What My Fear Taught Me
Here’s what I’ve been thinking about: the quiet, persistent lie we tell ourselves about fear. For decades, I assumed fear was a flaw—a sign I wasn’t strong enough, or that I’d failed to prepare. I’d brace myself before a lecture, convinced my trembling hands meant I wasn’t a real professor. That was the misunderstanding I carried.
The philosophers called this the “fear as weakness” fallacy. But what does that actually mean for how we live? Fear isn’t a flaw to be erased. It’s a signal. A compass. When I finally stopped seeing my fear of public speaking as a personal failing and started listening to it, I realized: This matters. The lecture I feared was about justice—something I’d spent my life studying. My fear wasn’t warning me away from the truth; it was warning me toward it. It meant I cared deeply about getting it right.
We all do this. We avoid hard conversations with loved ones because we fear the discomfort. We skip the job interview because we fear rejection. We tell ourselves, If I weren’t so afraid, I’d act. But the reality is simpler: fear is the body’s way of saying, Pay attention. This is important to you. It doesn’t mean you should run. It means you should pause, breathe, and ask: What is this fear trying to protect?
Why does this matter? Because when we misread fear as weakness, we miss the very thing it’s trying to show us. We avoid the conversations that deepen our relationships, the risks that build our courage, the truths that shape our integrity. We live smaller, quieter lives, thinking we’re being safe. But safety isn’t the goal. Meaning is. And meaning often lives right where fear whispers, Don’t go there.
So next time fear tightens your chest before a tough choice, don’t call it weakness. Ask: What is this protecting? What does it want me to notice? The answer might not be easy. But it will always be true.
— Ray Bates, still asking questions
— Tracy Carlson, saying the thing since 2018