Fear Itself
"We have nothing to fear but fear itself"
----- Franklin Delano Roosevelt
What a visionary and prophetic statement. I think about that phrase a lot. Mostly because of how I think it applies to me in so many instances in my life. At the moment, it applies to my fear of failure.
Fears come in many forms. Some fear is good because it makes you cautious of things that could harm you. For example, you fear fire or a car accident because it can do a great deal of harm to you. Other fears are irrational like never letting your kids outside because you fear someone will kidnap them, or they’ll get hurt, or lost. Or fearing that you have no friends because you’re always paranoid that people won’t like you. Some fear is quite rational and justifiable, as is the fear of someone who has hurt you before. That is what I call legitimate fear. If you fear another person or thing, because in the past it (or he or she) has hurt you physically or emotionally, that is justified. Fear of death is a very common fear, but when you carefully think about it, you come to an understanding that it is quite a pointless fear because it is factual. At some point death will become reality for every one of us. There is no getting around the grim reaper.
Other fears are binding, like the fear of looking stupid that keeps you from accomplishing even the simplest things in life. The fear of being alone has lead many a wayward bride or groom down an unfortunate aisle, only to wake up one day, look over at their spouse, gasp and say: "What have I done?"
Fear of failure is quite possibly the most debilitating fear of them all. It can potentially freeze you in place and prevent you from going in any direction. That is exactly the kind of paralyzing fear that I experience every day when I mull over the idea of book writing.
I have been known to mentally torment myself when pondering the very real possibility that a book I write and then have published will fail miserably on the bookshelves. By fail, I do not mean I won’t make money because in my case, it’s more the approval I seek. What I do mean is a fear that no one will bother to pick up my book and read it. I am not naïve enough to not grasp the lottery-style chance of writing a best seller. I know the odds are stacked against me and against so many other worriers of the planet. However, that fear still remains, occupying the space that could be reserved for the no-holds-barred risk-taker I know is in me.
But in the meantime…
There is also that overwhelming lack of confidence in my own skills as a writer and storyteller. It seems that throughout my life, the good to bad ratio of criticisms to compliments has blurred my thinking and made me a prisoner of these fears. As a small child in school, when I was asked to write an essay or short story, I threw myself into the assignment with the kind of gusto reserved for the older bride who thought her wedding day would never come. I would worry about penmanship and spelling with such ardor, that I would nub my eraser from over usage and quell my need to cry by biting the inside of my cheek to keep from losing it. Once I turned in my paper, I would sit and stew until grades were passed out. I would sit at my desk and think about things I should have written instead, things that just popped into my head and other things I could have written differently. It’s the age-old truth: I am my own worst critic.
When I got my paper back, if it did not have an appealing mark on top and did not also come with a compliment from my teacher, I would be utterly devastated. I would try hard no to pout, but my little elementary school heart would break because I wasn’t good enough. If, in the interim, I happened to overhear said teacher issuing a gushing compliment in the direction of one of my classmates, an overpowering sense of envy would invade my body and manifest itself in a hot rush that started in my toes and traveled rapidly to my head. For the rest of the day, I would find myself in a funk because I didn’t measure up.
As I got older and developed better and more pronounced writing skills, I gained a bit more confidence. Yet it was fragile confidence that could be unraveled and undone in a matter of one poorly worded sentence in my direction. I would strive to better myself as a writer, even as math created an assortment of concerns for me elsewhere. My goal was simple: excel in English because I couldn’t do so in math. I would be the best, bar one.
I went through all of my schooling in that sort of teeter-totter system of beliefs that I was either a fantastic and confident writer, or a poorly misguided average student. So you can imagine the sweet arrival of that first ever English 101 course in my freshman year of college. How I savored the freeing assignments of writing to my heart’s content on this topic or that. You can imagine the jubilee of being blessed with a professor so amazing that I truly believe she was the one to turn my mind off of that negativity – at least during my college years. I still keep in touch with her, though she now lives in Australia, because she is a professor like few on this planet. She was the first person to understand that how you express to a student how you feel about what they wrote can change them forever. She would tear up with emotions if a student paper tugged at just the right strings to her heart. It was something she wrote on top of one of my papers that I carry with me – that one day I would write my story.
Since then, I have mentally visualized finding my book on a shelf in a bookstore, tilting my head sideways and seeing my name on the spine of the book and filling with pride. I have visualized sitting at a table, a line of people waiting for me to sign their copy of my book. I have visualized that dedication page a million times: "To my mother". I have seen it all in my mind's eye and on some days, when I am fearless, I believe that day will come.
Years have passed since I saw her, though an occasional email passes between us every now and then. I still seek her approval and hope always to do her proud! However, years have not resolved my issues with fear – the kind that holds me back and keeps me under cover of night, afraid to push back the layers and put it all out there. Do not be afraid to think! Do not be afraid to be honest. Do not be afraid to be brave. Do not be afraid to fail. Do not be afraid of the life you’re meant to live. This is MY To-Do List. What’s yours?
----- Franklin Delano Roosevelt
What a visionary and prophetic statement. I think about that phrase a lot. Mostly because of how I think it applies to me in so many instances in my life. At the moment, it applies to my fear of failure.
Fears come in many forms. Some fear is good because it makes you cautious of things that could harm you. For example, you fear fire or a car accident because it can do a great deal of harm to you. Other fears are irrational like never letting your kids outside because you fear someone will kidnap them, or they’ll get hurt, or lost. Or fearing that you have no friends because you’re always paranoid that people won’t like you. Some fear is quite rational and justifiable, as is the fear of someone who has hurt you before. That is what I call legitimate fear. If you fear another person or thing, because in the past it (or he or she) has hurt you physically or emotionally, that is justified. Fear of death is a very common fear, but when you carefully think about it, you come to an understanding that it is quite a pointless fear because it is factual. At some point death will become reality for every one of us. There is no getting around the grim reaper.
Other fears are binding, like the fear of looking stupid that keeps you from accomplishing even the simplest things in life. The fear of being alone has lead many a wayward bride or groom down an unfortunate aisle, only to wake up one day, look over at their spouse, gasp and say: "What have I done?"
Fear of failure is quite possibly the most debilitating fear of them all. It can potentially freeze you in place and prevent you from going in any direction. That is exactly the kind of paralyzing fear that I experience every day when I mull over the idea of book writing.
I have been known to mentally torment myself when pondering the very real possibility that a book I write and then have published will fail miserably on the bookshelves. By fail, I do not mean I won’t make money because in my case, it’s more the approval I seek. What I do mean is a fear that no one will bother to pick up my book and read it. I am not naïve enough to not grasp the lottery-style chance of writing a best seller. I know the odds are stacked against me and against so many other worriers of the planet. However, that fear still remains, occupying the space that could be reserved for the no-holds-barred risk-taker I know is in me.
But in the meantime…
There is also that overwhelming lack of confidence in my own skills as a writer and storyteller. It seems that throughout my life, the good to bad ratio of criticisms to compliments has blurred my thinking and made me a prisoner of these fears. As a small child in school, when I was asked to write an essay or short story, I threw myself into the assignment with the kind of gusto reserved for the older bride who thought her wedding day would never come. I would worry about penmanship and spelling with such ardor, that I would nub my eraser from over usage and quell my need to cry by biting the inside of my cheek to keep from losing it. Once I turned in my paper, I would sit and stew until grades were passed out. I would sit at my desk and think about things I should have written instead, things that just popped into my head and other things I could have written differently. It’s the age-old truth: I am my own worst critic.
When I got my paper back, if it did not have an appealing mark on top and did not also come with a compliment from my teacher, I would be utterly devastated. I would try hard no to pout, but my little elementary school heart would break because I wasn’t good enough. If, in the interim, I happened to overhear said teacher issuing a gushing compliment in the direction of one of my classmates, an overpowering sense of envy would invade my body and manifest itself in a hot rush that started in my toes and traveled rapidly to my head. For the rest of the day, I would find myself in a funk because I didn’t measure up.
As I got older and developed better and more pronounced writing skills, I gained a bit more confidence. Yet it was fragile confidence that could be unraveled and undone in a matter of one poorly worded sentence in my direction. I would strive to better myself as a writer, even as math created an assortment of concerns for me elsewhere. My goal was simple: excel in English because I couldn’t do so in math. I would be the best, bar one.
I went through all of my schooling in that sort of teeter-totter system of beliefs that I was either a fantastic and confident writer, or a poorly misguided average student. So you can imagine the sweet arrival of that first ever English 101 course in my freshman year of college. How I savored the freeing assignments of writing to my heart’s content on this topic or that. You can imagine the jubilee of being blessed with a professor so amazing that I truly believe she was the one to turn my mind off of that negativity – at least during my college years. I still keep in touch with her, though she now lives in Australia, because she is a professor like few on this planet. She was the first person to understand that how you express to a student how you feel about what they wrote can change them forever. She would tear up with emotions if a student paper tugged at just the right strings to her heart. It was something she wrote on top of one of my papers that I carry with me – that one day I would write my story.
Since then, I have mentally visualized finding my book on a shelf in a bookstore, tilting my head sideways and seeing my name on the spine of the book and filling with pride. I have visualized sitting at a table, a line of people waiting for me to sign their copy of my book. I have visualized that dedication page a million times: "To my mother". I have seen it all in my mind's eye and on some days, when I am fearless, I believe that day will come.
Years have passed since I saw her, though an occasional email passes between us every now and then. I still seek her approval and hope always to do her proud! However, years have not resolved my issues with fear – the kind that holds me back and keeps me under cover of night, afraid to push back the layers and put it all out there. Do not be afraid to think! Do not be afraid to be honest. Do not be afraid to be brave. Do not be afraid to fail. Do not be afraid of the life you’re meant to live. This is MY To-Do List. What’s yours?
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