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

Fear Is My Inheritance

Growing up bicultural meant fear and I had a binding contract early on. The fear of answering, “Where are you really from?” without fumbling. The fear of forgetting your Arabic mid-sentence while a distant relative shakes their head in exasperation. The fear of not fitting in, ever, yet trying anyway. By the time I moved from my Egyptian home to the polished streets of Paris, I had become fluent in fear. And yet, for all its power to make me hesitate, fear has never stopped me entirely. If anything, it’s been a pushy companion, nudging me toward every high-stakes decision I’ve made—most notably, the choices I’ve made in love.

But fear doesn’t show itself like it would in a horror movie. Oh no. Fear comes wearing a polite smile. It speaks in that subtle voice of doubt: "Why bother putting yourself out there? You’ll only end up back here with a tub of ice cream watching The Notebook on loop.”

Reader, I love ice cream. But my defiance of fear has nothing to do with dairy. Let’s dig in.

What If I’m the Reason It Won’t Work Out?

One fear I never seem to shake is the blurry, existential dread of being The Problem. Cue the catastrophizing thoughts: What if I’m too much? What if I'm not enough? What if I laugh too forcefully at his awkward joke about soufflé disasters and end up coming across as insincere?

Vulnerability terrifies me. Growing up surrounded by Egyptian stoicism and French pragmatism didn’t exactly encourage talking about feelings. Romance, yes; feelings, not too much. The cultural cocktail left me believing that revealing my softer edges was a risk that might drop me into a bottomless pit of awkwardness—the social kind where someone slowly backs away from you at a party while muttering, "Oh, okay, I’ll… catch you later."

What I’ve learned (and I’m whispering this because I’m still learning it), is this: Letting myself be raw and messy isn’t my downfall, it’s my superpower. Relationships aren’t perfected by pretense; they’re built by stretching into the uncomfortable. Some of my most meaningful connections didn’t come from me being effortlessly charming, but from the moments I admitted, “I’ve had a rotten week, and yes, I cried to Umm Kulthum like a dramatic soap opera character.” Authenticity invites connection—but only if you dare to share it.

Intimacy: The Scariest Roller Coaster I Keep Buying Tickets For

Being close to someone requires trust. Trust demands courage, and courage is exhausting. Trusting someone with my dreams, fears, and occasionally horrendous cooking experiments is like climbing a high-diving board I've only ever admired from below. And yes, I know, the pool is right there. I might even be a competent swimmer. But oh, the climb feels so terrifyingly exposed.

During my time in Istanbul, I met someone who challenged every emotional wall I’d erected over the years. He had an easy, melodic laugh that made me want to spill all my secrets and a habit of offering Turkish coffee readings to analyze my life choices—complete with ominous metaphors about "uncrossed bridges." It was exhilarating. And terrifying. I wrestled with the anxiety that comes with allowing someone to see me, flaws and all.

The thing about intimacy is that it feels simultaneously like a cradle and a cliff. But I'd rather launch myself into that free fall every time than avoid closeness altogether. Why? Because, I’ve come to realize, there’s nothing lonelier than tucking yourself safely behind those emotional walls with no one to hold your hand.

Why Fear Ignores Reason (and How I Handle It Anyway)

Let’s cut to the heart of it: fear will show up whether or not it has RSVP’d. It loves to sneak in when you’re thinking about the “What ifs.” Here’s a breakup-era example: when my first long-term relationship ended, I was utterly convinced I’d die alone. (Dramatic, Zahra? Maybe. But I blame French literature for all my theatrics.) I avoided any new prospects because, honestly, heartbreak felt as inevitable as Parisian rain.

The absurdity (and let’s admit, arrogance) of that thought became clearer over time. Hadn't I lived through challenges far more formidable than a mismatched relationship? As someone who’d uprooted herself across countries and languages, was I really going to let fear of failure decide my future?

Here’s what I’ve learned works for me when fear creeps in:

  • Interrogate the Fear: Fear loves vagueness, so call it out. What exactly am I scared of? Rejection? Being mediocre? Looking foolish during karaoke night? Naming the specific fear helps tame its sprawling narrative.
  • Lean Into Curiosity: What’s waiting on the other side of the risk? If it doesn’t work out, what lessons might I walk away with? Fear hates curiosity—it’s too lighthearted and open-ended.
  • Take Tiny Steps: Sometimes, you don’t leap. You tiptoe. Reach out first. Say “I like you” without overanalyzing your word choice. Vulnerability doesn’t have to roar; it can whisper.

Fear and Me: Roommates for Life

Here’s a secret I wish we were all told earlier: fear doesn’t go away. It just evolves. But confronting fear, time and again, is like lifting mental weights—you might sweat a little, but you grow stronger.

I’m grateful for fear, as maddening as that sounds. It forced me to think harder, feel deeper, and take braver leaps. I wouldn’t have had the courage to love across cultures, build bridges of understanding, or laugh at my own chaos without fear trailing close behind me.

So what’s next? I don’t know exactly. But if fear is sitting in the passenger seat, then courage is steering. Let’s hit the road.