit sector, especially right now. But I would contend that even though the boy didn’t jump off of that bungee jump that day in Pigeon Forge, he was brave for considering it, brave for getting on the ropes course, and brave for standing on that ledge. We should celebrate that for him. His dad should have been proud, not shaming. Because you know what? Next time, Kyle will hopefully make the plunge. His time on the ledge of the ropes course was the prelude to a massive act of bravery next time.
Recognizing Bravery Privilege
Finally, we need to acknowledge “bravery privilege.” This is the privilege a person has who faces fewer consequences, has less at stake, or has more resources than other people. We’ve all seen it. The person with a lot of social capital who can speak their mind without fear of repercussions. They may not face the same backlash because they aren’t in a marginalized group. The person who won’t lose their job or income by being brave because they have a safety net. The person who is wealthy and can afford to make mistakes. This could also be a consultant who urges a nonprofit executive to make a bold move but won’t be held accountable when the nonprofit executive faces consequences. The consultant is gone tomorrow, but the executive is left to deal with the rubble.
Kyle’s dad had bravery privilege. He was older, wiser, had more experience, and he had probably jumped off of a ledge like that before. He also wasn’t on the ledge and was safely at the bottom. To him, it was easy. Of course it was.
Bravery privilege can manifest in many different ways in the nonprofit world. Imagine a funder who encourages a nonprofit board to make sweeping changes to their programs. They might say, “You need to be bold! You need to disrupt the sector!” But the funder’s money is not the only source of funding for the nonprofit. The nonprofit’s other donors might be more conservative and could pull their money if they see the organization making what they deem to be reckless changes. The funder has the privilege of making a suggestion and walking away, while the nonprofit board is left to deal with the potential loss of their entire budget.
Or consider a friend who encourages a nonprofit employee to “loudly blast a policy shift and the politician who introduced the new policy online.” The friend isn’t a nonprofit employee. They don’t have a boss who reports to a board of directors that has to deal with local politicians. The nonprofit employee could lose their job for being so vocal, while the friend is free to post without fear of professional repercussion. The friend has “bravery privilege,” and the nonprofit employee does not.
Ultimately, we must give one another grace when someone isn’t as brave as we think they should be or as brave as we think we would be in a person’s situation. We also need to model brave behavior for folks and understand where they are on their “bravery journey.” We also need to understand how a brave or bold move could have serious consequences for them or their organizations. Ultimately, in the nonprofit sector, we will all have to be brave, and we need to be brave every day. It’s what we signed up for. But we also need to recognize that it isn’t always easy to be brave, to speak up, to make bold moves, and to say the quiet part out loud.