here’s my heart…

…grind it into hamburger meat.

I think it’s in that moment, when you’re able to hand yourself over completely raw, that you know.

How much you care about the person you’re giving control over your aorta to.

And how truly courageous you are.

But Brené is right:

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

And I can’t say more tonight.

Except that great devotions and worthy causes are both great and worthy, despite their cost.

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