Finding Courage in Grief: Lessons from the Cowardly Lion
"Who is the Cowardly Lion?"
Certainly not me, or so I told myself.
For some reason, The Wizard of Oz kept appearing in my life this year—in conversations, in quiet moments, even in thoughts I couldn’t explain. It was strange, especially since it was never one of my favorite stories. As a child, I watched it with my fingers half-covering my eyes, always bracing for the Wicked Witch to appear. And yet, Oz kept showing up, like a thread I was meant to follow. The more it happened, the more I sensed there was something I wasn’t seeing.
Despite my best efforts, the message remained unclear. My subconscious began filling in the blanks, assigning people in my life to different characters. It started off lighthearted, but one character kept coming back: the Cowardly Lion. I tried casting others in that role, but no one quite fit. Still, the Lion lingered.
Why Oz? Why now? It felt like more than coincidence. To me, The Wizard of Oz was a story about fear. I had always feared for Dorothy—that the witch would get to her before she made it home. But I wasn’t in danger. So why did this story keep echoing through my life?
Looking back, I understand what I couldn’t see then. My mind was gently, insistently nudging me toward a truth I wasn’t ready to face. I was losing my sister to ovarian cancer. Not just the disease, but the toll of its so-called cure—while she also fought to free herself from an abusive marriage.
I clung to hope. I needed to believe she would get her chance at peace, at joy. When others voiced doubts, I couldn’t bear to hear them. I labeled them negative, missing the point. Didn’t they understand? Hope was all we had. And hope, I believed, needed fierce protecting.
Struggling to Stay Strong Through Grief
That spring, I felt myself unraveling. I was restless, irritable, disconnected. I wanted solitude, and yet, I craved support. My children needed me to show up, to advocate for them—and I did—but everything felt heavier than it used to. I didn’t like who I was becoming.
I had been raised to be strong. To speak up. To protect others. To never let emotions shake the surface. Even when I was shy, even when I was uncertain, I had learned to hold it together. But I was cracking. I told myself to just hold on until summer.
Meanwhile, Oz played on in my mind. Characters took shape, and the Cowardly Lion appeared more and more frequently. His presence felt urgent, like he was waiting for me to recognize something I kept looking past.
Then, one day, the question surfaced in my mind: What if I’m the Lion?
I brushed it off. Surely not. I must be Dorothy—resilient, loyal. Or the Scarecrow—thoughtful, kind, learning as I go. That felt safer.
When the Movie Abruptly Ended
But on July 1st, the story changed.
The metaphor dissolved. The casting stopped. All the images faded. I was left with silence and an overwhelming need to stay upright, to plan the memorial, to function.
Then, in one quiet moment, I saw him again. The Cowardly Lion. Standing before me, arms open.
I looked away. No. I’m strong. I don’t need to be comforted by that part of myself.
But deep down, I knew the truth. The Lion wasn’t some character I had been trying to place. He was me.
The Courage to See Yourself After Loss
At first, dropping the “strong” act felt like a relief—until I realized what came next. If I was the Lion, I had to ask myself: What exactly was I so afraid of?
The answer? Facing life without my sister—the one I always turned to for help, comfort, and perspective. The thought of walking forward without her by my side was more overwhelming than anything else.
I had spent months clinging to this idea that if we just stayed positive, my sister would get her happy ending. That if I just held on—white-knuckled, pretending fear didn’t exist—things would somehow work out. I wanted so badly to believe that hope alone could bend reality. That if I never let doubt creep in, I could keep the worst from happening.
But when I finally stopped running from it, when I forced myself to really look—I began to understand how deeply that fear had shaped me.
I had spent so much time holding everything together, believing that if I just kept going, I could outrun the fear and avoid the grief waiting beneath it.
Walking Forward with Love and Loss
That truth settled over me gradually—not like a crash, but like a slow, quiet unraveling I couldn’t stop. It left me still. Exposed. And aching in places I hadn’t known were holding so much.
In that space of loss, I realized how deeply relationships shape who we are. Losing someone we love—especially someone who made us feel safe—reshapes not just our future, but how we see ourselves. My sister had been that kind of presence.
Now, I carry her with me. In memory. In love. In the quiet courage she showed even in the hardest moments. Her presence—once a source of comfort—is now woven into my own strength, gently guiding me forward.
And maybe that’s what courage really is—not the absence of fear, but the decision to keep walking through it. To keep loving. To keep living. To take the next step, even when the world feels unfamiliar.
So I walk. Not because it’s easy. Not because I’m fearless. But because that’s what we do when we’ve loved deeply and lost greatly.
We walk forward. Step by step. Carried by memory. Guided by love. And held steady by a Lion we didn’t know lived inside us all along.
