What Scares Me the Most (and Why I Do It Anyway)

The Fear of Falling (and Not the Romantic Kind)

Let me tell you about the time I almost turned down a mountaintop lantern festival date. (Yes, it sounds straight out of a drama, because it was.) Picture this: a charming someone invites me to hike up a precarious mountain path at night, dangling the promise of glowing paper lanterns and maybe—just maybe—a chicken soup soul-stirring kiss at the top. It sounds magical... except for one minor hiccup: I am terrified of heights.

Not just “this-roller-coaster-is-uncomfortable” scared, but “sweaty-palms-won’t-let-go-of-the-railing” terrified. And yet, I went. Why? Because even though my fear of heights sits comfortably in the driver's seat most of the time, it turns out that my other fear—the regret of not trying—is louder.

The thing with fears, especially in the context of relationships, is that they often whisper worst-case scenarios into our ears: What if I don’t do this right? What if this connection fizzles? What if I fall—literally or figuratively? But here’s the kicker: fear, when reframed, is a sign you’re brushing up against something meaningful.

So yes, I hiked up that mountain. I found myself staring at floating lanterns and a boy who (spoiler alert) didn’t end up being the one, but who did teach me a lot about courage. Let’s talk about the fears we all face in love—and why walking straight into them is worth it.

Fear of Putting Yourself Out There (Aka, “Do I Look Like a Fool?”)

Imagine this: You’re rushing to meet someone for a first date, only to catch sight of your reflection in a window. Are your shoes mismatched? Did your outfit scream “Sunday errands” instead of “effortlessly chic”? No? Just me?

Putting yourself out there is terrifying because it’s raw and vulnerable. It’s the equivalent of holding out your best homemade dumpling and saying, Please like my cooking. And the stakes? They feel impossibly high because, at the end of the day, you’re not just offering an appetizer—you’re offering yourself.

But remember this: every single person on a date is wondering, somewhere deep inside, "Am I good enough?" Whether they’re clutching a designer bag or trying to wipe soy sauce off their shirt in the bathroom (yup, guilty). Vulnerability isn’t about perfection—it’s about letting someone see you in all your messy, glorious inconsistency.

What helps:
- Micro-doses of bravery: Start small. Maybe it’s complimenting a stranger. Maybe it’s volunteering to pick the place next time instead of defaulting to “Wherever you want!”
- Mantras over mirrors: Before you step out the door: I am the dumpling, and I am enough.
- Reframing rejection: It’s not you versus the world. It’s you finding the puzzle pieces that fit.

Fear of Ticking Clocks (Cue Existential Crisis)

No one told me that birthdays start feeling like countdowns once you hit a certain age. Pair that with cultural expectations—oh, the dreaded auntie interrogation session—and you’ve got a recipe for panic.

“You’re turning 30? 35?! Shouldn’t there be wedding bells by now?” In China, we call older single women sheng nu, or “leftover women.” It’s a term I detest, but one that I spent years internalizing. On Sunday dinners back home, I’ve been asked more times than I care to count whether I’m “just being picky,” as if making meaningful choices in love is a problem.

Here’s how I shifted that narrative: What if time isn’t running out but running for you? Relationships, like the best novels, take time to unfold. And the right plot twists don’t rush themselves; they appear when you least expect them, often disguised as detours.

What helps:
- Choosing your pace: Internalize that your timeline doesn’t have to match anyone else’s. Not your cousin’s, not your neighbor’s dog-walking friend who got engaged after two minutes of eye contact.
- Redirecting conversations: When asked, “Why aren’t you married yet?” answer, “Because I’m focused on finding something worth celebrating—and passing the dumplings?”
- Celebrating smaller wins: Dating isn’t just the meet-cutes. It’s also the growth—every boundary set, every emotional risk taken, and every “no” that safeguards your “yes.”

Fear of Loving (and Losing)

When I was a teenager, my father used to recite lines from Du Fu for me, the Tang Dynasty poet famous for his tender-hearted verse: “A sail so far winds itself against the sky / Only to vanish between mountain peaks.” He meant to prepare me for life’s impermanence, but honestly, he scared me instead.

No one tells you how terrifying it is to love knowing heartbreak exists. A budding connection will always carry the risk of loss, but does that mean you stop growing the garden for fear that frost may come? (To further this metaphor: even wilted peonies make good compost. I should know—gardening disasters are my toxic trait.)

Each relationship that teaches us something, fills even a corner of our soul, is never wasted. The boy who held my hand on that lantern hike? He didn’t stick around, but he’s a memory that burns softly, a contributing stitch in the tapestry of who I am today.

What helps:
- Living for now: Instead of fixating on the what-ifs of the future, focus on what’s blooming in the present. Is it fleeting? Perhaps. Is it vibrant? Absolutely.
- Trusting yourself to heal: If love doesn’t last forever—it doesn’t mean you’re incapable of loving again. Trust that your heart will mend stronger every single time.
- Looking back with grace: Not all endings are meant to be neat, but they are meant to teach us—and often, they teach far more than perfect preserves ever could.

Fear of Being Alone (Spoiler: It’s Not a Death Sentence)

This fear doesn’t just whisper; it yells. What if I’m the last person sitting on their bench, watching everyone else find their pair? In Shanghai once, I sat at a café watching couples walk by outside, one after another, hand-in-hand, like a well-rehearsed waltz. Meanwhile, I had only my notebook and a lukewarm matcha latte for company. I found myself spiraling, imagining worst-case futures: solo dinners forever; no one to share Sunday crossword puzzles with. Dramatic? Maybe. Relatable? Definitely.

But then I looked around. At the writer jotting ideas down across the room. At the barista carefully finessing latte art for a stranger. With half a smile, I realized: Alone doesn’t have to mean lonely. In fact, learning to love my own company may have been my greatest relationship milestone yet.

What helps:
- Re-writing the narrative: Alone time isn’t a punishment—it’s an apprenticeship for self-love.
- Filling your plate: Pursue passions and connections that light you up. (For me, it’s tea-drinking, calligraphy, and crying over a perfectly written Toni Morrison line.)
- Believing in abundance: Your soulmate(s)—romantic, platonic, or otherwise—will find their way to your door. Love isn’t pie. There’s enough for everyone.

Courage, Wrapped in Dumpling Dough

Here’s the truth: fear never goes away. It’s the sound of the wind on that mountain trail, reminding us we’re alive. It’s the flutter in your chest when you share a vulnerable truth with someone new. But fear? It’s not the enemy. It’s the map, pointing us toward the things that matter most.

So, go on that hike. Write the poem, though your voice shakes. Say yes to the person who makes you want to hand them your last, perfectly fried dumpling. Loving is one of the scariest things we do—because it’s one of the bravest.