The Journey Inward

Dear Fear,

I thank you for all the ways you tried to keep me safe. When I was little, you were there to caution me as I biked around town. As I got older, you let me play on the roof, but not near the edge. You kept me physically safe. You also kept me emotionally “safe.”

You whispered, “Who are you to _____?” and I learned that I was not enough, and sometimes too much. I shrank.

It was you who admonished, “You’re going to disappoint them,” and I learned to lie.

“That will never work!” you warned, and I played it safe.

“What’s wrong with you?” you asked, and I learned to hide my feelings in shame.

Fear, your mission is valid and well intentioned. I know you want the best for me. But now it’s time for you to move to the back seat where you can point out deer or potholes or swerving cars. There’s a new driver on our van and she is Hope. She sees the possibility of fun, where you see only danger. She hears my longings, while you just focus on the risk. She encourages my authentic self, while you brandish my mask about, urging me to cover up.

Fear, I appreciate everything you’ve done to keep me safe as a child and into my adulthood and you are always welcome here. But at 54, I’m ready for a different driver to navigate these roads. Buckle up!