What scares you?
In which I ask a hard question, out my artist dad, and administer a little tough love
What scares you?
I’ll go first.
I’m scared to be here. Writing this. Sharing it with you.
There is a little voice whispering mean things in my head. It tells me that this is a silly and frivolous pursuit, that the world is on fire and I should be doing something more meaningful, that I have no qualifications to be saying any of what I’m saying, that this project is a gross illustration of my privilege, that I have no right to even hope that people might pay to subscribe to this schizophrenic rambling, that this is a self-indulgent exercise in the worst kind of navel gazing and self aggrandizement, and on and on (and on).
Here’s the interesting thing about looking at what scares you: It usually shows you what you care about most.
We’ve all heard the old adage, “'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” (Hat tip to Alfred Lord Tennyson.) In other words, experiencing joy is worth the pain of grief and loss that might follow as a result of opening yourself up and being vulnerable. Easy to say, harder to live.
We didn’t have a lot when I was a kid. I wouldn’t go so far as to say we were poor, though — by some people’s standards — I expect we were on the cusp. My parents were hard-working entrepreneurs who raised me and my sister in what was, at the time, a blue-collar town best known for its oh-so-glamorous clamming industry and a particularly vicious type of biting fly called a “greenhead.”
I learned early in life that I wasn’t always going to get what I wanted (like a wardrobe full of Jordache jeans and Benetton sweaters … you had to be there). To avoid disappointment, I limited my expectations, figuring that if I didn’t get my hopes up, I would never be let down.
I now realize that this twisted logic is something that a lot of people (particularly women, ahem) experience from a very early age. And it sucks. It’s also seriously flawed because we can’t really stop hoping for something, we can only stop letting our hope show.
We hide our desires because we don’t want to look foolish for having them, or for failing to attain them. We also downplay how much we want something because we don’t want to make anyone else feel guilty or inadequate because they can’t make our dreams come true. Or is that just me?
My daughter — twenty-years-old and a rising junior in college — is not afraid to want things. I love that about her. She’ll straight up tell you what she wants: a huge house, a really nice car, all the best designer makeup, and money to go to cool places … like Coachella. If I’m honest, hearing her say these things out loud — even while I’m proud of her for owning her desires — makes me a little uncomfortable. I feel a kind of second-hand anxiety or anticipatory disappointment. I sometimes have the urge to temper her expectations of life with a “grown up” reality check.
But the last thing I want is to be the buzzkill who lets her own doubts, fears, and worries suck the life out of her daughter’s dreams. So, I’m trying to take a page from her book and retrain my brain to take joy in dreaming big. My being scared for her won’t help her reach her goals. Worrying never got anyone anywhere.
At the same time, I try to have compassion for the fearful parts of myself. There’s no point in telling someone to just stop being scared. Overcoming fear (or, more often, learning how to move forward despite it) is a process. You have to find your own path to courage.
Take my dad. He is an amazing artist who has been dragging his feet about putting his art out there for a long time. He has done work-for-hire as a graphic designer, illustrator, wedding and portrait photographer, and digital portrait painter. But he has only recently given me permission to share some of his original creations — digitally painted creatures and characters who are bursting with charm and humor. Each time I share one of his works, my Facebook page goes wild.
My mom and I have been badgering Dad for years to put some of his work up for sale, but he always puts us off, saying he’s *almost* (but not quite) ready. There’s always one more technique to try or one more version to tweak.
The last time he gave me this song and dance, I said, “No.”
No more waiting. No more finessing. No. More. Stalling.
It’s time to share this work with the world.
I bought a domain, set up a Shopify test site, and sent Dad the templates for some products — mugs, t-shirts, notebooks, and the like.
And then: crickets.
My first impulse was to harass him (and I will, eventually, do just that), but as I started working on the first few posts for this newsletter, I felt the fear of rejection deep in my bones.
Working on these posts has me agonizing over each word, battling that mean voice in my head every single time I sit down to write. And there have definitely been days when I have thought I’m just not ready, and I should give myself more time to prepare so that I feel less scared.
All this to say, I get it, Dad. I really do.
But here’s the awful truth:
We never feel ready.
We’re always scared.
And time is running out.
At some point, you just have to decide that today is the day, and do the damn thing.
I know it’s scary. (Pro Tip: If you’re doing it right, it will always be at least a little scary.)
But it’s scary because it’s something you love. It’s something you really want.
And it’s okay to love that thing, and to want it.
It’s not stupid or selfish or silly or conceited.
It’s important. It’s who you are. And you don’t have to apologize for that. Ever.
And if you let your fear keep you from doing the thing you love, you may be protecting yourself from the temporary pain of ridicule or failure, but you’ll also be setting yourself up for the deeper pain of regret. And that is not pretty. Not pretty at all.
I’m not kidding about time running out. There will come a day when you will have run out of chances to do the thing you dreamed of or be the person you wanted to be. That possibility should scare you more than anything else.
So, I’ll ask you again: What scares you?
P.S. In case you missed this week’s Monday Moxie post, it works as a Thursday pick-me-up too:
P.P.S. The “crickets” in the story about my dad weren’t a lack of response to his art. They were his lack of response to my request for his art files. However, he DID make the owl that is the unofficial mascot of Inner Wilderness Unlimited, so … baby steps. ;)
Sharing your fears and discomforts is always the brave thing. And that's how we grow. I totally celebrate that!
So much you wrote here resonates with me. Thank you for pushing past the discomfort and pushing publish!