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

It starts as a tightness in my chest. Then comes the rapid-fire dialogue in my head: What if I mess this up? What if I look ridiculous? Why does this even matter so much? Fear is a master shapeshifter. Sometimes it’s a sneaky whisper; other times, it’s an all-caps scream. Lately, it’s been a quiet, lingering unease—like when the sky turns that odd shade of green before a storm—whenever I put myself out there in a vulnerable, “all-in” way in relationships.

But before I dive into why I willingly wrestle with my fears (and why you should, too), let me tell you about the time I tried pole dancing. Yes, really.

Doing the Scary Thing (and Not Looking Cute While Doing It)

A few months ago, in a fit of adventurous spontaneity, I signed up for a pole fitness class. I walked in, wearing leggings that were all wrong for gripping metal and carrying a wildly misplaced confidence inspired by too many TikToks of gracefully spinning dancers.

Within five minutes, I was a human pretzel, all arms and legs akimbo. Other women in the class twirled like characters from Euphoria, while I clung to the pole with the same energy as Jack clung to that door in Titanic. My inner monologue was ruthless: Why did I think I could do this? Everyone’s watching me flop. I should stick to something easier—like competitive knitting. Yet, at the end of the class, sweaty and bruised, I felt an odd kind of pride. I hadn’t nailed the moves, sure, but I had shown up. And right there, at the intersection of mortification and effort, I learned something important: fear doesn’t go away when you ignore it. The only way is through.

This little life lesson, oddly enough, applies far beyond spinning on a pole. It’s a mantra I carry into the scarier, softer parts of life—like relationships.

Fear’s Greatest Hits: Vulnerability Edition

For me—and probably for you, too—fear shows up constantly in relationships. It’s the fear of saying too much, caring too much, or risking too much. I’ve felt it in the quiet moments, like sending a vulnerable text to someone I like, and in the big ones, like allowing myself to really be seen in a relationship after years (and tears) of learning how.

This isn’t just me, by the way. Fear in relationships is universal. Maybe you’ve experienced things like:

  • The First-Date Nerves, feat. Sweaty Palms and Awkward Laughter: Will they like me? Am I oversharing? Did I overdo it with that Schitt’s Creek reference?
  • Miscommunication Madness: Should I say something, or am I overreacting? Why did their text end with a period?!
  • The Big Stuff: Do I trust them enough to open up about my past? Or my dreams? Or the fact that I secretly eat peanut butter straight out of the jar at 2 a.m.?

Our fears can look silly in hindsight but overwhelming in the moment. They convince us to play it safe. Don’t text first. Don’t admit you want more. Don’t ask the hard questions. But when you live like that, hiding parts of yourself to dodge discomfort, you’re not actually living. You’re just waiting for safe conditions that never really manifest.

Lessons From the Foothills—and My Awkward Childhood Years

Growing up in Boise’s North End taught me a lot about facing fears. The foothills were my playground, and while the hikes were usually rewarding, they always began a little nerve-wracking. There’s this spot on the Table Rock Trail where the incline becomes merciless, and your thighs feel like they’re filing a formal complaint against you. It’s the point where most people think about turning around.

But here’s the trick: you keep going, and before you know it—voilà—the summit. I think about that every time I face a fear in a relationship. The climb is sucky and uncomfortable (hello, sweaty palms), but the view—the connection, the intimacy, the realness—makes it worthwhile.

And honestly, being vulnerable can feel like navigating junior high again. Picture tweens crowding around the lockers, clutching Trapper Keepers and caffeinated nerves. In seventh grade, I had a crush on a boy named Derek, who wore an Edward Cullen-ish smirk before that was cool. He caught me doodling his name in my notebook—classic—and teased me about it for weeks. The mortification was palpable. I wanted to crawl into a wormhole and emerge in another timeline.

But moments like that—despite feeling like the end of the world at twelve—actually planted seeds of resilience. Cringe-worthy vulnerability didn’t kill me then, and it won’t kill me now.

The Art of Doing It Anyway

Fear is inevitable, but living a small life isn’t. Here’s how I’ve learned to summon my inner Braveheart:

  1. Acknowledge the Fear—Name It to Tame It: Fear loves to lurk in the shadows. Get specific about what’s scaring you. Are you scared you’ll be rejected? Embarrassed? Disappointed? Call it out—it’s less powerful when exposed.
  2. Do It Small Before You Do It Big: Take baby steps toward what feels overwhelming. Scared to talk about your feelings? Start with a friend before jumping into a heart-to-heart with your crush. Fear is like a muscle; it builds strength gradually.
  3. Remind Yourself of the Payoff: Fear only focuses on risks. It’s your job to remind yourself of the rewards. Vulnerability invites connection, which is the actual beating heart of relationships.
  4. Embrace the 20-Second Rule: Channel your inner Chris Pratt from Jurassic World and tell yourself you just need to be brave for 20 seconds. Hit send on the text. Say what’s on your mind. By the time fear catches up, you’ll have already taken the leap.
  5. Laugh. At Everything. Always.: Humor disarms fear. When things get awkward, lean into the comedy of it. Remember: sharing embarrassing moments makes you more relatable, not less.

Why It’s Worth It

Leaning into fear has taught me to live on the edge of comfort—and surprise, that’s where all the good stuff happens. Falling for someone, saying “I love you” first, asking for what you need, sharing the stories you like to hide—those are moments that create the vibrant, messy, incredibly rewarding connections we’re all here for.

I’m not saying embracing fear is easy. Heck, I’m not saying I’ve mastered it. But I’ll tell you this: it’s worth the climb every single time. And the view up there? Completely unmatched.