An Epiphany On Fear
*Concocted while I was in the shower, as all good thoughts are.*
When I was 16 years old I joined a student ambassador program called People To People. The program's goal was to provide high school students with an educational travel experience abroad. I was in the group that was going to Western Europe for the Summer of 2009.
The first time that the group met we were asked to stand up in front of everyone and introduce ourselves. You know, the usual: say your name, what you're most excited about, what you want to get out of the program, etc. I was terrified. Parents were also invited to these meetings and there was a solid amount of people in that room; more than 40.
I've always hated public speaking. Blame the introvert in me, but I've never done well with any mention of standing up in front of any crowd and saying anything else besides "Hi, my name is Mellanie." Or of course, dancing, which is a different sort of animal. So naturally, when the time came to stand up and introduce myself, I stammered all sorts of incoherent things, shook and trembled, and I'm not sure anyone understood anything I said.
When I came back to my seat my mom turned to me with a concerned, slightly taken aback expression on her face, and she simply said, "I did not teach you to be that way."
A blunt statement that illustrated everything my mom had always represented to me: courage and unflagging guts. I still wish I had half her nerves.
I never forgot that. To this day I still remember her exact words because they made a such strong impact on the concept I had of myself at the time. Basically, it went something like "Shit." and "What am I even doing with my life?" To this day I can't put my finger on what I was so afraid of at the time.
All this is just to say that these days I've started taking notice that the people I'm naturally drawn to, those who have become my closest friends, those who I admire, those who I crush on, are essentially an example of the strength and grit I look up to. In some emotional, twisted version of the Freudian Oedipal Complex, I look up to those qualities in people that represent some version of the fortitude and assertiveness my mother always inculcated in me, even when I couldn't be exactly who she wanted me to be.
These days I have no patience for people that are scared of other people. I want to smack my face every time somebody tells me they're afraid of traveling. I want to smack their face every time somebody tells me they're afraid of heights. Afraid of the dark, scary movies, space movies, open spaces, closed spaces, highways, a roach, you-name-it. I realize that's not very sensible, but it's not meant to be.
Life is so, so, so short.
I'm 23 now. When I really, really think about it, there's nothing I can put my finger on that I really fear, besides the occasional roach inside my shirt, of course. I've been known to stand on tables at the clubs, to rock-climb Blue Mounds in Minnesota, to decide on The Conjuring for a Friday night movie, and to say what I need to get off my chest, as hard as that can be sometimes.
I have my upbringing to be thankful for. I'm nothing without the summer days I stayed up late playing hide-and-seek with my neighbors, getting bit by mosquitos, and stepping on dog shit. I'm also nothing without all the knee scrapes that eventually followed, the race home to parents that said "Just wash it." "Mom, can I go back and keep playing?" "Sure, just let me put a band-aid on that." I'm practically nothing, reduced to nothing. Some other version of me out there stayed and let things happen to her. In some multiple-universe version of the life I didn't lead, I would've never made it to Iowa for college, and I would've never been sitting on my very uncomfortable couch in New York. These back pains are only a fraction of the price I pay. I can't band-aid that, but I can keep going.
It isn't always easy, but it's worth it. Sixteen-year-old me lived past her embarrassment to find out.
The thing is this: Half this life is about being curious. The other half is about refusing to sit on your ass. If I ever do become a mother in the future, I'd like my children to understand that this life isn't meant to be lived gently. That there's no gaiety in comfort. I want them to become the kind of people that hand their hearts on silver platters and say "Here. I'll dare you to break it."