Nearly four years ago, my husband got a phone call from his younger brother, who was thrilled to announce he was getting married. Now, of course, weddings are a big deal to most families, but to my husband’s family, they are Very Big Deals. As in, far-flung friends and relatives from Taiwan, people I had never met, people my husband had never even met, came to the middle of Illinois in August 2005 for our wedding. Weddings and funerals are the two occasions for which his family reliably gathers. So of course we would come. So where’s the wedding, my husband asked.
The answer? New York City.
Now, NYC is probably not intimidating to normal people. But to someone from Kansas, a decided introvert who grew up vacationing in places like Bean Blossom, Indiana, NYC is very intimidating. Especially since our children were, at the time, five, three, and fifteen months.
I looked at my husband with abject terror. You expect me to FLY. With THREE KIDS. To NEW YORK CITY.
He gave me one of those married-person answers, an equivocal do whatever you think is best, dear that of course does not mean that. And after I got over the shock, I realized I really did want to be there for this Important Family Moment. This huge bunch of warm, affectionate people is my family now, too. Our kids are their niece, their nephews, their grandkids.
So we went. The trip was not without its difficulties, of course, but name me one thing involving a five-year-old, a three-year-old, and a fifteen-month-old that is. All things considered, the children were amazing, our experience was unforgettable, and I deepened our bond with my husband’s wonderful parents, his two awesome brothers, and my incredibly sweet sisters-in-law. We visited iconic places like Times Square, Carnegie Hall, and Central Park. We got to eat Peking Duck in Chinatown and real NYC bagels and pizza slices bigger than our heads. We made memories to last a lifetime.
And I almost missed out on all that because I was afraid.
Flying back to Kansas, feeling like I’d conquered the world, I made a resolution: if the only thing keeping me from doing A Thing is fear, I will bite the bullet and do that Thing anyway.
That resolution has had some pretty far-reaching impacts. Here are three things I’ve done since that trip to New York that I might not have done if I hadn’t decided not to let fear call the shots.
Thing The First: I became a runner.
This seems like a weird thing to be afraid of, but I was, for the longest time. I was one of the least athletic children who ever lived, in part because of my asthma and in part because I preferred being inside with a good book to being outside running around. When we had to run a mile in gym class, I walked at least half of it and always came in toward the back of the pack.
With this checkered history, it may come as a surprise to you—it does to me—that I tried running several different times in college and beyond. I’d always go full-bore, get hurt or burnt out, and quit a couple weeks later. It was a victory to run more than half a mile or so without taking a break to walk. For several years afterward, I was an avowed Non-Runner, probably out of fear that I’d just quit again.
But after New York, I decided to give it one last try. I downloaded a 5K training app onto my phone and promised I would complete the program, sign up for a 5K race, and finish it. After that, if I still hated running, I would know that I’d given it a real, honest-to-goodness shot, declare myself a non-runner, and be done with it once and for all.
I didn’t plan on falling in love with it, but I did. Running is my me time, my get away from the kids and actually have a complete thought time, my brain chemistry is out of whack and I need some endorphins so I can think clearly time. I am quite slow, I will never win a race, I will never plaster my car with marathon stickers, or even half-marathon stickers…and I don’t care. I get out of running what I need to get out of it, and I would never have done it if I’d kept on being afraid of failing.
Thing the Second: I sent my children to public school.
Before I begin, a bit of disclaimer: I have nothing against homeschooling. I think it’s great, and for many kids and parents, it’s clearly the best choice and everyone thrives. If that’s you, if that’s what God has called you to do, then hallelujah! I wholeheartedly support your decision, and wish you nothing but the best.
Homeschooling was my plan in the spring of 2014, when Yakko, my oldest, was getting ready to start kindergarten. However, after a lot of prayer and soul-searching and never really having peace about the idea, I realized my main motivation for homeschooling would not be because God called me to do that, but because I was afraid. Afraid of bullying and school shootings. Afraid of teachers not challenging him or not respecting his needs. Afraid of him not making friends or learning things that run contrary to our beliefs and a whole host of other things.
But God made it very, very clear, in a variety of ways, that I was to send Yakko to our local public schools, and guess what? My son is thriving. He has had amazing teachers and made wonderful friends and gotten some experiences and opportunities that I would never have been able to provide him at home. Is it perfect? No, of course not. Are there things I don’t like about our public schools? Of course there are. But I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we are right were God wants us.
I’m still afraid of bullying and school violence and whatnot, but I’m putting my fears in the hands of a God who controls it all, and I pray for Yakko and Wakko far more than I probably would if I were teaching them myself. My faith has grown by leaps and bounds as I see how God meets their needs, both large and small, in our local schools. If God calls us to homeschool at any point, of course we will, but for now, it is working, and working well.
Thing the Third: I started pursuing publication.
I’ve written for fun for a long time, but I was terrified of letting anyone see it, let alone a Real Writer or Agent or Editor. My critique partner, herself an award-winning, multi-published historical romance author, has known me since age eleven, when we were middle school besties. Anyone who has known me since the days of orthodontic appliances, Mariah Carey, Doc Martens, brick-wall bangs, and chokers when they were popular the first time has already seen me at my very worst and most outstandingly awkward, so showing her a story I had written would be cake, right?
Wrong. It took me months to get up the guts to show her my work, and I was utterly terrified of her response. But she told me I had promise, showed me all the beginning-writer craft mistakes I was making, and proceeded to take me under her wing.
Post-New York, I grabbed the proverbial bull by the horns and started writing novels. I wrote a couple that were okay, but when I finished my third one, my critique partner said, “Y’know, you really should start thinking about entering some contests.”
Contests. Contests? Like, where people I don’t know, who don’t unconditionally love me will read my work?? No. I can’t do that. That’s far too terrifying.
And yet, because I had stopped letting fear drive the car, I sucked it up, paid the fee, and entered my first contest last October. I had no expectations other than getting some helpful feedback from people who didn’t know me and who hadn’t been my BFF since middle school.
I got far more than feedback from that contest. I won it. And that encouragement plunged me headfirst into this crazy writing world and into a pursuit of publication.
A few months ago, I went to a meet-and-greet with three area authors at a local bookstore. While standing there in the shelves, hiding from them until I was sure I could speak Coherent English and not Squeeing Fangirl, I found myself face-to-face with a sign that read, “A life lived in fear is a life half-lived.” How like God is that, to send me a literal sign when I needed it most, a sign that summed up a conclusion I’d reached nearly three years before?
I bought that sign that day, and it serves as a gentle reminder that God gives us not a spirit of fear, but a spirit of power and love (2 Timothy 1:7). I am dependent every day on Him to give me the courage to do what He’s called me to do.
Your turn: What have you been afraid to do, yet have done anyway? What are you not doing solely because you’re afraid?
Me at Lincoln Center, thrilled to have survived the trip!