What is your darkest fear?

It’s the first day of 2021, and it’s the perfect time to talk about fear.

I’m pretty gutsy. Once I realize I have a fear, I attack it head-on. I was afraid of heights so I joined a rock climbing club. That fear isn’t dead, but it has shifted into a thrill.

More importantly, it’s not limiting.

I was intimated by a superior at work so I asked him to be my mentor. I’m still intimidated but it’s not limiting.

And my fear of grasshoppers is both reasonable and normal, so let’s just leave it…

However, the keyword idea is conscious. The darkest and ugliest fears are those you hide from yourself. These hidden fears are the most limiting. I recently became aware of a fear that’s been holding me back for over a decade.

Being a writer

Writing and I go way back. In elementary school, I filled dozens of notebooks with my scribbling. Any idle moment was an opportunity to be hunched over a page frantically translating my thoughts into ink. Everyone knew I was going to be a writer and gave me well-meaning advice. One message was extremely clear — throughout childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood.

Don’t give up your day job.

I internalized this advice and gradually shifted the focus from being solely a writer to being an astronaut that writes about space, a scientist writing about research, a lawyer writing about justice, a doctor writing about diseases. In college, I studied journalism. In my freshman year, a professor purchased my article for $5. Since I was paid, I was officially a journalist, he said. It was intoxicating. I knew the pay was bad, the hours unpredictable, and the job unstable.

I didn’t care.

Until 2010. My senior year, the height of the Great Recession, and the year both my hometown newspapers folded. The same professors teaching us law of the press, ethics, features, and design were fired from their own day jobs and joined me in applying for somethinganythingpleasejustgivemeathingthatmakessense.

My experience was niche and weird enough to land one of the best offers in my year — an unpaid internship at the Arizona Republic working the business beat. The job would have been amazing…but it wasn’t a job. The networking opportunities would have been life-changing…but it wasn’t a job. The work would have been far more than 40 hours a week and the hours unusual to accommodate going from events to business meetings to city council meetings. I would have had to move to Phoenix, pay out of pocket to take a college class to allow the newspaper to legally ‘hire’ me for free.

I turned it down. I was too poor to afford to work for free no matter how many doors it would open.

I stopped being a writer.

Over the years I was a bartender, waitress, model, English teacher, GMAT tutor, consultant, entrepreneur, designer, editor, coach, translator, project manager, businesswoman, data analyst, interviewer, orator, executive assistant, program manager…and many more.

Every role had some writing elements. And I did it well.

I’m not afraid of writing, and when I do, I am decent at it.

I am afraid of calling myself a writer, of BEING a writer. Because it matters to me. Because I know that I can be good. I expect to be good. And today, I am not good. It kills me.

Recently I was at a virtual holiday party where everyone was doing a paint-by-numbers and chatting. My best friend is an amazing artist and shared a few of her recent pieces with the group. She told us she had been so afraid of making art that she had given up for many years. She was afraid of creating because she was afraid of calling herself an artist. Because it mattered to her. Because she knew she could be good. She wanted to be good. And because, in her eyes, she was not good at that moment. It killed her.

That same fear was echoed in my sister. Half a lifetime ago she was on the verge of being a champion figure skater. Then the one ice rink in town closed. The wealthier students were able to commute three hours a day to the nearest rink. We were poor. She hung up her dreams of skating at the Olympics. She gave up the one thing she knew she was good at. She is afraid of skating now, even though her ambitions are nowhere near the Olympics. She is afraid because skating mattered to her. Because she once called herself a figure skater. Because she knew she was and could be good. And she wants to be good. And today, in her eyes, she was not good. It killed her.

When she skates now, the resentment and bitterness of wasted opportunity and hope clog her skates more surely than the ice. The image on the canvas is nowhere close to that my friend has in her head and she wants to set it all on fire. When I begin to type, my dreams of creating change and having a lasting impact turn to dust because of my inability to translate the mass of emotions and pictures into words that inspire.

I want to run away. To cower.

I am afraid to be a writer because I want to be a writer.

After listening to my friend and sister describe their fears, the professional development manager in me, the teacher in me, the coach in me, gave advice. I oh-so-helpfully told the group that just getting starting is the hardest and most important step. I told them that no one cared if my friend puts a mediocre painting out into the world, that relearning how to skate is far nobler than staying at home. Both agreed of course. And the advice is sound.

But can I follow my own advice? Put something mediocre out into the world to relearn these skills, rebuild these atrophied muscles? Can I overcome my own shame?

On this the first day of 2021, I put this subpar attempt out into the world. This is my first attempt to conquer my fear.

What do you fear?

More importantly, what are you going to do about it?