Learning to Be with Fear

On Saturday, November 8, I woke up in New Mexico for the last time, this time. That Monday, I woke up in my own bed, yesterday morning I did too. I'm sitting at my own desk today, wearing my old hard-soled L.L. Bean slippers, the same ones that walked me all around the Hondo mesa gravel yard so I could find the big red hard plastic ball, pick it up out of the desert sagebrush and dried up asters, and throw it for the dogs again and again. These slippers went all across the country and back with me another time. I went all across the country another time, all by myself again. Back in 2021 I hadn't been on a plane for over twenty years and now in 2025 I've flown alone to New Mexico and back three times.

There's something about traveling alone. Getting dropped off at the airport, checking your bags, getting through security and then: there you are. The only place to go is onto the plane you're meant to be on. It feels anonymous, a little lonely, a little indulgent- the luxury of thinking only about yourself- getting what you want to eat or drink, getting up and going to the bathroom, all without asking anyone else if they want something or need to go too. I could be anyone, a person without history, standing in the too-short-to-have-time-to-decide-what-I-want line at Starbucks, forgetting to say "decaf" when I order my medium iced latte.

Drinking it anyway.

I am so many versions of me in my own head- me me, mother me, friend me, wife me, work me, little me, today me, past me, me, myself...I. All of them with me while I was away, and in the past days since I've been back, they have all come skidding back up to me, almost like we all forgot how to put on the brakes. We keep bumping into each other in that clumsy way you do when something's routine but you're a bit out of practice. After three weeks away even my kids feel kind of unfamiliar. They did day to day life without me. I've been mothering my children for almost twenty-one years, somehow I left them as my children and came back as their mother.

I am so glad to be home, to be here in Durham, North Carolina, the place I've lived since August 2011, longer than anywhere else in my life ever. Being away from home for three weeks made me realize that North Carolina really is my home. The trees, the humidity, the three hours drive to the mountains, three hours to the coast. Sea level. No tarantulas in the house. My family. My babies. My home.

And yet, I teared up with deep longing when I picked the picture above for this blog. I can feel the way I felt the moment I took it- late afternoon, in late fall the New Mexico dry air gets chilly quick as the sun starts setting, tucking away its warmth until it comes out beaming again tomorrow. My breath caught in my throat with the sheer beauty of it all- then and now. And not just the way it looks, the way it feels. Another home.

I'm not sure about what all I learned on my trip yet, other than I have a hard rock of fear that lives inside me. It's irrational, illogical, and agitating. Stifling. Suffocating. I want to face it so I can soothe it, learn about it, and keep it around so I don't lose my head. That fear rock feels young, and has no patience for reasoning. It needs a backbone I just wasn't capable of providing, a certainty I just couldn't be sure of- I was 1738 miles from home, alone. I didn't know I was home there too until I came back here.

There is a sense of security that has to find it's way to the truest sense of freedom- insecurity. That hard rock of fear needs the reassurance of mothering, not a caretaker, but a support. Just like my children. A backbone. I think the fear is more afraid I'll stay afraid than what I think it's afraid of: that whatever/whoever is out there will hurt me, that no one cares, that no one is listening. That everyone secretly hates me.

In three weeks I was in New Mexico I only went out for one hike by myself. I never sat outside in the stripey swing chairs and looked at the stars, not once. I was afraid. Afraid of the swallowing dark, afraid of being alone on a trail in the vastness of everything, trusted markers of familiarity nowhere to be found. It's like when you make a new friend, they seem cool and all, but they aren't predictable yet.

I'm learning that I'm not predictable all the time either, not even to myself. Today, I think the biggest thing I learned on my trip is that I still have the ability to surprise myself. I can admit I was afraid, and that was the thing I needed to feel, so the fear could become known, and not just familiar.

But how do I know it? One of my favorite ways of getting to know myself and what I'm thinking is while I'm writing my morning pages, asking whatever part of me is at the forefront if it will talk to me. So, in my morning pages this morning I asked that fear to tell me what it needs, what does it want me to know?

The fear said it wanted me to listen, to stop shutting it down and evading it. It said it knows it doesn't always make sense. I asked it how old it is and it said about five, which is what I was guessing. It said it needs me to help it understand what is happening, to take the time to explain and care for it so it can learn.

I write all of this down while it's happening in my head, the back and forth of the conversation. I don't try to make it make sense. It takes time, which is good, it slows me down enough to hear myself think. I'm recognizing this fear has been here, tugging at my shoulder, whispering urgently in my ear, for as long as I can remember- and that I have been trying to get away from it for that long too.

What I didn't see is that I can't outrun this fear. I can't let it go, or make it go away. It is part of me. By trying to outrun it I keep it afraid. It doesn't want me to get hurt, it wants to protect me. What if I let it do that? What if I care? What if I listen?

This trip taught me that I still have a lot to learn about myself. That there are ways I am living in a space that is too small for me, New Mexico invited me to expand and I shrank back instead. I couldn't do it. It was too much, too fast, and I'm disappointed that I missed out on that experience of expansion. At the same time, I am proud of myself for not forcing afraid me out the door and into the big and the dark alone. And, since I listened to the fear, let it protect me, cared for it... it trusts me more now.

And, to be fair, I did do some expanding. I stayed by myself for two weeks. I went running several times on the mesa. I took one hike alone. I drove (and parked!) a big Ford truck- totally different than my CRV- in huge open spaces with giant hills, which is huge for me because I am scared of heights. I made a new friend. I tried to go to the Taos balloon rally, missed it, then cried because was hard for me to go, but I did it, to not get to see it felt so sad. I met with new clients on my trip. I got a tarantula out of the house. I figured out two huge airports. (PHX and DFW) There were many new and different things. Things I had to do because I was alone, and if I didn't drive myself to Cid's or get the tarantula out of the house no one else was there to do it.

One thing I know, and that I ask my clients when a situation or thing feels like this, is to ask: "What happens after this? What's the rest of the story?" I went, I felt afraid, I'm disappointed in what I missed, and... I didn't make myself do things I didn't want to do, but I also did things I was afraid of. This is not my last trip to New Mexico, it's not the last time I'll feel afraid. What does happen after this?

To be honest, I don't really know. I'm going to take the time to care for and listen to the hard rock of fear I don't want to ignore anymore. See what it's all about. I think the thing is: learning how to tell the difference between something being new or different and something being actually dangerous. The insecurity comes before the security, it has to. I'm not getting rid of that fear, I'm joining with it. Taking the time to learn about it, so I can be with it. Care for it. Help it understand, help me understand. Help us understand each other.

My guess is, when I do that, my fear starts to trust that I'm paying attention, and so it will stop trying to grab me with so many things. There is nothing that has to happen, no judgement about what I "should" be able to do. That nothing, that insecurity? Joining with it makes the trust. And that trust? That's what makes the space for expanding.

So, I think what happens after this is learning to be with fear. Holding being afraid and not afraid at the same time. I didn't do everything I imagined I would on this trip, but I also didn't imagine how letting myself be afraid would actually help me and my relationship with myself. Once again, I didn't get what I wanted, I got what I needed.

Fear isn't something I can outrun or leave behind. It's a signal, a companion, teaching me where I need attention and care. It's information. The more I stay with it, join with it, the more space opens up, the more room I have for curiosity. It's not just to have courage, comfort, security, or to know. It's for the practice, the discomfort, the insecurity, so I can experience life with and without fear as a way to continue to heal and grow. It's a way to build trust in myself, even when it's big or it's dark, even when I'm all alone. I'll always have a home, wherever I go.