I’ve always thought fear smells a little like the inside of an old library book—a mix of musty dust and something vaguely metallic, like the ink on the pages. It’s not overpowering, but it lingers, curling up in your chest when you least expect it. For me, fear shows up when I’m on the edge of saying or doing something vulnerable. Ask me to share a family recipe or a story about growing up in small-town Alabama, and I’ll light up like a firefly. But the moment I have to lean into real emotional risk—whether in friendships, relationships, or even just telling someone what I really want—I feel like I might short-circuit.
That queasy feeling has followed me for most of my life, and here’s the kicker: I do it anyway. Every time. Scared witless? Sure. Will I still throw myself into the metaphorical deep end? Always.
Why? Well, let’s unpack that.
The Fear Factory: Why Vulnerability Is Terrifying
First, it’s worth acknowledging that no one exactly loves being afraid. Fear keeps us safe from things like venomous snakes or those gas station burritos that absolutely will betray you. But fear of vulnerability? That’s a sneakier beast altogether. It whispers things like, “What if they don’t like the real you?” or “Don’t be extra—play it cool. No one wants to hear about your slightly obsessive love for Harper Lee novels.”
For me, it’s not just the fear of rejection—it’s this entirely irrational spiral of what happens afterward. Will the other person’s rejection confirm my worst suspicions about myself? Will it prove that Southern small talk and a deep well of empathy don’t qualify you for intimacy in the 21st century?
Spoiler: my fears rarely pan out. But the lead-up? It’s like a poorly choreographed horror movie where I run straight into an unlocked door.
Jumping In: How I Confront Fear (Even When Panic Dings Like a Smoke Alarm)
Honestly, someone should embroider “Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway” onto a pillow because it’s basically a life motto at this point. Here’s how I psych myself up when fear comes knocking:
1. Play Would-You-Rather With Yourself
When I’m scared, I ask myself, “Would you rather feel stuck and safe or terrified and honest?” Nine times out of ten, the answer leans toward honesty. Stuckness, for all its comfort, grows stale faster than an unopened bag of saltines.
This mindset saved my bacon during my first-ever big relationship. I’d been playing it cool for months, convincing myself I didn’t need more from him. But deep down, I wanted something real and lasting. One night, heart pounding and palms sweating, I fumbled my way through a conversation where I spilled everything: my hopes, my fears, and a metaphor about relationships being like pecan pies (because why not). I’m not saying it ended in happily-ever-after (spoiler alert: it didn’t), but owning what I needed set me free.
2. Share Your Messy Parts Like Joyful Confetti
The thing about vulnerability is that people don’t connect with polished perfection; they connect with truth—and your truth is probably a little messy. Mine always is. Case in point: When I started dating someone after grad school, I agonized for three weeks about when to bring up my habit of loudly singing 90s country ballads while driving. (For some context: I don’t sing well. I sound like Dolly Parton’s third-cousin-twice-removed who forgot to bring sheet music.) Finally, I just leaned into it. He laughed and sang “Fancy” right along with me, and I realized that giving someone the full picture—messy, quirky, and deeply Southern—is a gift, not a liability.
3. Reframe Fear as Growth Pains
One of the best lessons I’ve learned from years of digging through Southern oral histories and civil rights archives is that discomfort and growth go hand in hand. Big changes—whether social, historical, or personal—rarely happen without friction. Fear is often just the side effect of being on the brink of something meaningful.
These days, when I feel that oh-so-familiar churn of stress in my stomach, I remind myself that it’s not a “stop sign.” It’s a flashing yellow light—proceed with care, but proceed.
Here’s What Accountability Looks Like
One not-so-small caveat: bravery doesn’t mean diving headlong into situations without thought. Confronting fear is powerful, but it requires compassion—not just for others, but for yourself. Set boundaries where you need them. Allow yourself rest when things get too heavy. For me, that looks like solo trips to the riverbank or afternoon getaways to the nearest bookstore, where I can recharge quietly before reengaging with the world.
In relationships, self-compassion often means owning when I mess up. Like the time I overthought a “goodnight” text, didn’t respond for hours, then had to awkwardly confess my fear of seeming clingy even though I clearly cared. (Fun fact: most people find honesty adorable, not overbearing.)
Why I Choose Fear
So why do I keep choosing to lean into fear, even knowing it can wallop me like sticky August heat? Because love—whether romantic, familial, or platonic—grows best in the sunshine of full-hearted truth. Vulnerability opens the door to connection, even with the real risk of rejection. And what’s the alternative? A hermetically sealed life that’s “safe” but stifling? No, ma’am. I didn’t spend years studying the resilience of people who fought for their place in messy, complicated communities to settle for that.
One Last Pep Talk
Here’s the deal: If you’re someone who’s feeling stuck in fear right now—wondering if it’s worth putting yourself out there—let me gently remind you of this: fear shrinks when you name it. It gets smaller when you choose to tell the truth anyway. It dissipates when you laugh at yourself, share your quirks with someone new, and decide that maybe a few bumps and bruises aren’t so bad after all.
And if you need a cheerleader in your corner, let my Southern-self remind you: real connection is a game worth playing, even if it means sweating through one or two scary conversations. Trust me—run toward it. You might just find yourself humming “Fancy” along the way, messy parts and all.
