I have a confession to make: fear and I are on intimate terms. I’m not just talking about the “normal” fears like public speaking or opening my credit card bill after an art auction (though, truly terrifying). No, I mean the core, bone-deep fears that sneak into the edges of your life and whisper, “Are you sure you can handle this?”

For me, this particular fear manifests in relationships—the ones I start, end, or let linger too long. Love, in all its chaotic glory, terrifies me. The unpredictability of feelings. The vulnerability of showing your unedited self. The sheer audacity of trusting someone not to run for the hills when they spot your more eccentric tendencies. (Like reorganizing a partner's bookshelf by historical era and then gasping when they casually rest their coffee on a first edition.) And yet, despite the churning anxiety it brings, I keep diving in. Not because I’m a masochist, mind you, but because if I’ve learned one thing, it’s this: fear reveals your most fertile ground for growth.

So why does someone who once used a fake excuse to dodge their school dance now boldly waltz into the intricate pas de deux of relationships? Let me explain.

Fear of Rejection: The Louvre-Level Vulnerability

Rejection is the dating-world equivalent of staring at an abstract painting you don’t “get” in a gallery, smiling politely at the curator, and whispering, “Oh, it’s…compelling.” You’re exposed, unsure, and praying no one notices the beads of sweat forming on your temples. Putting yourself out there feels like that—holding your heart out like a delicate sculpture, only for someone to critique the proportions and walk away.

I used to avoid this vulnerability at all costs. Texts left unanswered, calls ignored—I became a modern Houdini escaping any connection that veered too close to potential abandonment. But avoiding rejection meant avoiding something else, too: genuine connection. I decided if I was willing to brave standing in long exhibition lines for a fleeting glimpse of a masterpiece, surely I could endure a disappointing first date or an awkward second. Yes, vulnerability is exposing, but it’s also where the work of art lives. And when you find someone who stays, who “gets it,” it feels as exhilarating as spotting a previously unseen detail in a Monet—worth every moment of uncertainty.

Takeaway: Vulnerability isn’t weakness; it’s an invitation. The right people will appreciate the offerings of your authentic heart. The wrong ones? Consider their dismissal a minimalist critique—clean, direct, and freeing.

Fear of Losing Myself: Can Two Hearts Hang Side by Side?

This fear came swaddled in a turtleneck sweater and brash certainty: could I love someone without melting into them entirely? I didn’t want to be the woman who walked into a relationship as herself and walked out wearing someone else’s metaphorical socks (technically, I still steal actual socks—comfort is important). I spent years cultivating who I was—layering my personality with rich textures of art and independence—and I wasn’t about to toss that aside to cozy up to romance.

But then I looked closer. In all my favorite portraits—the Renaissance lovers gazing at stars, the 1920s jazz couples frozen mid-dance—the individuals never disappeared into the frame. Love didn’t crowd out their identities; it cradled them, amplifying each of their unique joys. My fear started to unravel when I realized that my selfhood wasn’t a fragile glass vase that love might shatter; it was a sculpture meant to be admired alongside another’s sculpture in the same room.

Takeaway: The right relationship won’t diminish who you are. It will stand beside you like a complementary piece in a gallery—a diptych painting, different yet fundamentally connected.

Fear of the “Ick”: Disappointment’s Sneaky Cousin

Oh, the dreaded “ick”—that sudden feeling of revulsion when someone does… well, something that rubs you the wrong way. I’ll admit, I’ve fled at the sight of a mismatched tie and pocket square. (Have I since developed more patience? Moderately.) But the “ick” is unavoidable in relationships because it’s a product of real intimacy. At some point, you’ll see someone’s quirks so fully you’ll wish for five minutes of blind admiration again. Spoiler: It passes.

Take this as a hard-learned lesson from someone who once abandoned a sweet, jazz-loving boyfriend after a minor argument about my placement of O’Keeffe prints in his apartment. (The man wanted to hang Georgia next to a framed Star Wars poster. My inner curator said no.) What I’ve since realized is that the “ick” comes with any partnership; it’s how you handle it that determines whether things crumble or strengthen over time. Humor helps. Maybe he snores like a lumberjack or slurps his coffee like a sound effects record. It’s not the end of the world—it’s the beginning of compromise.

Takeaway: When those little “ick” moments arise, see them as brushstrokes adding depth to the portrait of your relationship. A masterpiece isn’t perfect; it’s layered.

Fear of Heartbreak: Picking Up the Shards of Your Glass Heart

Here’s the thing: heartbreak isn’t just in your head; it’s physical. Your chest aches, your pulse quickens, and suddenly, relationships feel like interrogations—“Why did you even believe this was worth your time?” After my first soulmate-level breakup, my afternoons were spent crying into my Earl Grey tea and playing Nina Simone’s “I Put a Spell on You” on repeat. (A cliché, I know, but a timeless one.)

And yet, one rainy London day during my time at Oxford, I found myself wandering through an open-air market. Without realizing, I’d slipped into a quiet awe of the colors and chaos around me—a reminder that beauty exists even when your heart feels raw. Heartbreak taught me resilience, and more importantly, that continuing to “try again” amidst fear isn’t foolish. It’s human. Protecting yourself from heartbreak by refusing love is like refusing to visit the Sistine Chapel because you’re afraid of travel delays. Sure, you’ll avoid some trouble, but you’ll also miss a masterpiece.

Takeaway: Heartbreak isn’t the end; it’s proof you’ve risked living fully. Take the lessons, discard the pain, and start again—with better playlists.

Why I Do It Anyway

Whenever fear starts whispering that love is too uncertain, too risky, too demanding, I lean back into my love for art. The act of loving someone is much like painting—it’s messy, mistakes require reworking, and sometimes you want to quit halfway through. But when the brushstrokes line up just right? When the light and shadows dance with unexpected harmony? Well, that’s a sight worth every risk.

Yes, love is terrifying. But so are crowded subways, public karaoke, and attempting to recreate a soufflé from a French cookbook. We still show up for these things because the rewards vastly outweigh our fears. It’s the same with connection. Fear will always be present in matters of the heart; it’s how you wield it that counts.

So, here’s your challenge: the next time fear grips you as you reach for love, imagine you’re wandering through a museum. Some pieces will confuse you, others will captivate you—but none will leave you unchanged. And isn’t that exactly what love is meant to do?