On Fear and Mama Ducks

Being seen is scary.

Staying hidden in a protected circle of loved ones and trusted friends is safe and has always been my mode of operation.

It's comfortable and keeps me warm.

And I hate being cold.

I need sunlight on my skin like I need water to quench my thirst, like I need the blood that runs through my veins.

Pumping, pumping, pumping, giving me life.

Maybe this is why I've discovered I have slight seasonal depression. Winter does not sit well in my veins.

The cold can feel lonely, and dark winter skies often claim loneliness.

Strange that being seen can also mean feeling more alone.

Exposed for all to judge, to decide if they like what they see.

And it's that judgement that kills me. It eats away at my heart until my chest gets heavy and feels like it might give way to the weight of the pressure, of the others who like to push down on me.

To be true to yourself is to be loved. To play it safe is to be adored.

But I like being adored.

I need to be adored.

So much of my childhood was out of my control. It was heavy, and I could either suffocate under the pressure of it all, or I could focus on that adoration. Because I could control that. I could make sure people liked me. It was surprising how easy I found this.

I was agreeable. I never spoke out too much, as to not upset anyone. I let it sit. That voice inside of me that wanted to scream.

But a scream can only stay muffled for so long.

Sometimes it would sneak out of my small body in random outbursts with a friend, or an acquaintance. They would stand back in stunned silence. What just happened?

The scream often sounds like anger, but sometimes it sounds like sadness, like crying.

Sometimes it sounds like sleep, like exhaustion.

Sometimes it feels so tight under my skin that I wonder if others can see it straining to get out.

Mostly that scream looks like fear. The fear of disapproval. The fear of ridicule, the fear that maybe, just maybe, they won't like me.

But I have a logical mind. One that has, up until this point, kept these screams at bay. It tells my fear that it's silly, that of course there will be people who don't like you, because, well dear, that's life.

Life is not for the faint of heart. It can be scary and mean.

You will not understand it, nor will you be able to change the minds of those who have decided they dislike you, your husband, your family.

I defend myself, my husband, my family... in my mind.

But I am the only one who hears it. I know my heart, I know the goodness of the person He created... and that is enough.

God's love is enough, says my logical mind.

And yet, my fear still keeps me up at night. It greets me in the morning when I rise out of bed.

I hate it. I'd like to see it crumble, to die, or at least to slip quietly out the back door in the middle of the night.

Because I've heard that there is beauty on the other side of fear. There is release... or so I've been told.

It's like that runner's high I hear so much about. The shot of endorphins that supposedly make the difficulty of the run worth it. A sort of euphoria.

The thing is, I've never run far enough or fast enough to feel it. Because the fear you guys...

The fear is strong. The fear is the Hulk and King Kong combined, with a bit of the Joker mixed in just to screw with your head.

The fear changes its focus from time to time, but it always has the same affect. You feel out of control, lost in the sea of endless possible what if's. The made up scenarios of death or loss of those dear to you. The wave of anxiety that rushes over you as you imagine someone's distaste of you.

I told you... I hate it.

There is a resident mama duck that wanders around the school I teach at. She is well known and is comfortable in her environment. Each year in the Spring, she finds a spot on campus to create her nest and lay her eggs.

There is a small, enclosed courtyard in the middle of the school that is mostly untouched and undisturbed. The children are not allowed out there too often. In the past, this has been the mama's nesting area of choice. Quiet, calm, safe, warm.

But this time she chose a different spot. She chose a small bush that happens to be right next to the back door of my classroom. It's directly in front of the preschool and kindergarten playground and rests along a path that the students consistently bolt down on their way to the back field.

It was a risky spot for her to choose and exposes her to all kinds of unknowns... rodents, other animals, curious and clumsy 3-year-olds, just to name a few. But she has committed. She took her time this past weekend to carefully build her nest and has already layed her dozen or so eggs.

Now she sits, hidden only by a small bush and exposed to all the unexpected of the outside world.

I want to tell her this may not have been the wisest decision, that there was promised comfort and safety just yards away. I want to ask her if she is scared, for herself and for her babies.

But she is committed. She has chosen her spot and now she must sit. She must protect her eggs and pass on her heat to them.

I can't help but be jealous of her bravery, her dedication, her strength.

She is sitting on the other side of fear and it is beautiful.

I want to sit in that place with her, on the other side of fear and anxiety. To rest in my decision of being who I truly am, who I was created to be, loved into existence.

Loved right out of fear. Committed to being who I am in spite of the judgement that will inevitably follow.

It's a work in progress and they say that the first step is to admit the problem out loud. So here I am, proclaiming my fear, my anxiety.

Saying the words out loud.