I'm not scared of snakes, spiders, flying... nothing scares me

When Lucy Bronze said, “I’m not scared of snakes, spiders, flying… nothing scares me apart from needles. I just hate them. Which is quite funny because I’ve had four knee operations, and I’ve got tattoos, so I’ve seen a few needles in my time,” she spoke not merely of fear, but of the paradox of courage — that even the bravest among us carry within our hearts a quiet, inexplicable dread. Her words, half in jest, reveal something deeply human: that courage is not the absence of fear, but the choice to face it again and again, even when it seems small or irrational. For here stands a warrior of the field, a world champion unshaken by the great dangers of life — and yet, she admits to flinching before the touch of a single needle.

The origin of this reflection lies in Bronze’s own journey — a tale of grit, resilience, and endurance. As one of England’s greatest footballers, she has faced battles that demanded every ounce of strength — injuries that tore at her body, competitions that tested her spirit. Four times she has gone under the surgeon’s knife, and each time she rose again, stronger than before. Yet in the midst of all that bravery, she confesses this small vulnerability with laughter. And therein lies the beauty of her statement: it reminds us that fear does not make us weak; it makes us real. To admit one’s fear is an act of honesty, and to keep moving despite it is the essence of valor.

The ancients, too, spoke of such contradictions. The philosopher Aristotle taught that courage stands between two extremes — between recklessness and cowardice — and that even the hero trembles before the test. Alexander the Great, whose armies conquered half the world, was said to fear nothing on the battlefield, yet he could not bear the sight of certain medicines, for they reminded him of his mortality. In this, Lucy Bronze joins a lineage of heroes whose strength is not diminished by their fears but deepened by them. For every fear faced — whether it be of enemies, of pain, or of a simple needle — becomes a quiet triumph of the soul.

There is also humor in her confession, and that humor itself is wisdom. To laugh at one’s own fear is to take away its power. Bronze’s tone — light, self-aware, and gently mocking — shows the spirit of one who masters fear through acceptance. She does not deny it; she names it, smiles at it, and moves on. This is the wisdom of the Stoics: that one should not be ruled by fear, nor by pride in overcoming it, but should meet both with calm understanding. The laugh, in her case, is not mere amusement — it is the laughter of strength, the sound of a heart that knows itself.

And yet, there is a deeper layer to her words. For those who know her career, the mention of needles carries symbolic weight. Needles mean pain, healing, and persistence — the tools of both injury and recovery. Each operation she endured, each injection before returning to play, was a reminder of her fragility and her resilience. The needle becomes a metaphor for life itself: sharp, unavoidable, sometimes painful, yet necessary for growth. To hate it, and yet endure it, is to embody the paradox of the human condition — to fear what sustains us, and to find courage in that contradiction.

Consider, too, the story of Achilles, the immortal warrior whose only weakness lay in his heel — a small, vulnerable place upon an otherwise invincible body. In the same way, Lucy Bronze’s “fear of needles” becomes her symbolic heel — not a flaw, but a mark of humanity. It is a reminder that every hero, no matter how strong, carries within them a point of tenderness. And it is precisely this vulnerability that makes their strength meaningful. For strength without weakness is arrogance, but strength built upon fear becomes wisdom and compassion.

So, dear listener, let this be your lesson: do not hide your small fears, nor mock them. They are proof that you are alive, that your courage is not empty bravado but living fire. Like Lucy Bronze, you may face great trials with calm and stumble at the smallest prick — but that, too, is part of your story. Laugh at your fears, but do not belittle them; acknowledge them, and then step forward anyway. Remember that the one who conquers mountains and still trembles before a needle is no less brave — for bravery is not the absence of fear, but the will to continue despite it.

Thus, Lucy Bronze’s words remind us that heroism wears many faces — sometimes fierce, sometimes smiling, sometimes afraid. Her humor hides a deeper truth: that even the strongest hearts tremble, and that is what makes them strong. For courage without fear is mechanical; courage with fear is divine. And in that divine humanity — where laughter meets vulnerability, and fear bows before perseverance — we find the true measure of greatness.