The Opposite of Fear

On mapping my edges

It may feel like I’m being coy, but I’m not.

Scene from the amazing Studio Ghibli movie, Spirited Away. A movie where the protagonist has to be the opposite of afraid to save her family.

Some things still hurt. Some parts of me are still inflamed.  Some days I wake up and my stomach drops, a pit of gravity I can’t escape.

At the peak of inflammation, it felt like I was constantly drowning. Like I didn’t have enough energy. But that wasn’t the case. I had energy then, perhaps even a surplus. I just couldn’t decide where to direct it. All the energy I had went to grinding through the burn. I could only use it to avoid drowning. The friction I needed to surpass was such that I had to be operating 150% all the time. As anyone who has suffered from anxiety can tell you, it can take a lot of energy to lie in bed. The calories spent clenching your jaw. Tensing your shoulders up into your ears. Trying not to explode.

I reached 0% in my reserves at the end of every single day. Inevitably, Groundhog Day would begin again. It was in those moments leaving sleep, fluttering my eyes open, feeling my heartbeat in my throat. That’s when the stomach drops would start. I was putting my key in the ignition to start my day. Dreading the endless cycle of the engine. The waste of fuel it was to run it at that speed.

I collapsed into dread. I was so afraid. Afraid that no one was trying to stop this machine. Astounded that no one cared how it spun at unsafe revolutions. I couldn’t recognize myself. Who was this person? No answer. I resigned myself to being the operator of a machine I had no agency over.

It’s scary when you think you can’t stop yourself.

I sometimes still wake up at 3am. I take it as a residual behavior. Like an appendix I haven’t gotten out, but isn’t actively trying to kill me. It happens less and less now, but it still happens. Sometimes it is anxiety. As I’ve said before, I am entering uncharted personal territory.

I breathe through those moments. My interior self observes the black hole that wants to pull me down and remove my agency. Put me back in that machine, run it at the highest horsepower. Burn it baby, burn it, it calls to me.

I’m ok from over here, I respond. A safe distance. I have given myself the grace of that space. Or rather, I crawled back here on my hands and knees. Pushing against the gravitation pull. I don’t want to get closer to the pit. I am learning to give myself the grace of sitting near the fear without giving into it. Acknowledging my lack of control in a different way. There are so many things out of my sphere of influence. But, what I can do is sit here and not get sucked by the hole inside me.

I’ll put on an audiobook, a podcast, a replay of some show I’ve seen 10K times, and I’ll go back to sleep. My energetic balance only slightly altered by this episode.

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The opposite of fear is curiosity.

Hear me out.

When you’re afraid, you tense up. You clench your jaw, shatter your teeth, tense your neck and shoulders. You collapse your chest forward. You fall into yourself. These are responses dictated by nature, wired into our circuitry. When mice are exposed to an open field, they run to the sides and corners. In their tiny chickpea brains is ingrained the dread of the hawk, fox, cat, and latex-gloved scientist. One of them will scoop them up if they are exposed out there in the open.

Someone living in fear does not stretch their wings. They hide behind them. They defend themselves from their source of distress. It’s a matter of survival: you can only safeguard yourself arduously. Then you become stuck in that garrison. You become some Greek myth of a story: forever hiding behind your wings. Dread and angst at your seemingly eternal situation become your daily bread.

Someone living with a spirit of curiosity shakes their wings around. They move them up, they move them down. Sometimes asynchronously, sometimes synchronously. They wonder what can these things do? They check their metabolic balance and realize they can keep moving their wings. Maybe they could try to fly? After some attempts, maybe they can. They can leave this branch, this tree, this forrest. They can escape this treachery of ravens¹, realizing they may be more bark than bite.

Curiosity starts as a light behind your eyes and evolves into a humming in your throat. It takes energy for it to metamorphose. It requires an inquisitive inclination and the pull to act on that inclination. To have curiosity consummate, you have to let it move you. Otherwise, it maladapts into something else.

What if I go here? How far can I go if I do that? You can only start asking those questions when you feel safe. I couldn't go anywhere when I could not conjure up agency for myself. I was not living at the edge, I had swan-dived past it into the pit of lava. Curiosity grows when you try something new, realize you enjoy it or not, and decide whether you want to hang out in that space more. You learn where your limits are when your inquisitive nature leads you too far. Not there… or maybe there, but not yet. You’ll only get more comfortable mapping out those edges after experiencing your limits in a safe, supportive environment. The more you do it, the more resilient you become. Being in constant fear does the opposite. It can make someone very brittle. I know I was.

Sure you could say that you need bravery, the true antonym of fear, to actually start that cartography project of mapping your edges. You’re not wrong. But what makes you actually want to go these new spaces? Why do you need to be brave? It starts with a spark inside you, looking to answer the question: can this get better? Implementing hope requires you to ask: how can I make a change?

I realize now that a sign I was lost in the machine was my ever-present apathy. As the black hole in my chest grew, I stopped flapping my wings. It wasn’t until I gave into the “what if” that it all changed. The possibility louder than the cackling ravens. What if I excise myself from this situation? What if I flap my wings and fly away? Can I?

I will never regret giving in to that sense of curiosity.

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Want more specifics?  Here’s where my curiosity has taken me:

- I started a writing class at The Writing Salon that changed my life and gave my fingers their spark again. I’ve kept pushing on that edge and sharpening my sword. I joined The Unexpected Shape Academy by Esmé W. Wang², and have found a community of inspiring co-creators in that and so many other spheres, like Substack! I’m exploring spaces I didn’t know I had in me. I haven’t felt this invigorated in a while.

- I started reading and have not stopped. I’ve read about 1.5 books/week in the last 6 months. My world has grown a millionfold. I rediscovered the bookstore down the street. It is a magical place. Every time I walk in, I come out a better, more creative and inquisitive person. I always leave in awe and humbled, in the best possible way. If you’re in SF, go to their events. Thank me later.

- I started going to the yoga studio down the block and found a grounding, lovely community waiting to catch me when I pass my edge. It’s ok, you can just get up and try again. Now I’m training to be one of those instructors and create supportive spaces for others. On and off the mat.

- I started watching Riverdale. No further comments will be provided at this time.

1. A collection of ravens is a treachery. Isn’t that cool?

2. She’s also on Substack!