The Fear I Conquered

There’s a picture of me at four years old, standing on a storm-polished boulder, squinting against the Atlantic breeze with all the misplaced confidence of a child who doesn’t understand gravity. My dad stands just out of frame, ready to grab me if my Crocs (yes, I was an early adopter) betray me. Behind me, the jagged Maine coastline stretches out in all its wave-breaking, cliff-diving glory. The smell of salt and seaweed was my constant companion growing up, but water? Deep, dark, mysterious water? That was where my confidence ended.

I was terrified of it.

Not the kind of fear that gets a cute nickname like “a healthy respect.” No, my fear of water was existential. I loved the ocean—its beauty, its power—but the moment it lapped higher than my shins, I was convinced the Atlantic would swallow me whole. Swimming lessons as a kid were a disaster; the sight of water wings still triggers memories of chlorine-scented panic. My family kayaked in peaceful, glassy coves while I stayed tethered to the shore, offering to “stand guard” over everyone’s sandwiches. Convincing myself I was safer on land became both a crutch and a way of life. That is, until a few summers ago, when I found myself staring down the very thing I’d spent a lifetime avoiding.

When Fear Takes the Driver’s Seat

Let me set the stage: A soft June breeze swayed the lupines, the harbor sparkled under the midsummer sun, and my best friend, Emily, declared she was ready to face her own fear of heights by learning to cliff dive. This announcement was met with applause by everyone at the picnic table—except me. For starters, Bar Harbor is not exactly the cliff-diving capital of the world unless you’re very foolish or very gullible. But it wasn’t the height that sent a chill down my spine. It was the water beneath.

As Emily rattled on about her desire to swing herself off “just a decent-sized ledge,” all I could hear was the siren call of the ocean. A challenge. A dare. An unspoken, taunting invitation. I hated that my water-phobia defined me—but I wasn’t ready to tackle it just yet, either. So I did what any rational adult does when faced with a childhood fear: I overcompensated with logistical objections (“What if we don’t have the right life jackets?”) and a quick Google search for the safest snacks to bring along.

It didn’t work. Two days later, I was in a wetsuit, standing at the edge of a ledge that jutted into the harbor’s chilly depths, wondering if Emily had lost her mind—or if I had.

The Turning Point

The thing about fears is that they’re surprisingly persistent. They wedge themselves into your psyche, setting up camp and waiting for just the right moment to shake the tent. Mine made me wonder if that ledge was destined to be my last known location. I stood frozen, imagining the horrors of what lay beneath—slippery seaweed, invisible sea creatures, the Loch Ness monster’s vacation home.

And yet, miraculously, it wasn’t fear that convinced me to step off. It was the realization that not stepping off would haunt me a lot longer than taking a plunge into the unknown. I grew up learning to admire Maine’s windswept resilience, its people who face brutal winters and unpredictable weather with determination carved as sharply as the rocks. Yet here I was, letting a single fear dictate years of “no, thank you,” from kayaking adventures to boat trips to even the world’s gentlest snorkeling opportunities.

So, I jumped. And before you ask: No, it wasn’t graceful. My scream startled some nearby seagulls, and I closed my eyes, likely because I’d seen too many slow-motion Titanic scenes. But when I hit the water, something unexpected happened. I felt free.

What Fear Can Teach Us

Learning to swim at 30-something isn’t as glamorous as conquering it as a kid. The process is humbling—less about swimming like an Olympian and more about looking like you’re keeping an invisible noodle afloat. But what I learned wasn’t limited to the backstroke or treading water. Engaging directly with something I had avoided for so long taught me lessons that ebbed far beyond the shoreline.

Here’s what I discovered:

  • Fear Exaggerates the Unknown: Most fears thrive on what we don’t understand. The first time I actually submerged, I realized that the dark, churning water I had imagined was no more threatening than a backyard pool (just saltier and a bit colder). My fear of “what could be” had built itself into a near-mythological enemy. By meeting it face-to-face, I stripped it of its mystery.

  • Tiny Wins Matter: Overcoming fear doesn’t require grand gestures. Before my cliff jump, I spent weeks acclimating myself to being in the water—wading out a little farther each time, floating on my back, learning to trust it. Progress came in inches, not yards.

  • Laughter is a Life Jacket: The first time I slipped into the water uneasily, Emily made a “Jaws” joke so bad I still cringe at the memory. But it made me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry—and that was enough. If fear isolates, then humor destroys the walls it builds.

  • Conquering One Fear Opens Doors to New Confidence: Somewhere between learning to dog-paddle and jumping off that cliff, I started saying “yes” to things that once felt unattainable. Joining a last-minute snorkeling trip, offering to kayak—suddenly, there was room for curiosity in places I used to avoid.

It Always Comes Back to Connection

Life has a way of testing us at the moments we least expect it. For me, saying yes to leaving my shoreside safety net wasn’t just about conquering water—it was about realizing how easily fear can prevent us from connecting with the good stuff: the world, but also with those we love. I can finally paddle out with friends instead of holding their shoes. I can snorkel in emerald-green coves instead of sitting awkwardly in the tour boat. And perhaps most importantly, I can watch the ocean now without feeling shut out by a version of myself I don’t recognize anymore.

Emily never became a professional cliff diver, by the way. The height scared her too much, and she ended up following me timidly into the harbor instead. But what stuck with me wasn’t the dramatic jump into the water—it was the way that decisions, even small ones, ripple outward.

Your Turn

Will conquering a fear make everything in your life magically easier? Nope. I still flinch if a piece of kelp grazes my leg unexpectedly (real Maine locals will nod in solidarity). But here’s something I know for certain: avoiding what scares us doesn’t make it smaller. Facing it, step by shaky step, is the only thing that does.

So, if there’s a fear that’s been quietly edging your life decisions for far too long, I won’t tell you to jump right in. But I will tell you this: the water might be chilly at first, but it’s not nearly as scary as you think. And hey, if I can learn to float, you can face your own version of the deep end too.

Seagulls and bad “Jaws” jokes optional.