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When I was a boy I was afraid. I was afraid of “robbers.” I’d sleep with one of those bowling alley birthday pins, the ones signed by all of the festivity’s attendees, under the covers. Or a seven-iron. Or a Louisville Slugger. Luckily, I never had to use them…I was never very good at baseball.
I was afraid to go to school. I remember a day of first grade when my mom drove me to Cook Elementary because I’d missed the bus. This was a frequent occurrence. I’d refuse to put my clothes on, citing their imaginary dampness. Or I’d lock myself in the bathroom, one time even brilliantly simulating a puking episode by pouring orange juice into the toilet. Each morning I’d attempt to break my mom down into letting me stay home. On this day she would not give in. She marched me to the door of Mrs. Beckley’s classroom where two dozen first-graders stared at me as my mom pushed and Mrs. Beckley pulled me through the doorway—arms stretched across both steel jambs and hands holding on for dear freedom—until I emerged on the other side with no choice but to take my seat.
I was afraid of death. I spent a whole summer screaming, sobbing, and cry-coughing myself to sleep because I wanted to live forever. I’d yell for my parents in the next room and they would come, foregoing sleep to talk about death with an 8-year-old. They would talk me down from my existential ledge until I could breathe steadily again. And then they’d leave and I’d start right back up because I was afraid of their deaths too. Night after night after night.
Shockingly, if you’ll allow me this humble brag, I became a fairly well-functioning adult man at some point after all of that. I made it through college where I could choose to lock myself in the bathroom with no clothes on if I didn’t feel like going to class. The only dangerous object that comes to bed with me is a cat who sometimes resorts to face biting when he deems that it’s past breakfast time. And death and I have a much more understanding relationship with each other these days.
None of this means though that my transition from when I was a boy until now was marked by no longer being afraid. I’m just an afraid man now instead.
In a way though, I hope that I’m defined by my fears. Because I have different terrors today. I’m afraid of looking back on my life and feeling like I wasted it, the greatest gift that’s ever given. I’m afraid of not being able to say that my true self, the part of me that I know most intimately, the part that comes along no matter where I go, is the self that I show to the rest of the world. I’m afraid of not living.
Since I was a boy, I’ve learned that it’s okay to be afraid. It doesn’t make me any less of a man. Truth be told, it makes me more human. My fears help me define my purpose, they tell me what I want out of life.
I’ve also learned how to be afraid. My fears are no longer paralyzing, but instead they push me into action. I know that my fears will fuel me to any greatness that I achieve. And so I don’t fear fear itself. Instead, I leap into it, I embrace it, and I put it to work for me.
So, I implore you to dive deep into what you’re afraid of. Define your fears. They’ll tell you what you want out of life. And then ask, “Are my fears working for me or against me?”
Are your fears holding you back? Or are they propelling you toward your goals? See if you can adapt your fears to make them a positive influence on your life. Ask what your fears can do for you.
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This post was previously published on Medium and is republished with the permission of the author.
About Collin Burgess
A philosopher first, Collin injects his love of wisdom into words about mindfulness, politics, sports, and the occasional vegetarian recipe. Collin has been featured in various online publications like The Startup, Noteworthy-The Journal Blog, and Be Yourself.
