The Fear I Conquered

The Panic That Sneaks In (Even on Hiking Trails)

If there’s one thing I thought I had mastered after decades of living in Colorado, it was the ability to remain calm in the wild. I’ve trekked through snowfields that swallowed my boots whole, crossed streams so cold they turned my legs to jelly, and even once encountered a very unimpressed moose blocking my path. But the truth is, the real fear—the one that eclipsed all the mountain lions, icy scrambles, and wayward moose I could face—wasn’t out there at all. It was in here, somewhere between my chest and my ribs, pulsing every time I stood in a circle of people who expected me to talk about myself.

That’s right. My Everest? Public speaking.

I can pinpoint its beginning. It was eighth-grade English, and I was scheduled to give a presentation on the eco-systems of the Rocky Mountains—a topic I could nerd out about forever. But despite all my excitement, my presentation went up in flames, and I don’t mean the good kind of fiery metaphor. I mean my mind went blank, I said “ummm” more than I said “words,” and I ended by mumbling, “anyway, bears are cool.” My classmates smirked; my teacher pursed her lips in that cringe-inducing "better luck next time" kind of way. And just like that, my brain linked public speaking with terror.

Fast forward to adulthood: I could hike for hours, critique national forest policy in my journal, or charm my local barista with a witty remark about the weather, no problem. But if you put me in a room where I had to share something meaningful—an actual story or idea? Nope. Hard pass.

Fear Doesn’t Play Fair

It’s wild how internal fears can feel external. Talking in front of others made my heart race like I’d just sprinted up a 14er with no training. My knees would threaten to mutiny, my mouth would dry up, and suddenly I’d feel like I was a kid again, standing in front of those judgmental middle schoolers. The craziest part? This fear extended into relationships.

When you think about it, a big part of connecting with someone—whether it’s a friend, a partner, or your cousin’s very earnest trivia team—is being able to put yourself out there. To surface your truths, the good ones and the slightly messier ones. That’s how bonds are built. But if fear of exposure keeps you quiet, you may as well be shouting, “I’m totally unavailable, please carry on!” So, I stayed safe in one-on-one conversations and gave group dynamics a firm nope.

Of course, avoiding that discomfort means fear keeps winning. I wasn’t expanding my world; I was shrinking it.

The Turning Point (A Forced One)

The shift came, as so many life-altering moments do, in the form of a friend who wouldn’t take no for an answer. My college roommate Kate—a force of nature, by the way—joined Toastmasters and somehow convinced me to tag along. “It’s casual!” she wheedled. “It’s fun! You don’t even have to speak if you don’t want to.”

Spoiler alert: I had to speak.

I survived my first speech largely because it was about hiking. Talking about a beloved topic felt like standing on solid ground for the first time, even if my voice quaked like an aspen leaf the whole way through. No one laughed (at least, not in the bad way), and someone even complimented my “authentic personality.” Authentic personality! Me, the guy who equated public speaking with camping on thin ice.

The next speech was easier. By the fifth, I actually started to enjoy it.

The Relationship Connection (“Are We Just Going To Ignore Miles’ Growth Arc Here?”)

Here’s where the fear-conquering journey really started working within my relationships. Public speaking wasn’t just about standing at a podium or holding an audience’s attention. It was about learning to communicate with vulnerability and flow—something I had flat-out avoided for years.

Take dating, for instance. I used to be the quiet, smiling, agreeable one on early dates. Need someone to sit thoughtfully while you monologue about your favorite band’s European tour? I’ve got you! But if you wanted to know what I thought about love, life, or what made me tick? That conversation wasn’t coming. Opening up seemed like walking onto a theater stage without a script. What if I said the wrong thing? What if I wasn’t enough?

But pushing through my fear in speeches gave me a crash course in letting go of that performance pressure. And suddenly, I could carry that into other parts of my life. My first trial-by-fire moment came with a partner who asked me a startlingly deep question out of nowhere on a road trip: “What’s one thing about yourself you’re working on?”

The unprepared me might’ve shrugged with a “not much” cop-out. But the new me—the “I survived public speaking, surely I can survive this intimate moment” me—took a breath and said, “Honestly? I’m working on embracing fear instead of running from it. Case in point, this conversation.” It got a laugh (phew), and you know what? It also sparked a really meaningful discussion about what growth looks like for both of us.

Tips for Tackling Your Own “Bear”

Fear wears a lot of disguises. It could look like public speaking for you, or perhaps it’s learning to say “I love you” first, or leaving a job that isn’t doing it for you. Whatever it is, here are some lessons I picked up while stumbling through my own fear-slashing process:

  1. Start small (but start!)
    Don’t dive straight into your biggest “Holy crap, I could never” moment. Try a version of it that feels just doable—like practicing a short speech in front of friends or journaling about your feelings before you try sharing them.

  2. Reframe the stakes.
    No one is sitting around waiting for you to fail. Any time I worried about bombing a speech, I reminded myself that the world wouldn’t implode if I stuttered. And guess what? It hasn’t yet.

  3. Find safety nets.
    A good friend, a mentor, or people who understand your journey make the process far less daunting. For me, it was Kate dragging me to Toastmasters and cheering me on through every halting word.

  4. Practice vulnerability.
    Fear usually stems from a need for control, but connection relies on letting go. The more I opened up—speeches, dates, conversations with coworkers—the more I realized people don’t expect a flawless performance; they want a real person.

Keep Climbing (Even When It’s Scary)

It’s funny: once you conquer a fear, you realize it didn’t just hold you back in one area. Fear bleeds into everything. And its opposite—courage?—can do the same. Learning to speak up didn't just give me confidence at public events. It gave me a new kind of openness in relationships, one rooted in trust and shared experiences.

Now, when someone asks me to share my story—whether it’s a group of colleagues or someone I care about—I don’t panic. I don’t freeze. I show up, messy truths and all.

Whatever your fear, I hope you know this: you’re more resilient than you think. And on the other side of that anxiety? Life gets bigger, richer, and a whole lot more rewarding. So take your first shaky step. The view is better than you could’ve imagined.