What Scares Me the Most (and Why I Do It Anyway)
There’s a certain kind of thud in your chest when fear comes knocking. It’s that uninvited guest who doesn’t text ahead to let you know they’re coming and eats all your snacks while they’re at it. For me, fear never just taps timidly on the door—it kicks it open, throws confetti, and says, “Let’s make things awkward!” It’s loud, unrelenting, and impossible to ignore. But somehow, I’ve learned not only to coexist with it but to listen to it long enough to know when it’s worth my time and when it’s just blowing smoke.
Here’s the thing: fear doesn’t bother to show up for what’s meaningless. It’s always there when the stakes are high, when something really matters. And in my life—whether it’s hitting “send” on a pitch to an editor, hosting a gallery fundraiser for my nonprofit, or finally saying how I feel to someone I care about—it’s never more present than when something important is on the line.
Let me tell you about the things that scare me most and why I let them (okay, force them) to sit in the passenger seat anyway.
Fear #1: Saying What I Want
No matter how progressive or outspoken I fancy myself, there’s still a voice (and yes, it sounds suspiciously like my 10th-grade homeroom teacher) whispering, “Don’t rock the boat, Harper.” There’s this social rhythm we fall into, especially in relationships, that tells us to be agreeable. “Sure, we can eat at your favorite place for the third time this week. No, I don’t mind watching a six-hour director’s cut of that war documentary you love.”
The problem? Staying quiet about what you want doesn’t make you a good partner. It makes you resentful—like a dormant volcano waiting to erupt during a squabble over who left the oven on. And here’s what I’ve learned: expressing yourself isn’t selfish; it’s generous. It lets the people around you actually know you—the real you—and what you need.
The Fix: Think of expressing your needs like practicing piano. You’ll sound clunky at first, but with time, you’ll hit those keys with confidence. Start small: “Actually, Thai sounds great tonight!” Work your way up to the big-league stuff, like explaining why you really need quality one-on-one time in your relationship. Baby steps.
Fear #2: Failure (and Everyone Watching)
I attended a poetry open mic night once, fully intending to sit in the back nursing my cold brew and cheering on a sea of brave strangers. So imagine my surprise when my friend signed me up to read a piece I’d written two years before and hadn’t looked at since. The whole walk to the mic, I considered sprinting for the door. Would I blow it? Would they pity-clap? Would I faint in the middle of stanza three?
Spoiler: None of those things happened. I nailed it—or at least didn’t embarrass myself enough to remember. And that experience taught me a lot about failure—or more specifically, the fear of it. Turns out, no one is cataloging your mistakes as closely as you think they are (except maybe your petty ex, but that’s their problem). Fear is often just a shadow puppet of our own making, looking bigger than it really is.
The Fix: Remind yourself that failing is the opposite of staying stuck. Whatever “flop” you’re afraid of—whether it’s botching a first date, confronting a friend about something tough, or trying pole dancing for the first time (oh, just me?)—take the leap. Worst-case scenario, you’re funnier at parties later when you tell the story.
Fear #3: Loving Out Loud
Growing up in Texas, I learned early that most people are better at talking about brisket than feelings. Our culture doesn’t exactly nudge us toward vulnerability that easily, and romantic vulnerability? Forget it. Letting someone truly see you is the emotional equivalent of walking through a crowded gym in ill-fitting yoga pants, holding a sign that says, "Please judge me."
But in my experience, keeping love bottled up doesn’t make it any less real; it just makes it harder to feel. If I’ve learned anything from my parents’ marriage—a seemingly impossible balance of fierce debates over the news and slow dances in the kitchen—it’s that love doesn’t thrive on the things left unsaid. If you want it to grow, you’ve got to be brave enough to get a little messy.
The Fix: Practice the little stuff first. Compliments. Gratitude. Texts that say, “Thinking about you. That’s all.” Being vulnerable doesn’t mean dropping a grand "I LOVE YOU" declaration over eggs at brunch if you're not ready for that—it means choosing connection in manageable doses until it slowly feels less like jumping out of a plane and more like slipping into your favorite worn-out hoodie. Comfortable.
Fear #4: The Big “What Now?” of Commitment
I won’t lie: the question of commitment sends my brain into a hamster wheel of existential dread. To commit is to choose—a partner, a life, a path—and my Sagittarius rising (look, I don’t make the rules) despises being narrowed down. If you’ve ever gotten halfway through a showroom-filled IKEA and forgotten why you came in the first place, you’ll know what I mean.
But here’s what scares me more than committing: never trusting myself to do it. Over the years, I’ve realized that making the big choices in life doesn’t mean setting your GPS to “Suddenly Perfect.” It means accepting that no choice is failure-proof. Relationships—friendships, romantic or otherwise—are built on learning to grow together, on shaking off the polished, Instagram-perfect versions of ourselves we’re tempted to present. What “what now?” becomes is what you make of it.
The Fix: Commit to curiosity. Focus not on figuring every possibility out but on asking, “What can I learn from this person, this path, this day?” and stay curious long after the honeymoon phase ends. Commitment doesn’t mean arriving; it means exploring someone (and yourself) over and over again.
Final Thoughts: Fear Is a Good Co-Pilot
Here’s the truth: Fear and I aren’t mortal enemies. I won’t croon “You’ve Got a Friend in Me” to it just yet, but I’ve learned that its presence often signals something important is happening. Fear keeps us humble. It reminds us we care. It also fuels some of our most triumphant moments. Nobody ever accomplished something they were proud of while snoozing happily in their safe little bubble.
So, the next time fear knocks on your door, try inviting it in, offering it tea, and asking, “Why are you here? And what can you teach me?” Just make sure you’re the one behind the wheel, and let it be what it was always meant to be: a passenger, not the driver. And if you’re lucky, you might just find that it quietly helps you map out the next turn.
