Fear Can Come With Me

I’ve spent 38 years being afraid. Not in the way people normally think about fear. I’ve done hard things. I’ve survived hard things. I’ve been the person other people depended on when shit hit the fan. But looking back, I can see just how many decisions I let fear make for me.

Fear of failing. Fear of looking stupid. Fear of being rejected, being left, making the wrong decision, or not knowing what happens next. So I tried to control everything. I thought if I could think far enough ahead, prepare for every possibility, read people well enough, and anticipate every problem, maybe I could keep myself from getting hurt. I convinced myself that was being responsible. Sometimes it was. A lot of the time, I was just fucking scared.

I’ve talked myself out of things before ever giving myself the opportunity to find out what would happen. I’ve kept people at a distance because getting close meant giving them the ability to hurt me. I’ve waited for the right time, the right circumstances, the right amount of money, the right version of myself. I’ve spent so much of my life waiting until I felt ready, without realizing you can waste a hell of a lot of your life waiting to feel ready.

And the fucked-up part is that none of that control ever actually made me feel safe. There was always another what-if. Another possibility to prepare for. Another way something could go wrong. Fear never finally says, “Okay, you’ve thought about this enough. You can live now.” It just finds something else for you to be afraid of.

I think that’s what I’m finally understanding. I cannot control my way out of being human. I can’t guarantee that people won’t leave, that I won’t fail, that I’ll make the right decision, or that something won’t hurt. And I don’t want to spend another 38 years trying.

I don’t need to stop being afraid. That’s not the goal anymore. I can be scared and still go. I can try something and hate it. I can trust someone and get hurt. I can make the wrong decision and figure out what the fuck to do next. I can fail. I can look stupid. I can have absolutely no idea what happens next and let that be okay.

I’ve spent enough of my life suffering through things that hadn’t even happened yet.

I don’t know what’s coming next, and for the first time, I don’t think I need to know. Maybe having no fucking idea what happens next isn’t something I need to fix.

Fear can come with me.

It just doesn’t get to fucking drive anymore.