Sometimes, Courage Hurts. But Silence Hurts Worse

This is a story about pain, fatherhood, and why sometimes you have to step up. Even when it hurts.

July 4, 2025

By Nick Valencia

ATLANTA — By the time I realized he had punched me in the mouth, we were already on the ground fighting.

My six-year-old daughter saw the whole thing.

It was a quiet summer morning. We were sitting on a bench outside the Piedmont Park pool, waiting to go in.

A few feet away—just next to us—a woman was reading a book. Her husband was beside her, looking down at his phone.

Then it happened.

A man about my size, with a backpack on and a stick in his hand—walked past.

I was on the phone with my wife, looking up, so I saw every second of what he did next.

Without saying a word, and without warning the man struck the woman in the temple with the stick as hard as he could.

She collapsed. Her husband froze.

I jumped into fight mode.

He must’ve punched me in the mouth, but I didn’t feel it until later—when the adrenaline wore off and I tasted blood on my lip. By that point the struggle was over. I took him down and held him there.

And that’s when he opened his mouth.

“Why is that Chinese woman sitting next to that white man? She should be with a Chinese man!”

He kept repeating it. Justifying what he did.

Stunned by what he was saying and finally realizing that he couldn’t move and the situation was somewhat contained, I looked up and called for Ellie. I saw her sobbing—terrified.

Two young men rushed in to help hold the man’s legs.

Their girlfriends, meanwhile, did something far more important: they shielded my daughter. One of the women walked her to some nearby tables and turned her face away from the scene—holding her, comforting her, protecting her from what her dad had to do.

God bless her.

What I didn’t realize until later was that my wife had heard everything. I was still on the phone with her when it happened. She rushed to the scene. When she arrived, I told her part of me regretted what I did. That maybe I should’ve just grabbed our daughter and walked away.

She told me:

“Even if Ellie doesn’t understand everything that happened, she’ll always know her dad stands up for women.”

Police arrived. EMTs evaluated the man. He was arrested. The woman was concussed but conscious. Her husband turned to me and said quietly:

“Thank you. I’m not physically courageous.”

Neither am I anymore, I thought.

But I had to do the right thing.

I want that to be true. I want that to be enough. But I’m still struggling. Because this wasn’t just a hate crime. It wasn’t just mental illness. It was both. It was something messier and more complicated. It was a moment of danger—and a choice. A choice I didn’t have time to think about.

Now I’m laid up in bed with back spasms.

My body hurts.

My heart hurts more.

My daughter has had questions—a lot of questions. About what happened. About hate. About why someone would hurt someone like that.

Her young mind is trying to process things we spend a lifetime trying to understand. I hope she forgets the worst of it. But if she remembers anything, let it be this:

Sometimes, standing up means getting knocked down.

Sometimes, courage hurts.

But silence hurts worse.