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The Terrible Price of the Un-Lived Life
I’ve never considered myself fearful.
Even as a child, I was borderline reckless with my bravery. There was no tree I was afraid to climb or height I was afraid to go to. If someone told me I couldn’t do something, I was definitely going to try to do it. No dare was too terrifying for the likes of me, and if Hogwarts had invited me to attend, I would have certainly been sorted into Gryffindor.
I had bravado, but I’ve come to learn just how fearful I was beneath it. Even now, I hate to admit how much of my life was shaped around fear. Fear of failure. Fear of admitting I was wrong. Fear of risk. Fear of success, even. Sure, I took some risks, but they weren’t real ones. I only tried at things where I was fairly certain I would succeed.
I stopped taking art classes because I was once judged harshly. I didn’t travel because I didn’t think it was something I could do alone. I got married when I should have stayed single, stayed married when I should have gotten divorced, and chose jobs based on security over other factors. It seems like most of my decisions were…
