Where Does Courage Live?

I’ve been thinking a lot about courage lately—not the kind printed on posters or stitched onto throw pillows, but the real kind. The kind that shows up when there’s nothing to gain and everything to lose. Even your life.

It started when I rewatched the footage of Volodymyr Zelensky on that first day, February 24, 2022, when Russia invaded Ukraine. The U.S. offered him an immediate exit. The kind of safe passage that comes with armored vehicles and diplomatic handshakes, and a luxurious home to wait it out. His reply? “I need ammunition, not a ride.” That sentence, that quiet refusal to abandon his country in its darkest moment, cracked something open in me. It wasn’t loud or self-righteous. It was resolute. It was rare. I was in awe. I still am.

I have studied a lot about the Holocaust and the Resistance, especially in Poland and France. I have not spent much time looking at the leaders of the occupied countries. So recently, I delved into Charles de Gaulle. When the Nazis closed in on France, he didn’t stay and fight. He fled. Yes, he organized the Free French forces from afar, and yes, he returned triumphantly. But he returned after the French Resistance—ordinary people, shopkeepers, teachers, teenagers—had risked their lives, and often lost them, under occupation. While they lived in fear, under curfew, rationing food and freedom, de Gaulle lived in exile in London much as he had before the war—well fed, well housed, removed. He gave speeches into microphones while others whispered in basements. It’s not that he lacked conviction. But we can’t call it courage. Because it’s not brave if there’s no risk. And he wasn’t the one walking past Nazi soldiers with a forged ID in his pocket.

History is filled with leaders who fled when things got dangerous. The Shah of Iran escaped to Egypt, backed by us. Batista fled Cuba with 300 suitcases and a fortune in gold and advanced warning of what would happen if he stayed. Afghan President Ashraf Ghani was in a helicopter before the Taliban even entered Kabul. And more recently, Yanukovych of Ukraine ran off to Russia with the people’s money when revolution stirred. These men didn’t stay. They didn’t fight. They packed up and left the fight to someone else. It makes you wonder how they got into power.

And then, there are the exceptions. Salvador Allende stayed in the presidential palace in Chile until the moment it was bombed. He gave one last speech to his country and died defending democracy. Patrice Lumumba of Congo refused to flee colonial fallout, and he was executed for it. And Václav Havel didn’t just stay—he led from within his prison bars, writing words that would eventually topple a regime. These men weren’t anomalies in courage—they were anomalies in power. Most people who show that kind of courage don’t hold office. They hold the line.

Zelensky didn’t just stay that first night. He has shown up again and again, on the front lines in combat gear, in hospitals with wounded soldiers, and on the world stage, translating his people’s suffering into moral clarity. He’s navigated unimaginable loss and relentless pressure without losing the plot. And when he walked into the Oval Office in fatigues, weary but composed, he brought with him the full weight of a country still standing because he stayed. And he was blindsided by weak men who are now in power in our country.

We celebrate “leaders.” Presidents, generals, elected officials, as if courage is embedded in the title. But more often than not, power provides insulation, not vulnerability. And vulnerability is the breeding ground of true courage. Look at the women in Iran removing their hijabs in public, knowing full well they could be beaten or imprisoned. Look at the students in Tiananmen Square or the Black mothers in Montgomery who walked to work every day for a year during the bus boycott. They didn’t have security details. They didn’t have backup plans. They just had courage.

Zelensky is an anomaly not because he’s a wartime president, but because he didn’t treat being president as a reason to escape. He treated it as a reason to stay. He reminded us that behavior sets the stage for who you are when it’s not safe. It’s about presence, not position.

I wish I saw more of that in our own political theater. I wish I saw fewer polished speeches and more dirty hands. Less spin, more standing still when the bombs are falling.

When I watched JD Vance mock Zelensky in the Oval Office, suggesting his presence was a waste of time, I felt sick to my stomach. I watched Donald Trump, who hid in a White House bunker during protests, call world leaders weak while bowing to dictators himself. These are men who confuse cruelty with strength, and insult with leadership. They strut like bullies but shrink when real courage is required.

But in reality, they wish they were like Zelensky, which is why they have to treat him with outward disdain. As I watch more and more of how they are behaving, I believe a lot of it is about their own self-loathing. I leave that to the shrinks, who I wish would speak out more. Freud didn’t. He fled to London. Just saying.

In the end, it always seems to be the extraordinary citizens who are courageous. People like you and me, those without protection, privilege, or platform, who step forward when history breaks open and bleeds. But maybe this time it doesn’t have to be that way. There is still time, although I think that is running out too.

Harvard University, as an institution, did something rare this week. It stood up. When federal pressure came down demanding the elimination of DEI from its curriculum and culture, and three pages of other intrusions into how they run their institution, Harvard said no. It didn’t bend, didn’t hide behind procedural language. It just refused. In an equally long letter. It would have been more powerful if every Ivy League school had signed the same letter, had linked arms and drawn the line together. But they didn’t. Most of them caved. Just like most law firms. Just like most media outlets. Just like most university presidents, CEOs, and publishers who choose to sidestep the fire rather than walk through it. Mistake. Big mistake. And I am filled with disdain for all of you.

Imagine if they didn’t. Imagine if every lawyer, professor, editor, and executive who quietly believes in justice spoke up—at the same time. Imagine if those who write our laws and those who teach our children stood as one. It would still take courage. But the combined courage of individuals standing together is a force. A solo act of bravery can be picked off. A unified line is much harder to break.

There are so many others. Heather Cox Richardson, a quiet, unassuming book human, is not backing down. I suspect she’s been given more than a few reasons to step back, but she hasn’t. Will she continue to be a voice of truth in this moment? I think she will. And what about Governor Janet Mills of Maine, who has stood her ground with strength and grace, even when it wasn’t politically convenient? Add her to the list. Add Michigan’s Gretchen Whitmer, who has weathered death threats and still shows up with clarity and conviction. Add Mallory McMorrow, who stood on the floor of the Michigan Senate and gave the speech so many of us wish we could give. Add Nancy Pelosi, still sharp and unshaken, who held the line through chaos and violence. Add Chris Murphy, who refuses to let gun violence fade from our attention. Add Pence, who refused to leave his responsibility even when he didn’t trust his FBI agents to keep him safe. Refused to leave the Capitol. Terrified but courageous. Add librarians in red states and teachers who keep banned books on back shelves, just in case a student needs one. Add the Black mothers of Mississippi who fought to keep their schools open, and Dolores Huerta, who still says “sí se puede” decades later. Add Fannie Lou Hamer, who stood up in front of the entire country with nothing but the truth and her dignity. Add the Standing Rock protestors, the ACT UP organizers, the women who walked into back rooms with tape recorders so the rest of us could speak freely. There are others, too, I hope there are also people we haven’t seen yet, voices waiting in the wings, maybe even yours.

Decide now how courageous you’re going to be in the months ahead. Because that’s what this is going to come down to. Not a Booker speech. Not Bernie at a microphone. Maybe AOC will be courageous? I don’t know yet. But probably it’s not going to be the ones we expect. It’s going to be the lawyer who won’t fire their associate for a private opinion. The dean who won’t rewrite a syllabus to appease a donor. The neighbor who won’t stay silent. The friend who says something when it’s dangerous to speak. And those who will hide—fight in the night even. This is not going to be pretty.

Ask yourself now. When the moment comes, because it will, who are you going to be? I am hoping I will be courageous. It remains to be seen.