Fear

I sleep soundly at home—in a bed my body knows is safe. Somewhere deep in its subconscious, my nervous system knows: this is where we’re okay.

But in a car, it’s different.
It senses danger.

Sometimes I understand why. Other times, it’s murkier. But the truth is—I am afraid. Often.

I’ve been to therapy. I breathe deeply. I regulate. I process. I use the strategies I’ve learned.
And sometimes, I don’t.

But when I fall asleep as a passenger in a car, my fear doesn’t. It stays awake.
My body remembers the what if.
It embodies the old panic of “what if we aren’t okay?”

Here’s how it looks:
I jerk awake, heart racing, in complete and utter panic.
I can’t control it—it just happens.
I bolt upright, convinced we’re crashing.
And it can happen ten, fifteen times during a single drive while attempting rest.

Fear is always close. Maybe sometimes it’s grief as well.
And when I’m awake, it’s there too – just quieter.
I feel it in my chest—centered, tight.
Sometimes it looks like anger.
Often, like control.
But underneath, it’s fear.

This adventure we’re on—it’s stirring that fear up. Stretching it.
Calling it to the surface.

Will I choose adventure?
Or freeze in my afraidness?

Not every cliff is mine to peer over.
Not every path is mine to walk.

But I’m working on it.

Mostly, I’m working on keeping my fear mine.
Not my children’s.

It’s hard—this work of processing fear without handing it off.
I’ve failed more times than I want to admit.

But we’re lucky.
We have a protective guide in fearlessness.

So far, we’ve hiked up glaciers.
We’ve walked bear-filled mountainsides.
We’ve biked trails lined with signs of wild things.
We’ve stood atop mountains.
Stood beside raging rivers.
Sped down steep hills.