I am frightened by all manner of things. I am frightened by the presence that hovers near the front door in the dark when I get up to go to the bathroom in the mornings. I am frightened by the space underneath my bed and what could hide there between my luggage and shoes. I am frightened by faceless things in nightmares that find me night after night and hold me down in unbearable darkness or light until I remember that this is all a dream, and then become frightened because I cannot escape it.
I'm actually genuinely frightened that I'm going to fail some of my finals this week. I'm afraid that I'll fall asleep and the work won't get done and I'll have to repeat a class or a semester and I'll lose my scholarship or I'll have to leave and I do not know where I'd go. I'm afraid I won't get another job and I haven't fully planned for that financial possibility. I'm afraid that I'll have to go home and start everything over from scratch, only with more loans this time and fewer prospects. I am frightened by my unworthiness and how very publicly it could be displayed in the near future.
I am frightened by the news from Aleppo. I am frightened by the news of hate crimes. I am frightened by our incoming government. I am frightened by rising sea water and catastrophic storms. I am frightened by nuclear weapons and biological weapons. I am frightened by guns. I am frightened of people who are stronger than me and what they can do to me. For maybe the first time in my life, I am afraid for my body and my possessions and my security.
More than anything else, I am frightened because I am not more frightened for others. I am frightened because I am more scared losing something that was never mine than I am scared by the pain in the world around me. I am scared of how easy it is for me to be frightened by loneliness and mistakes, how quickly I choose to focus on fears of situations resolved months ago, the reopening of freshly-healed wounds. I am frightened by my inability to place my emotions completely to the side. I am scared that one day I will not be able to get out of bed, that I will not care about the humans on the other side of the door enough to engage with them, and that I will never again engage with them. I am afraid that no one else will either.
I am not frightened by death or the void or silence. I am afraid of what I leave behind in life, in the world, in noisy community.
I don't like talking about fears because I know that we are not given a spirit of fear but of power and love and of a sound mind and because I know that there is a spectrum of rationality to my fear. I know that I am not called to be afraid, just as I know that some of my fears are born ghost stories and an overly analytical mind. I know what imposter syndrome is, guys, and I'm aware of how fear sells in the media. I know how my basic need for control, whatever its root is, is reflected across all of these fears.
But I don't want to explain away the importance of naming our fears. I don't want to shy away from analyzing what makes us withdraw from the world. The tensions and contradictions of human fear are fascinating and complex, but the reality of my fears and my fear of my fears is something I need to acknowledge and wrestle with without academic detachment. Because I shouldn't be driven by fear. Fear should not be what motivates my action. If I can see it, I can address it, re-shape it, speak life where it is lacking. All the same, I have to repeat again and again that fear does not define me. The foundation of my life isn't built on anything that can be taken away. I'll see my fear and work with it and know that my hope rests somewhere else.
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