I Thought Getting Older Meant Becoming More Scared — Becoming Fearless Surprised Me

The joys of jumping off the ledge

In those college years when my contemporaries were sowing their wild oats, I lived scared.

It wasn’t that I never did things that scared me, and no one would have referred to me as the timid type, but so many things scared me. I avoided them.

I’ve always been bold in certain areas:

• I’m outspoken — as happens often when you’re from a big family.
• I’ve always had strong feelings about social justice and willing to step up as needed.
• I am not afraid to be in charge, even though I usually won’t volunteer for it.
• I am naturally competitive and enjoyed winning.
• I love to listen to smart people, so have often eavesdropped on conversations or slipped into lectures and other events that interested me.

On the other hand:

• I wasn’t adventurous. Would I do anything that required I face my fear of heights? No, thank you.
• I had major social anxiety. If my friends left me sitting alone in a bar, as they danced or met someone new, I sat there like an unapproachable iceberg, wondering when I could leave without anyone noticing.
• I wanted to travel, but there was always an excuse. Usually money. A prolonged visit to another country? It was for other kinds of people, not for someone like me.
• I thought I was unathletic, so tried to get out of anything requiring athletic ability. I lived a sedentary life as much as possible.

I didn’t mind it much when I was younger. I figured this was just the way I was built. On one hand I knew many risk-takers and I admired them.

I was a Broadcast Journalism major in college, the breeding ground for risk takers — well, risk takers in a certain mold — so I saw people do very interesting things. They boldly put themselves out there. They’d walk up to strangers to get interviews.

I, too, interviewed people who lived interesting lives — but I asked with fear and trepidation. I was in awe of them. I never thought I could be them.

I look back and try to find the event that changed me. I can’t think of one. I suspect it happened while traveling. When you’re already out of your comfort zone, going a bit further doesn’t seem to increase the fear.

I found myself lost in many countries. The worse time was in Athens, Greece, when I simply had a map given to me from the hotel. They had “thoughtfully” provided me one in English. All signs were in Greek. My knowledge of Greek consisted of sororities and fraternities in college — I wracked my brain to remember the emblems I saw on sweatshirts from back then.

I had gotten a card from our hotel before we left. I tried to hail a cab. I stopped several. They all looked at the card and said they didn’t go there. No explanation or help to find someone who did.

My friends were helpless. They put everything in my hands. The burden would have been easier shared.

We walked and walked. Possibly in circles. Eventually I saw something I thought looked familiar. I excitedly said that was the direction we needed to walk.

My friends grimaced. They did not provide an alternative, but my “walk until you figure it out” theory was not one they appreciated. Especially after we had been doing it for a couple of hours.

I was right. A few more blocks and I found our bus stop. A nice bus driver confirmed his bus would return us to our hotel.

In time, I began to get more secure when lost. I always eventually found my way home. When I told myself that, it seemed to open up my brain to solutions.

Hot air balloons helped my fear of heights. To be gently lifted off the earth and float in the sky, the fear evaporated. It made me want to fly. In anything. In my friend’s experimental plane. Down zip lines. In a parachute, by myself in a static line jump, after dropping from the wing of a plane.

It was exhilarating. Yet it felt safe to me. The fear came in not doing it.

Since primary school I had gotten the message that I was not a good athlete. I could ride my bike and walk for miles, but no one looked at that as requiring athletic ability.

As an adult I started going to the gym. First I met two guy friends early morning to work out together. I don’t know why I agreed — probably simply because I liked their company. But long after they quit on me, I continued. I had paid for membership, after all. The more I went, the better the value.

I still carried the “not an athlete” banner, though. That was until I overheard a conversation an old guy who worked at my gym had with a new member. As people checked in, the two of them were in a back corner. Standing in line I heard him say something about each person.

When I came through I heard him say, “She’s a runner.”

I started to deny it. I didn’t want that person to think I was something I was not. Runners are those folks who run well and win races, right?

As I headed up to the track, I started thinking. I ran most days. Oh, I interspersed it with walking, but had been improve the ratio of walking to running. Slowly I was successful.

As I thought about what he said, it finally occurred to me. I ran. I was a runner. I didn’t need to be naturally gifted or have great technique. I simply had to do it.

This got me to try other things. Kayaking? I was somewhat of a natural there, despite believing I had very weak arms. Yoga? I was usually the worst in the class and my sense of balance never improved — yet I could work my way through a class. Strength training? I have naturally strong legs that respond well to being worked out.

Being an athlete means doing the work. Putting yourself in that position over and over again. Who cares if no one else realized how far I had come? Their opinions would only hold me back if I listened to them. My arthritic knees prohibit running these days, but I now know an athlete does athletic things. I have no fear about making a fool of myself. I can try so many things — and even have fun when I fail.

All these things carried over into all areas my life. I’ll try many things that would have scared me at 20. I keep good company — people who are risk takers, but also safety conscious. They help me evaluate my choices.

What may be among my greatest accomplishments overcoming my fears may surprise you? I seem to be perpetually single. At heart I am a shy introvert, who is quite good at putting on the façade of a bold extrovert. But if you’re watching closely, you’ll see the truth.

Walking into a wedding reception alone, when I know only the bride and groom? Not much scares me more. I do my best to endure, but allow myself the safety net of sneaking out if it gets overwhelming. I’ll jump out of a plane over that situation any day. (Why does no one in my circles allow a “plus one” anymore?)

Why has getting older taken away so many fears? Because I hate the regret of not trying. I want a well-lived life and I do not want to give fear permission to steal that from me.

I cheer for others when I see them face their fears, whether they fumble or soar. They are magnificent. I have found others do the same for me.

I’m not fearless, but I’m also not as afraid of looking like a fool in the eyes of others as I used to be. I don’t need to be the best at all I do. I know the courage it takes for me to do things others don’t consider a battle. I will give myself a high five and a participation trophy because I did not just sit in the crowd of life. I joined the team.

Maybe when others see me do it, they’ll step in front of their fear, too. We don’t need to be fearless — but we do need to challenge ourselves. We can do hard things.