I don’t want to write this.

I’ve been nervously picking the lint off this one for days. Pick, pick, pick. The real problem is that I don’t want to talk about what I’m afraid of. That which I am afraid…prepositions. Grammatical stall. Here’s the real thing.

I don’t much like to share. We all know the natural progression is then to write a blog and invite strangers and friends to read your thoughts. Sharing is the muscle I don’t work very often. Oh, it’s there. It’s tiny and malformed and if I concentrate I can make it do elaborate feats like pick up an emotional potato chip.

Because I don’t like to share (nose wrinkle), this could be two very different posts. It could be the one where I (lie and) describe to you confidently how I conquer my fears with an easy to follow 1,2,3 list. Or it could be a rambling avoidance that neither identifies my fears nor discusses how I make them work for me. How they make me work for them. It’s probably going to be a strange mélange of all of the above.

I am a firm believer in embracing what scares me. But, embracing may not be the right word—I’m more for grabbing it like a drowning person who clings to a lone tree limb on an rough sea. Clinging to that fear as if it and only it has the power to save me. Wrassling it to the ground and girl slapping it in attempts to take what it stole from me when I wasn’t looking. Having a staring contest with my fear until it breaks or my eyes pop out.

You get it. You gotta Chuck Norris your fear, as best you can.

My theory is it’s all about desensitization. Stalk your fear. Look at it. Get too close. Touch it with one finger. Then grab it with both arms and pull it close. Uncomfortably close. Now stay that way until your fear has the same power as a leaf blowing in the wind.

I realize that I give my fear all the power its ever needs to grow and thrive and become bigger than me. I am also the only one who can take its power away. So, who’s really in control? (Pssst: me)

Do you remember your first time on a high board when you were little? I do. I loved to swim and most summers were spent at the pool. I remember we lived in West Layfatte, Indiana, home of Purdue. One of my friend’s Dad worked and the University so we would go down to their giagantic pool. They had a really high diving board. (foreboding) As I climbed the ladder up to the diving board, I might as well have been climbing to do my high wire act. Everything became so small from that height, including me.

This is a part of the story when I tell you that I’ve always had a significant fear of heights and try to overcome it by going on roller coasters, peering over ledges and, well, jumping off high dives.

I stood on that diving board for a long time, trying to screw up my courage. Picturing myself jumping…to my death. I finally did jump and, of course, what I imagined was much much worse that what the experience was really like. This is a small story about a small fear but I share it because regardless of the magnitude, your fear can be stared down. Get close to your fear. Growl at it. Wait for it to growl back. Growl louder. Let fear provoke you.

Do you know what scares me, besides alligators, being eaten by a bear and swimming in open water? Writing my thoughts down and having you read them. Really uncomfortable with this. Don’t misunderstand—I like an exchange of ideas. But I know what draws me in, what turns my thoughts hard onto a new point of view. It’s when people are able to express themselves in a way that is achingly honest and vulnerable to the point of nakedness. That is what makes me lean in. It’s a powerful thing to make someone feel something. I’m afraid I’ll miss the mark.

So this is how I am taking control of this one. Grabbing it and holding on while IT attempts to buck me off repeatedly all the while I’m not sure if it’s a better idea to hang on through the pain or land hard in the dirt.

I think I know what you’re thinking. “What’s the big deal? So you write down words and people read them. Happens every day.”

You say this because this is not your fear, its mine. If you only knew how well I’ve fed it.