A few years ago, I came across a book that gained attention because Elon Musk reportedly kept it by his bedside: Twelve Against the Gods by William Bolitho.
The book tells the stories of people who challenged the limits of their time—individuals who refused to accept what others believed was impossible. Reading about them led me to a fundamental question: Is courage something we are born with?
History certainly makes it seem that way. When I think of figures like Yang Gyu, who fought overwhelming Khitan forces with only a few thousand soldiers, or Chung Ju-yung, who built one of the world’s largest industrial groups from almost nothing, it’s tempting to believe that they possessed a special gift the rest of us simply do not.
But one experience from my corporate career changed how I think about courage.
At the time, I was responsible for presenting a business proposal to the group’s investment review committee. The room was filled with senior executives—the chairman, CEOs of affiliated companies, and the head of the holding company.
As a relatively junior manager, I felt completely out of place. The atmosphere was intimidating. Even breathing felt loud.
Near the end of my presentation, the head of the holding company suddenly raised a legal issue.
“The law changed today,” he said.
For a moment, I was stunned. But I couldn’t simply back down. Before the meeting, I had spent days reviewing the relevant laws, regulations, and legal precedents. I knew how thoroughly I had prepared.
“That can’t be correct,” I replied. “I checked the regulations again this morning.”
The room instantly became silent.
I knew that if the proposal failed, the project would face serious delays. I also knew that challenging one of the most influential decision-makers in the group was not something a junior employee was expected to do. Yet my preparation gave me just enough confidence to stand my ground.
Eventually, the chairman stepped in and moved the discussion forward. The meeting ended.
As I walked out of the room, a few executives patted me on the shoulder. “Good job.” “That was satisfying to watch.”
To them, I probably looked courageous—a young employee standing up to a powerful executive and refusing to retreat.
The truth, however, was very different.
I have never enjoyed speaking in front of large groups. Those investment review presentations never became comfortable, no matter how many times I did them. Whenever an important presentation ended, the tension I had been holding inside would come crashing down all at once. More than once, I ended up with severe stomach pain afterward.
That day was no exception. Outwardly, I appeared calm. Inside, I was terrified.
Of course, it would be absurd to compare a corporate meeting room to a battlefield. The stakes faced by military heroes and historical figures are beyond anything I have ever experienced.
But as I sat there after the meeting, doubled over with that familiar, sharp stomach pain, a thought suddenly crossed my mind.
Maybe Yang Gyu felt those exact same knots in his stomach before facing the Khitan lines. Maybe the lord of Ansi Fortress spent sleepless, terrifying nights before the battle, and maybe even Chung Ju-yung hid trembling hands behind his back when everything was on the line.
They weren’t born without fear. They were probably just like me—terrified, but pushing forward anyway because they had a mission they believed in, a sense of responsibility, or simply the confidence born from relentless preparation.
Since that day, I have stopped thinking of courage as a special gift possessed by extraordinary people. Instead, I see it as something deeply human.
It is not the absence of fear, but the willingness to take just one step forward even when every instinct inside you is screaming to step back.
That, I believe, is what courage really feels like.