Scaredy-Cat
What am I afraid of?
I am afraid of ridicule and rejection. I’m afraid of not being believed. I’m afraid of being laughed at, left out, and longing to hit the backspace key. I’m afraid of doing it wrong, of saying it wrong, of someone reading it wrong.
I am afraid of my own memory...the way it stretches and blurs in the dark, shadowy corners of my mind. I’m afraid of hurting someone—my husband, my children, my parents. I’m afraid of hurting strangers and gaining enemies. I’m afraid that my words might cause those closest to me to feel like a stranger. I am afraid of looking like the aggressor, and I am so very afraid of looking like a victim.
I am afraid of losing future invitations and confirming why certain past ones never came. I’m afraid of looking bitter, stupid, and petty. Of looking too privileged, too blind, too naïve. And I’m afraid of not being enough—not educated enough, not worldly enough, not hungry enough, and not certified enough by degrees and diplomas and job titles. I’m afraid of being too young. I’m afraid of being too old.
I am afraid of being known. I’m afraid of becoming overlooked, dismissed, and forgotten. I’m afraid to really forgive myself—to understand and love her—because who am I without my shame?
I am afraid of accidentally stealing someone’s work that I once heard, absorbed, and forgot where it came from. I’m afraid of someone else stealing my words, my sentences, my ideas, my voice. I’m afraid of robots and of typos.
I am afraid of failing the assignment and possibly—very possibly—even more afraid of succeeding. I’m afraid of losing my dream, as perhaps it is most beautiful from a distance, just beyond my reach.
I am afraid of critique and of criticism. Yet, I am also afraid of compliments. I struggle to lower my walls to accept the love. I’m worried about how much praise can temporarily boost me, as though a feather, carried skyward by the slightest wind. Always at the risk of falling back down.
I am afraid my own words aren’t good enough. That they will reveal I’m not good enough a writer, not good enough a human. I’m afraid that my mind isn’t sharp enough, my tongue not clever enough, my heart courageous enough. I’m afraid that my skin is just too thin for this world.
I am afraid that my story has already been told before—by someone better, smarter, more likable.
I am afraid that my story is not big enough. I’m afraid my story is too big. Impossible, really, to tell. They say how you eat an elephant is one bite at a time. But sometimes I try that, nibble by nibble, and it still seems to swallow me whole.
I am afraid of changing my mind after staking my claim. Even if everything I’ve ever said is true, isn’t it also true that I will continue to see things anew? For every year that my eyes age and see worse, doesn’t my perspective also sharpen?
I am afraid of losing privacy. I’m afraid my words will be twisted. Or only half heard. Or taken out of context. I’m afraid of saying too much. The way I tremble, and shake, and sweat, and redden when my truth emerges.
Yet I am equally afraid, if not more, of this sickness that remains—like bile lodged in my throat—when I haven’t fully purged all my truth.
I am afraid of being called a whore, a tease, a slut. A drunk. A terrible mother.
I am afraid my pride will be mistaken for boasting. I am afraid of being seen as too sensitive. Too uncool. Too unnecessarily deep.
Yet I am also afraid of drowning in shallow water. I find it hard to breathe among the surface dwellers, so deep is the only direction I know how to travel.
I nearly drowned borrowing other people’s maps. I know there is no treasure chest waiting for me at the bottom of the ocean, as nothing outside of myself will bring me riches or joy or safety. Only in the deep, pressure-dark waters will I find what I seek above all: my own inner light, guiding me like a bioluminescent torch.
And as I invite in my fears, sitting with them long enough to write them down, I realize something:
Hasn’t the worst already happened?
Haven’t people laughed at me? Judged me? Ridiculed me? Erased my number? Forgotten my touch?
Haven’t people died before I was prepared for a goodbye?
Haven’t I hurt people? Humiliated them? Angered them? Worried them?
Haven’t things ended—sometimes poorly—without resolution?
Haven’t I already abandoned myself, convinced I was the worst?
Haven’t I spent a lifetime believing I was the only one who wasn’t doing it right?
Haven’t I already hurt and trembled and reddened and wept?
Yes.
Oh yes, I have.
I have been the awkward one, the drunk one, and the example no one wanted to repeat. I have been the bruised one and the violent one. The blacked-out one and the one begging to forget. I have been the cheater and the betrayed. The lousy friend and the most loyal of all.
It’s all there already, written in stone.
So what does it matter if it’s written on paper?
I feel the expansive shift in my body, and suddenly it dawns on me: even with all these fears, I am doing the thing. I am writing. I am owning my story. I am looking inward more often than I look around. I continue to tune in to myself more than to the crickets or critics.
The original question therefore changes entirely.
No longer “WHAT am I afraid of?” but “What am I so AFRAID of?”
Behind the scaredy-cat mask, there has always been a lion.
And she roars.
Sometimes softly, but that does not diminish her power.
Song to accompany Scaredy-Cat, dedicated to the ones who do it anyway.
Rise Up by Andra Day.
If my words landed with you in any way, please tap the little heart, comment, restack, or subscribe. The connections built here mean so very much to me. xo, Jenny.
rk, shadowy corners of my mind. I’m afraid of hurting someone—my husband, my children, my parents. I’m afraid of hurting strangers and gaining enemies. I’m afraid that my words might cause those closest to me to feel like a stranger. I am afraid of looking like the aggressor, and I am so very afraid of looking like a victim.
I am afraid of losing future invitations and confirming why certain past ones never came. I’m afraid of looking bitter, stupid, and petty. Of looking too privileged, too blind, too naïve. And I’m afraid of not being enough—not educated enough, not worldly enough, not hungry enough, and not certified enough by degrees and diplomas and job titles. I’m afraid of being too young. I’m afraid of being too old.
I am afraid of being known. I’m afraid of becoming overlooked, dismissed, and forgotten. I’m afraid to really forgive myself—to understand and love her—because who am I without my shame?
I am afraid of accidentally stealing someone’s work that I once heard, absorbed, and forgot where it came from. I’m afraid of someone else stealing my words, my sentences, my ideas, my voice. I’m afraid of robots and of typos.
I am afraid of failing the assignment and possibly—very possibly—even more afraid of succeeding. I’m afraid of losing my dream, as perhaps it is most beautiful from a distance, just beyond my reach.
I am afraid of critique and of criticism. Yet, I am also afraid of compliments. I struggle to lower my walls to accept the love. I’m worried about how much praise can temporarily boost me, as though a feather, carried skyward by the slightest wind. Always at the risk of falling back down.
I am afraid my own words aren’t good enough. That they will reveal I’m not good enough a writer, not good enough a human. I’m afraid that my mind isn’t sharp enough, my tongue not clever enough, my heart courageous enough. I’m afraid that my skin is just too thin for this world.
I am afraid that my story has already been told before—by someone better, smarter, more likable.
I am afraid that my story is not big enough. I’m afraid my story is too big. Impossible, really, to tell. They say how you eat an elephant is one bite at a time. But sometimes I try that, nibble by nibble, and it still seems to swallow me whole.
I am afraid of changing my mind after staking my claim. Even if everything I’ve ever said is true, isn’t it also true that I will continue to see things anew? For every year that my eyes age and see worse, doesn’t my perspective also sharpen?
I am afraid of losing privacy. I’m afraid my words will be twisted. Or only half heard. Or taken out of context. I’m afraid of saying too much. The way I tremble, and shake, and sweat, and redden when my truth emerges.
Yet I am equally afraid, if not more, of this sickness that remains—like bile lodged in my throat—when I haven’t fully purged all my truth.
I am afraid of being called a whore, a tease, a slut. A drunk. A terrible mother.
I am afraid my pride will be mistaken for boasting. I am afraid of being seen as too sensitive. Too uncool. Too unnecessarily deep.
Yet I am also afraid of drowning in shallow water. I find it hard to breathe among the surface dwellers, so deep is the only direction I know how to travel.
I nearly drowned borrowing other people’s maps. I know there is no treasure chest waiting for me at the bottom of the ocean, as nothing outside of myself will bring me riches or joy or safety. Only in the deep, pressure-dark waters will I find what I seek above all: my own inner light, guiding me like a bioluminescent torch.
And as I invite in my fears, sitting with them long enough to write them down, I realize something:
Hasn’t the worst already happened?
Haven’t people laughed at me? Judged me? Ridiculed me? Erased my number? Forgotten my touch?
Haven’t people died before I was prepared for a goodbye?
Haven’t I hurt people? Humiliated them? Angered them? Worried them?
Haven’t things ended—sometimes poorly—without resolution?
Haven’t I already abandoned myself, convinced I was the worst?
Haven’t I spent a lifetime believing I was the only one who wasn’t doing it right?
Haven’t I already hurt and trembled and reddened and wept?
Yes.
Oh yes, I have.
I have been the awkward one, the drunk one, and the example no one wanted to repeat. I have been the bruised one and the violent one. The blacked-out one and the one begging to forget. I have been the cheater and the betrayed. The lousy friend and the most loyal of all.
It’s all there already, written in stone.
So what does it matter if it’s written on paper?
I feel the expansive shift in my body, and suddenly it dawns on me: even with all these fears, I am doing the thing. I am writing. I am owning my story. I am looking inward more often than I look around. I continue to tune in to myself more than to the crickets or critics.
The original question therefore changes entirely.
No longer “WHAT am I afraid of?” but “What am I so AFRAID of?”
Behind the scaredy-cat mask, there has always been a lion.
And she roars.
Sometimes softly, but that does not diminish her power.
Song to accompany Scaredy-Cat, dedicated to the ones who do it anyway.
Rise Up by Andra Day.
If my words landed with you in any way, please tap the little heart, comment, restack, or subscribe. The connections built here mean so very much to me. xo, Jenny.
Jenny: ‘Deep is the only direction I know how to travel.’ My dear friend, you do it so well, too. This was a brave essay, a courageous disrobing of all the armor we usually wear to keep our fears hidden. When you acknowledge your humanity like this, it invites others to do the same. On this fear, oh how I feel it: “I am afraid my own words aren’t good enough. That they will reveal I’m not good enough a writer, not good enough a human. I’m afraid that my mind isn’t sharp enough, my tongue not clever enough, my heart courageous enough. I’m afraid that my skin is just too thin for this world.” We may be soft or thin of skin but we’re sturdier than we know. From one scaredy-cat to another, let’s let our inner lioness run the show from now on, shall we? ‘Rise Up’ by Anita Day is a favorite of mine, became my anthem during the pandemic. Big hugs to you!! Keep writing your story!
‘Deep is the only direction I know how to travel’ is so great, so affirming. The Lion, the song. Thank you for the reflection and the mirror. The nudge I needed - it finds us, always.