This really comes down to courage.

In the sports landscape, courage is this idea of persevering through adversity. It is facing fear, staring down the potential for failure. It is refusing to be thwarted by pain, doubt or opposition. It is overcoming.

A special honor is reserved for those who triumph through adversity. Michael Jordan’s “Flu Game” when he dominated despite food poisoning. Brett Favre producing an all-time gem while grieving the death of his father. Skylar Diggins-Smith playing a WNBA season while pregnant. Kirk Gibson hitting a World Series game-winning home run when he could barely run. Byron Leftwich being carried to the line of scrimmage by Marshall teammates because his leg was broken. Willis Reed running through the tunnel to return to play through injury for the Knicks.

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This is why we love sports. They are displays of human resolve being tested by circumstances. We get to live vicariously through athletes’ discipline, their work ethic, their willpower and, yes, their courage. The grandness and longevity of the Olympics prove the trial of human capacity has long been riveting theater.

This is where I admit I might be the wrong person to posit on this subject. People will have their thoughts about Simone Biles’ decision to pull out of the gymnastics team final. Certainly, criticism is part of the game. But as much as I love sports, my perspectives aren’t governed by its culture, nor are my definitions crafted by its unwritten rules. And the way sports confines the meaning of courage, while perennially entertaining, I find to be more theatrical than relatable.

Moments like these make me think more than anything, try to prune from the drama of sports that which is metaphoric for life. In doing so, I found connectivity with the courage of Biles. Because the moments when I’ve had to summon my courage never look as glorious as when Buster Douglas upset Mike Tyson. The opposite, actually. They are often lonely, dark, ugly.

Well, there was that time I did a backflip off of the tall diving board at the Emeryville High pool when I was 12. But most often, the reasons I need courage are less storybook than adversity, less heroic than physical pain or a tangible opposition. Instead, I usually need courage to face something even more uncomfortable and decidedly less dramatic a spectacle.

Reality.

Waking up Tuesday to learn Biles withdrew from the gymnastics team final (and on Wednesday, she withdrew from the individual all-around too) in Tokyo was shocking. This Olympics felt like the coronation of Biles the legend. She was going to be the first to do the Yurchenko double pike, plus a few of her signature moves, rack up the gold medals and take her seat among the icons. So the revelation of her not leading Team USA to gold? Wow.

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Her reason was even more stunning.

“I was fighting all those demons.”

“I just don’t trust myself as much as I used to.”

“Never felt like this before.”

“No, the mental is not there.”

The jarring element was who this was coming from. This is Simone Biles. The same woman who dares the most daunting routines. The same woman who dominated the World Championships with kidney stones. The same woman who competes in gymnastics on broken toes. The same woman who named herself as a survivor of a sexual assault ring, volunteering her fame as advocacy for survivors.

With Biles, courage can be presumed. What she is revealing is an execution of it that simply doesn’t fit the culture of sports.

Out of curiosity, and to help me find my words, I queried a couple of close friends, people of faith, on whose wisdom I often lean. The question was simple: How would you define courage?

“The key ingredient to courage is vulnerability,” one responded. “If the action is not vulnerable, it is not courageous.”

Bingo. That’s the Goliath in the human arena not built for glory. That’s the adversity most commonly faced in modern society. Vulnerability. The ability to look truth dead in the eye and not blink. To accept the repercussions of being raw and real. There are levels to this.

Why didn’t Simone just say she had an injury? Why would she reveal the reason for her inability to continue as she did instead of citing, say, flu-like symptoms?

We know this much: You don’t hear professional athletes admit to their pride being hurt. Many have conjured an injury because they couldn’t live up to the moment, and no one says it.

Sports’ culture dictates that Biles was supposed to power through the doubt, face the anxiety and deliver us a moment for which we can endow her with that special honor we bequeath to the courageous. But what Biles did was look right in the face of a foe we all know well and don’t like to acknowledge.

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Reality.

I know this nuance of courage, the part that requires looking at yourself and having that hard conversation. I can’t do it. I am overwhelmed. I do need help. I am failing. I’m not as together as I portray. Mirrors can make formidable opponents.

It’s harder than ever to own up to weakness and fragility. It’s more difficult now to declare insufficiency. Watch “The Social Dilemma” to see what young people these days are facing. The pressures for modern athletes raised on smartphones are different monsters than those faced by any generation before them. Not only is there no escape from the constant commentary, but it is also laced with vitriol. Today’s unfiltered sports discourse is as uncivil and unsavory as it’s ever been, courtesy of an online ecosystem with a lower baseline of respect. Facing reality is tough in a world decorated by facades, where escapism is sport and socializing is but an ego competition perpetuated by our media obsession.

Maybe what we’re learning from Biles, and from Naomi Osaka, and from a host of NBA and NFL stars, is that this is all too much. Even for the gladiators.

I don’t presume to know Simone or what she’s going through. Knowing parts of her life story, I can imagine some traumas, emotions and complexes exist that her millions of dollars can’t wash away. But I’d bet she knew her decision would be met with derision. I’m pretty sure when the thoughts were about how to explain her sudden departure from the competition, she understood that telling the truth would get her labeled a quitter. She knew she was bucking against the ingrained culture and the condemnation would come because she’s dealt with this dynamic her whole career.

Like many 24-year-olds who can’t put down their phone, she knew she was going to see the backlash, and hear it, and answer for it. She knew this would scuff the pristine narrative that followed her to Tokyo. For such a media darling and one of the faces of these Olympic games, the PR move would’ve been to find an understandable reason to explain what was happening.

Yet she opted for vulnerability.

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Maybe one day, we will look back at this moment as an important one in an era when athletes are reclaiming their right to be something more real than just invincible gladiators. Maybe their candor about the anxiety of their life, in this world driven by social media and the 24-hour news cycle, is necessary for us to rethink our culture.

Absolutely nothing is wrong with the athletes who power through. They deserve the glory. I’m a sucker for a story of overcoming adversity. Nothing is quite so stirring of the spirit as watching one beat the odds, conquer the obstacles and come out victorious. For sure, the other gymnasts who stepped up and won silver after losing the star of their team exhibited courage worthy of praise. Again, this is what we love about sports.

At the same time, the difficulty of what Biles did is not lost. The valley where one finds their frailty is low. But she didn’t run. Instead, she went toe-to-toe. With disappointment. With frustration. With failure. With the frightening prospect of being transparent. With the reality that, on this occasion, she was not that one. She endured it all and did what she thought was the right thing.

Such doesn’t come with the glory of sport, but it’s courage nonetheless.

(Top photo: Laurence Griffiths / Getty Images)