Fearing Less

I had a wonderful English teacher in middle school named Mrs. Black. I adored Mrs. Black. She was sweet and encouraging and patient (an absolute requirement for middle school teachers). She was a lovely lady who somehow managed to maintain her composure at all times, despite spending her weekdays with a bunch of hormonal preteens. Mrs. Black was someone I admired and someone who made me want to do my best.

I enjoyed writing in middle school. I wrote short stories and mushy poetry about the boy I had a crush on that week. I not only enjoyed writing at that age, but I also enjoyed sharing my gift of verse with friends. We encouraged each other to record our prepubescent angst-filled thoughts and poured out our shattered hearts onto wide-ruled notebook paper. I loved reading my friends’ works of art and I’d like to think they enjoyed reading mine. Writing made me feel clever and sophisticated. Surely Mrs. Black would be proud!

I continued writing in high school, but my words were my own then. Like so many teenagers struggling to distinguish their own thoughts from those of others, I shared less and less of mine with friends. I became uncomfortable in my own skin and I was depressed. Depression isn’t pretty, it isn’t fun, it isn’t cool and it won’t get you invited to parties. My ugly thoughts were scribbled down on paper and hidden away for my eyes only. I clearly remember sitting in physical science class one day making a list of all of the things around me that I hated, but what I hated most was myself.

A short time later, my only writing was to fulfill school requirements. Insecurity had found a comfy residence in me. I didn’t keep a diary or journal because if I recorded my thoughts on paper, someone could read them. If someone read what I wrote, They might think less of me; but if I kept my thoughts to myself, I could never be judged by Them. I sure showed Them! Whoever They are.

This may seem incongruous, but I have wonderful memories of my high school and college years. I had a great group of girlfriends and guy friends. I attended dances, games, and parties; had many misadventures and developed friendships that I will cherish for a lifetime. It breaks my heart to think back on that insecure girl. I want to hit rewind and whisper in her ear, “God did not give you a spirit of fear! He made you intentionally. He gave you a desire to speak into the hearts of others. It is okay to share your fears and weaknesses. He can use the darkest of times and turn them into something beautiful.”

I also revered my sister Angela growing up – sometimes out of fear and other times adoration. She wasn’t patient with me like Mrs. Black, but she encouraged me in a different way. She always pushed me out of my comfort zone. I may have been the only kid who didn’t learn how to swim during swimming lessons, but I learned how to swim when she threw me into the pool. I hated being challenged by my sister; it made me feel exposed and vulnerable, but I submitted because I sought her approval. The reward (usually) outweighed the risk.

I sincerely appreciate Mrs. Black for encouraging me to do my best. My deepest apologies go out to her for my poor grammar and punctuation. But I am even more grateful for my sister Angela. She has pushed and prodded me for months to write and share my thoughts. I have doubted and pouted and procrastinated for fear of…the unknown. As scary as it was to put myself out there, I made the leap. It turns out that my comfort zone isn’t as comfortable as I once thought. And now I am fearing less.