The Courage To Be Disliked

I Need to Admit Something

I need to admit something I’ve never written down before. Not to a patient. Not to a colleague. Not even to myself until this moment. I avoided speaking up. I stayed silent. And it wasn’t about the big, obvious things. It was about the small, daily choices where I chose the comfort of being liked over the terrifying, necessary act of being real.

In my first tour in Afghanistan, I was a young medic. I’d seen men die on the tarmac, heard the choked gasps of a kid with a shrapnel wound to the chest. I’d held a soldier’s hand as he bled out, whispering, “You’re not alone.” I thought I knew courage. I thought it was the roar of the Humvee engine at 3 a.m., the steady hand holding a tourniquet while the IED blast still echoed in your bones. I thought it was never flinching, never showing fear.

I was wrong. Courage isn’t what you think. It’s not the absence of fear. It’s the choice to speak through it. And I spent years avoiding that choice. I hid behind professionalism. I nodded when I should’ve said, “That’s not okay.” I stayed quiet when I saw things that made my gut twist.

What I Hid

It happened in Kandahar. A fellow medic, Jenkins, a guy I’d trained with, started making racist remarks about the local interpreters. “Ragheads,” he’d say, laughing over rations. “They’re all the same. Can’t trust ‘em.” I’d hear it, feel that cold wave of shame and anger, but I’d just… look down. Eat my MRE. Pretend I didn’t hear. Because in combat, silence was survival. You didn’t rock the boat. You didn’t risk being the one who “caused trouble.” You kept your head down, your mouth shut, and your unit intact.

I told myself it was smart. It was safe. I was protecting myself. Protecting the team. But it wasn’t. It was protecting a lie I’d built about myself: I’m the good one. I’m the one who doesn’t cause problems. I was so focused on being the “good medic” that I forgot I was a person with a moral compass.

And it wasn’t just Jenkins. It was the way I’d avoid asking for help when I was drowning. When I’d push through a panic attack in the field clinic, whispering “Just breathe, Brown. You’re fine,” instead of admitting, “I need a minute.” I’d seen the fear in a soldier’s eyes when he finally broke down and said, “I can’t do this anymore,” and I’d tell him, “You’re strong. You’ll get through it.” But I never let myself say those words to me.

Why It Was So Hard

Because the cost of being disliked felt like a death sentence. In the military, being disliked meant being isolated. It meant being the one left behind when the convoy moved out. It meant your voice wouldn’t be heard when it mattered. I’d seen it happen to a guy named Riley. He’d spoken up about unsafe equipment. The unit turned on him. He was ostracized. Then he got deployed to a high-risk area alone. He didn’t come back.

So I stayed quiet. I became the “quiet one.” The one who never caused waves. The one who wasn’t the problem. I thought I was being strong. I thought I was protecting everyone.

But here’s the truth I finally faced: I’ve seen the worst, and I’ve seen people survive it. I’d seen veterans who’d spoken up about their trauma, who’d said, “I’m not okay,” and they’d survived. They’d thrived. They’d built lives. But I hadn’t let myself do it. I’d been the therapist telling others to do it, while I was still hiding in the shadows of my own silence.

The Moment of Honesty

It wasn’t a dramatic moment. It was a Tuesday. A veteran named Marcus, a firefighter, sat across from me. He’d been struggling with guilt over a call where he’d frozen. He’d said, “I should’ve done more,” and I’d nodded, given him the standard “It’s not your fault” line. But he’d looked at me, really looked, and said, “You’re still hiding, Lois.”

I froze. My hands went cold. How did he know? I’d never told him about Jenkins. I’d never admitted my silence. But he’d seen it. In the way I’d avoided eye contact when he’d shared his own story of speaking up at work and being called “weak.” He’d seen the echo of my own avoidance in my posture, my tone.

I didn’t have a grand speech. I just said, “You’re right. I didn’t say anything. I stayed quiet. I was scared.” It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t heroic. It was raw. And it was the first time I’d ever said it out loud.

What Changed

Everything. But not in the way I expected. I didn’t suddenly become the “bold” therapist. I didn’t start shouting my truth from the rooftops. I just… stopped lying to myself. I stopped pretending I was fine when I wasn’t. I started saying, “I need to think about that,” instead of agreeing to everything to keep the peace. I started asking for help when I was overwhelmed. I started admitting to my patients, “I don’t have all the answers, but I’m here with you.”

And here’s what I learned: The courage to be disliked isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being human. It’s about knowing that being disliked is a risk you take when you choose integrity over comfort. It’s about understanding that the people who truly matter will respect you for being real, not for being perfect.

Marcus didn’t stop respecting me. He leaned in. He said, “Thank you for saying that.” And that’s when I realized: the fear of being disliked was a cage I’d built myself. And I’d been the one holding the key.

Here’s What Works

You don’t need to be a hero to start. You just need to start small. Here’s what I’ve learned from my own messy journey:

1. Start with one small boundary. Not “I’m never doing that again,” but “I need to think about that before I commit.” It’s a tiny step, but it’s yours. It’s real. I started using this phrase with my patients. Now I use it with my own team. It’s not about shutting people down—it’s about giving yourself space to breathe.

2. Name the fear. Don’t just say, “I’m scared.” Say, “I’m scared of being seen as difficult.” Or “I’m scared of losing their approval.” Naming it takes away its power. It’s not a monster—it’s a feeling. And feelings are temporary.

3. Find your “why.” Why is it worth being disliked? For me, it’s because I want to be a therapist who’s actually there for my patients, not just a polished facade. It’s because I want to model what real courage looks like. Your “why” might be different. Write it down. Keep it where you can see it.

4. Expect the discomfort. It’s going to feel awful. Your stomach will knot. Your throat will tighten. That’s not a sign to stop. That’s a sign you’re doing something important. Breathe. Say it anyway. Then breathe again.

5. Forgive yourself for the times you didn’t. I still have days where I stay quiet. I still have moments where I choose the easy path. But now I don’t beat myself up. I say, “I chose comfort this time. Next time, I’ll choose courage.” That’s the work. Not perfection. Just progress.

The Real Cost of Silence

I used to think silence was safe. I thought it was the path of least resistance. But the cost was higher than I ever imagined. It was the weight of shame I carried every time I saw Jenkins laughing about the interpreters. It was the distance I created between myself and my own needs. It was the way I’d look at my patients and see my own avoidance reflected back at me.

I’ve sat with veterans who’ve said, “I wish I’d spoken up sooner,” and I’ve felt that same ache in my chest. I’ve seen the cost of silence in their eyes—the regret, the loneliness, the feeling of being unseen. And I’ve realized: that cost is the same cost I was paying for myself.

Courage isn’t what you think. It’s not the roar. It’s the quiet, shaky voice that says, “I’m not okay,” or “I disagree,” or “I need help.” It’s the voice that says, “I’m human, and that’s okay.”

I’m still learning. I’m still stumbling. But I’m no longer hiding. I’m not the “quiet one” anymore. I’m the one who says, “I need to think about that.” I’m the one who says, “I’m not okay.” And I’m the one who’s learning to live with the fact that some people might not like that. And that’s okay.

Because the people who matter will stay. And the ones who don’t? They weren’t worth my silence in the first place.

— Lois Brown, still serving