I was a child raised by fear. My parents, being immigrants and perhaps already prone to caution themselves, raised me with an eye towards the dangers of life. And out of love came warnings, cautionary tales, and strict boundaries. Love meant protection: There was danger lurking around every corner and present within every opportunity.
Fear became synonymous with finding safety: If I could figure out what I should be afraid of, I could draw boundaries and lines to keep the bad things out. But what I couldn’t see most of the time was that my fear grew into a cage — it kept the bad things out, but it also locked me in.
I can see the veins of fear running through my life:
The fear of missing out.
The fear of what others think.
The fear of getting hurt.
The fear of losing what I have.
The fear of being wrong.
The fear of the unknown.
I’ve been thinking a lot about fear and how it infects and spreads. How it skews our vision of the world, of others, of God, and especially our vision of ourselves. How it moves us to advance or — more often than not for me — to retreat.
And while fear becomes the familiar voice in our heads, we don’t often call it what it is. There are fears you sometimes don’t even register because their voices are so familiar, you mistake them for your own. After all, we would rather believe we can be in control than admit that we are afraid.
But I am afraid of living my life out of fear. I am afraid of building a world out of fear.
What are you afraid of?
This question sounds like a childhood taunt, a tactic fear used to remain in control by making us afraid to address it. But what if this is the very question that can help conquer fear? What if we began our discourses with this question, bringing to light what thrives in the shadows?
Because the more I look my own fears in the face, the more my loyal companions begin to look like prison guards, and my “safety” and “comfort” start to resemble bars of a cage — a self-imposed prison. The more I understand other people’s fears, the more I see a fellow prisoner who needs freedom — just like me.
I am learning love and fear cannot coexist. I used to think they could at least be mild acquaintances, sitting on opposite sides of the room at an awkward party, sipping punch and yelling over the music about the weather. But now I see fear cannot tolerate love. And love will cast out fear (1 John 4:18).
Because fear is about me. That’s what makes it so seductive. Fear loves to talk about me. She talks about what I need to do to stay safe. She tells me what other people will think or do. She warns me to stay safe because the world is a scary place and people are unpredictable and only looking out for themselves. And I listen, and I thank her, and I keep coming back.
But true love is not about me. “And this is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers and sisters” (1 John 3:16). Jesus says, “This is what love is: I gave up my comfort and my safety and my rights so you might experience the comfort and safety of knowing that you are loved more than you could ever imagine. Now go, and do likewise.”
The only thing that will free us from fear is to experience love. The only thing that will emancipate us from a life of looking out for ourselves and our best interest is to know that someone else is already doing those very things — with no strings attached.
Love is what will set us free — cliché as that sounds. It is the long-awaited tap on the shoulder in a game of freeze tag. We stand there, frozen, locked in our own little worlds, unable to live lives of unshackled generosity and grace because of what we need from people or what they might think of us or what it will cost us.
And then love crashes into us and yells, “You are free! You are free to go and live and see and fail and get hurt. You don’t have to stand frozen any longer. You don’t have to be afraid. If you get frozen again, I’ll come back for you.” Love frees us to go and liberate others, to tap on the shoulder of those who have been standing frozen in fear. And if enough of us are running around unfreezing others, then fear will never win.
So this is me, hoping to live more of my life unfrozen. And I know the fears will come, I know the voices will continue to whisper to me. But here I am, giving you permission to tap me on the shoulder if you see me standing still.
But for now — tag, you’re free too.
Editor’s Note: This essay has been adapted from Patreeya Thorn’s newsletter, “The Walk Home.” You can subscribe to it here.