Today, I want to talk about the scariest emotion of all: fear.
Unlike Pixar’s quirky, purple-headed character, my embodiment of fear first took the shape of “monsters under my bed” — or rather, a single monster: Gollum from “The Lord of the Rings” film trilogy.
He lurked behind my curtains, and even in the brightest daylight I could hear him hissing my name — on the playground, in the classroom, the quiet buzz of my kitchen. Until I was ten, I slept with a nightlight on and clutched my father’s hand whenever we went on walks — you know, just in case.
But as I grew up, fear shed its naked Gollum form and began to masquerade as more ordinary things.
It warped into stage fright and insecurity about being left behind. It twisted into anxiety over failure and worry over how others saw me. Eventually, fear began to look like a bad grade, a teacher’s frown or an angry text message. It dug a hole into my heart and festered inside my day-to-day.
Sometimes, I worry there might be something wrong with me. I rarely bring up fear with my friends — nobody dares to say the “F” word. And besides, it’s the silliest of Pixar’s colorful emotion-figures.
Yet, I can still feel fear lingering among us: not raising your hand in class because you worry your question might sound naive; skipping a party because you’re afraid no one will like you or simply staying silent about your feelings because rejection feels unbearable.
My journal is dotted with the phrase “I am afraid.” I find it to be — overwhelmingly so — the hardest emotion for me to grapple with. Though I can explain away feelings of frustration, sadness or jealousy, I can’t quite pin down the thing that has so loyally made me feel afraid.
It’s a two-sided coin: We fear we are too much and not enough; we fear everything we’re told to be brave about. Nothing we do ever feels good enough — no matter how much we fight or surrender to fear, it pulls us into a relentless cycle of self-doubt and hesitation.
But I’m afraid I’ve had enough of it.
I can’t explain away nor break my habit of giving into my fear, so I decided I am simply going to welcome it into my arms. In other words, I’m adopting my dad’s mindset of “doing it scared.”
Talk to the stranger whose dress you find beautiful. Greet the old man who walks his dog by the lake each morning. Tell your teacher they aren’t making sense. Kindly confront the classmate who leaves you with all the group work.
Tell your friends you love them, even if you think they already know. Go to that club meeting you’ve been eyeing. Write a love letter. Tell your parents you’re sorry, especially when it’s hard.
Write a poem. Tell a joke. Tell the truth.
Fear won’t go away when you try those things. It’ll nag you and try to pull you away. But now that I’ve made enough space for fear in my life, it’s time for it to move along and make some space for me.
As tempting as it is to stay in the comfort of my own hesitations, I know I feel freer when I choose to do the thing I want deep down. Courage, I’ve learned, comes from both being afraid and “doing it anyway.”
This isn’t to say that I will carelessly flourish in my recklessness. I’m not planning to run red lights, text my ex or tell off every classmate who annoys me anytime soon.
But I will, at the very least, try to do the things that scare me in the right ways — the things that challenge me, help me grow and make me feel most myself.
So, I’m sorry, fear — You’ve lingered long enough. It’s been an honor knowing you, but I’m afraid it’s time to go.
Alexia Sextou is a Medill sophomore and author of “Margin Notes.” She can be contacted at [email protected]. If you would like to respond publicly to this op-ed, send a Letter to the Editor to [email protected]. The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect the views of all staff members of The Daily Northwestern.
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