Once, during a particularly quiet Carolina evening, my grandmother leaned forward in her rocking chair, flames from the woodstove flickering shadows across her face, and said, “Ebony, fear’s like a mosquito in the summer—it’s small, it’s noisy, and it’ll follow you if you run. But girl, the swatting is what makes you strong.”

At the time, I didn’t think much of it because, at eight years old, my only notable fear was the inevitable lizard that would break into the house and scurry up a curtain. But today, as someone who’s walked across stages, moved to new cities without a soul to comfort me, and stared romantic vulnerability in the eye (all without fainting, surprisingly), I come back to her words often. She was right—fear never leaves you entirely. But swatting it can teach you who you really are.

Let me tell you about my fear. And let me tell you why I refuse to let it win.

The Fear: The Unsolicited Spotlight of Vulnerability

There’s a particular kind of terror that comes with laying your heart bare. And no, I’m not just talking about telling someone “I like you” in the dim lighting of a wine bar, though that’s up there with public karaoke on my personal horror movie list. I’m talking about the broader kind of vulnerability—letting people see the parts of you that aren’t polished. Admitting your desires, flaws, and uncertainties. It’s the “What if they think less of me?” kind of fear that can turn the most confident strut into a panicked scuttle.

Growing up in the Lowcountry surrounded by strong, resilient women, I learned to hide my vulnerabilities in the folds of grace and humor. My great-aunt once referred to this as “fixing your face before the world fixes it for you.” It's a cultural rhythm that leaves us looking polished even when storms rage beneath. But the truth? Letting people into those storms is terrifying. And for me, every time I’ve done it, I’ve cornered myself into asking this question: What happens when someone doesn’t like what they find inside me?

Fair question, right? Let’s explore.

When the Fear Shows Up: A Lowcountry Twist on (Almost) Love

One of my most mortifying confrontations with fear occurred when I was living in New York City during grad school. I’d met someone—or, rather, bumped into someone while muttering to myself at the Union Square farmers market. He had on an oversized sweater, smelled faintly of peaches, and seemed to think I was a charming mess rather than just a regular mess.

Fast forward to a few weeks later: We’re laughing on a date, and there it is. The moment. He leans forward and asks me, “What are you looking for in life?”

You know how grandmothers in Southern family lore warn you not to look dogs directly in the eyes during a full moon because something strange might happen? That was me with this question. I had to look away before it swallowed me whole. What was I looking for in life? Happiness, sure. Purpose, obviously. Love? Yes, but admitting it felt like walking barefoot into a field of thorns. What if he judged me for wanting that? What if admitting it made me less…cool?

In my usual fashion, I laughed nervously and deflected. Something like, “Oh, you know, just out here trying to live my best Beyoncé impression.” But the fear lingered long after the date ended, whispering in my ear, “You didn’t say what you really wanted. Why?”

Why I Do It Anyway: Lessons From the Gullah Geechee Coast

Here’s the thing about fear—it’s protective. It’s the proverbial swampland warning sign: “Proceed with caution. Alligators ahead.” But just like the marshes of my coastal hometown, with their shifting tides and hidden beauty, some of the best things in life lie beyond that murky water. Vulnerability is no exception.

The turning point for me came, surprisingly, through a Gullah Geechee tradition I’d grown up with but hadn’t paid much attention to: sweetgrass weaving. These baskets, intricate and beautiful, are made by passing strips of grass through one another in what looks like controlled chaos. But here’s the catch—you can’t rush the weaving. If you do, the basket won’t hold. Somewhere between threading my clumsy hands through the grass and listening to my grandmother hum a spiritual, it hit me: vulnerability is no different. Any meaningful connection—friendship, love, even self-growth—is like weaving a basket. You have to be honest and open to build something that holds.

So, How Do You Swat a Fear-Mosquito?

I’ll be honest: I’ve spent years swatting at the “What if I’m not enough?” mosquito, and some days it feels like I’m still covered in bites. But I’ve learned a few tricks that help. Here are the steps I take whenever fear starts buzzing.

  1. Acknowledge It Out Loud
    Whether it’s in front of a mirror or whispered into my pillow at night, I say it: “I’m scared of [insert thing here].” Naming your fear shrinks it down. Think of it like when your spooky childhood closet turned out to just house an old coat. (Granted, in one case at my grandmother’s house, it was an actual raccoon, but you get my point.)

  2. Ask Yourself, ‘What’s the Worst That Can Happen?’
    The Queen of Vulnerability herself, Brené Brown, swears by this. Imagine the worst-case scenario. Nine times out of ten, it’s survivable. If someone judges you, so what? Would you want them in your corner anyway? Can I survive someone smelling rejection on me? Yes. I’ve survived hotter summers and meaner mosquitos.

  3. Take Baby Steps
    Vulnerability doesn’t have to be grand. Start small. Maybe it’s admitting you don’t understand something during a conversation rather than nodding along. Or telling someone, “That hurt my feelings” without adding a joke to soften the blow.

  4. Laugh About It
    Fear hates laughter. Once, at a wedding in Charleston, I admitted to a particularly cute groomsman that I was nervous about the bouquet toss. He laughed, handed me some champagne, and said, “Well, now you have courage in a glass.” It’s never that simple, but you’ll be amazed by what laughter loosens.

  5. Trust the Process
    Like weaving a basket, being vulnerable isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up and being willing to try, wobbling hands and all.

From Fear to Familiar: A Hopeful Goodbye

That boy from Union Square? Let’s just say it didn’t work out. But that moment of vulnerability stuck with me because it wasn’t wasted. I let myself practice being honest—first with him, later with myself. And that muscle has only gotten stronger since.

What scares me the most—letting people in—is still a mosquito I deal with on the regular. But I’ve traded fear of the bite for appreciation of the challenge. Fear forces you to be aware, to take stock of what matters, and to move closer to the honesty you deserve. My grandmother was right—it’s not about running; it’s about the swatting.

So whatever your fear is—whether it’s opening your heart to love, speaking your mind, or finally attempting to do the aforementioned karaoke—just remember this: The bravery doesn’t come from not being scared. It comes from doing it scared anyway. The world deserves to see the real you, stripped of pretense and mosquitoes be damned.