I am a middle-aged dad. That is how I imagine I’ll always think of myself. “Father” has become my calling card. It’s the lens through which I see myself primarily. Husband to my wife, father to my kids. One day, God willing and the creek don’t rise, I will add “Grandfather” to that esteemed list of identities.

I am no stranger to the phrase, “Get down from there, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Each night I tell my kids to go to bed because it’s “damn near midnight.” It is usually about 9:00 PM. Sometimes even 8:30. I do not, on the first pass, resonate with the idea of “Daring” at this time in my life.

When I think of daring, I think of my youth.

I have done some things that seem quite stupid to me now. I had a lot less to lose back then, or I thought I did.

When I was about seventeen, my friend Dan had a little red pickup truck with a pipe rack on the back. I would routinely climb out the passenger window at highway speeds and jungle-gym around like an idiot. I’d hang off the front of the rack and put my ass right down on the hood. I’d flip my head backwards so I was facing the wind as it rushed through my hair. I clearly did not die. But it was foolhardy, and maybe even daring.

Outside Silverton, Oregon, there are numerous lesser-known waterfalls. Some of them fall into deep pools that I’ve never seen the bottom of. Some of them require strategy to jump off in order to avoid breaking all of your bones at once. Opal Pool is not for the faint of heart. I have leapt them all. Is that daring? Or just young?

And then there was the Cemetery Incident. Well into my twenties, on a drive with friends, I noticed how fresh and crispy the driveway of a certain cemetery looked. Newly paved and glassy smooth, with grassy edges at least ten feet wide before any headstones appeared. I went home, fetched my longboard, and determined to “bomb that hill” without bothering to change out of my sandals and light linen pants. I didn’t even own a helmet.

The hill hid a precipitous decline I was not prepared for. I carved the first two corners and felt like Tony Hawk.

I fell around the third bend, mangling my arm and legs. My friends got to see my bloody bottom cheeks because my linen pants failed me so.

That is the “Daring” of youth. It is physical. It is adrenaline. It is often regretful.

But in more recent years, I’ve discovered a new layer of Daring.

In 2008, when the market collapsed, I started a coffee shop. I didn’t even have the cash, I needed a money-person. I had no nickels. I paid myself $800/month and I had a wife and a child. It was certainly not the wisest choice of vocation. But it was, I suppose, a daring choice.

And sometimes, daring is thrust upon us. When my wife received a cancer diagnosis, we embarked on a very arduous journey. And we chose the path of doing it together. That required daring from us both in order to stay in tight with one another. We faced uncertain circumstances, as a couple and alone as a result of this uninvited new aspect of our lives. I do think it takes a certain daring to believe in life after proof-of-mortality. It takes a certain daring to remain intimately entwined with one another when it would be easier to shut down and close out.

I realized then that Daring doesn’t have to mean climbing around the outside of a moving vehicle. It doesn’t have to mean narrowly avoiding death in a cemetery just because you want to feel alive.

Real daring is making choices that express your value for life, even when it’s scary. I have three kids. That’s daring in itself. They outnumber us.

Sometimes it’s not a choice to be daring for the sake of the thrill. It is a choice to be daring in the face of uncertainty. To stay. To build. To love people who might leave. To start a business when you’re broke.

I may tell my kids to get down from the ledge, but I’m still taking the leap. Just a different kind.

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