Fear is a Coward

Funny thing I notice about Fear. He’s big and bad and burly while he’s at home lurking in my what-ifs and what-mights. He pokes at my stomach until I’m nauseous. He pounds on my chest until I can’t breathe. He shakes me and rattles me until I’m dizzy. He yells at me until I’ve relived every negative event and conversation I’ve ever had. He laughs at me as I make up reasons why I can’t, I shouldn’t, I won’t. He looms over me as I cower in my corner of shame.

But then I do go. I do step out. I close my eyes and jump. The landing is not always soft and it’s not always smooth. But I never remember a time when Fear was there waiting for me. I jump. Fear flees. He hides out of sight while I dance, while I talk, while I collaborate – and all this with people who never turn out to be the bogeyman Fear led me to believe they were. And I don’t turn out to be the dunce Fear accuses me of being every day.

I accomplish and then I return home. Fear is hiding away, embarrassed to have been found out for the coward he is.

I go to bed. I’m sure Fear and I will meet again tomorrow, when he gets the nerve to come out again.

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