Everything you want is on the other side of fear, part one

Dear beautiful reader,

There are a few stories, when, after written, fundamentally change me— spiritually, energetically, and of course, emotionally & psychologically. They do a number on me, as well, whilst writing them. Not All That Glitters is Gold was one of them. Like sandbags on my shoulders, I didn’t know how heavily I wore them. What a release.

But what transformed me and healed me, most unexpectedly, were: all your condolences. The outpour of condolences I received had me, quite literally, weeping on my staircase, mid-action. I seriously did not know how much I needed them— thank you to everyone who sent me a response and anyone who simply read my story. I am forever changed.

For this month’s story, I wanted to explore the illusion of fear and our relationship to it. As we get older, it seems as though our muscle to face our fears atrophies, and the dreary monotony of our day-to-day settles in, life passing us by. Instead of becoming the hero of our story, you may find yourself in the background. I talk about why we 100% need to avoid this in order to live the beautiful, bold life that is our birthright.

Lastly, please email me, I’d love to hear from you.

Mucho luv & hugs,
Amy

Word count: 8,470
Pages: 12

 Glowin’ Reviews on “Not All That Glitters is Gold:”

Skydiving by Amy Lee

“Ahhh!” I was shouting at the top of my lungs, my jaw simultaneously clenching, strapped to the crotch of a haggard, older, dare-devilish man behind me. My neck bent so far backwards due to the velocity of the wind that was hitting us, getting shoved diagonally into the pocket of his shoulder. Quickly, with all of his strength, he immediately grabbed my neck and repositioned it, straight, directly in front of him. Instantly, I remembered seeing that part in the instruction manual video, just an hour before— if the neck was not positioned correctly during our jump, you could die.

I have always been terrified of heights. In fact, I can’t even stand on the last rung of a ladder.

So naturally, at 20 years old, I decided it was a good idea to go skydiving.

There, 13,000 feet above the clear, turquoise blue waters of the north shore in Oahu, we were floating, the parachute now deployed. After the initial 45 seconds of free-fall, we had a five-ish minute descent back onto land. 

The wind now peaceful, there was a strange serenity in the air, one that I’ve never experienced quite like that before and haven’t since still. With breathtaking, stunning views of the island, it was a different kind of calm and freedom flying amongst open air, higher than the birds.

Ah, I wouldn’t mind dying like this, I thought to myself, it’d be totally worth it. But instantly, shook off the morbid thought. To me, though, the worst was over. We just needed to land.

“So what made you and your friend want to go sky-diving?” The skydiving instructor asked.

“Oh, I’m terrified of heights.”

“What?! Why are you here then?”

“To face my fears!” I said, breathlessly, my whole body now unclenching. 

Sky-diving, unfortunately, did not however magically cure my fear of heights. But it had been last on my list, for years. In the lead-up to this very moment, I had become an adrenaline junkie in pursuit of facing my fear. With vivid memories of me as a four-year-old, my dad holding me in his arms on the deck at Space Needle, overlooking the treacherous view, and then me bursting into tears as he put me down to walk with him, my little feet suddenly turning into stone, as a teen maturing into a young adult I became an avid rollercoaster lover, even getting annual passes to Six Flags or Magic Mountain, went cliff-jumping (and violently puked afterwards), parasailing, and hot air balloon riding. Last on my list was skydiving. I skipped bungie jumping, altogether, however, because— just, no. Absolutely not. 

Though, through skydiving, it cemented one fact about myself that I’d carry with me throughout my adulthood: instead of being limited by my fears, I learned that I found an even greater sense of fun and total exhilaration in doing all the things I was terrified of. With each cliff-jump, parasail, hot-air balloon ride, and now sky-dive— the ultimate, final high— I seriously enjoyed doing anything with the fear. It was as if the fear made it that much more fulfilling, rewarding, and completely and utterly liberating when I made it on the other side, safely. 

It was that bad, but also, it wasn’t that bad! I’d think to myself, as our bums thudded onto the dry land of Hawaii.

Five years later, whilst I sat during my first session in the office of my therapist Dr. Kim, with her clipboard in her hand, she was doing the procedural assessment on her new client:

“And your relationship to… fear? How do you deal with fear?” She looked up at me.

“Oh, I’m terrified of heights. So I went skydiving.”

She scribbled on her clipboard, and I watched her mouth the word: “Ex-treme.” 

She underlined it a couple of times.

In my early thirties now, I don’t put myself in such extreme situations, in order to conquer said fears. Even just physically, rollercoasters make my body nauseous and head-achey now. And beyond that, I have more regard for my life too, so even though I’d love to go skydiving again, I’m not in any rush to do so, like I was in my early twenties. (Who is gonna give excellent, luxurious care to my dog Komey?)

“Alright, you ready? It’s coming!” My surf instructor, aka the founder of Youth Mentoring Connection, says as he positions me straight. He’s looking back at the horizon line of the sea, as I’m lying face down on my large foam surfboard.

In June of this year, I joined a volunteer program where we teach inner city youth how to surf every Sunday at Dockweiler Beach. The program advertises that they instruct mentors how to surf, so all are welcome— newbs (aka me) and all— and, then, teach us how to teach surfing to the kids. 

I found this isn’t totally the truth. Honestly, they just kinda threw me in there and I raw-dogged it. But with a deep love for the ocean and being an excellent swimmer my entire life, fueled by the burning desire to actualize of a childhood Blue Crush dream of mine, I came ready to tackle anything! On my first day, I was essentially fearless.

“Okay, now paddle, paddle!” He lets go.

The wave comes rolling, I arch my back into a cobra position and pop up as soon as the momentum hits. I wobble physically, but I think to myself— you got this, you got this! What could possibly happen, besides having fun? And suddenly, in my awkward low squat, I’m riding to shore!

I’m screaming loudly, “Ahhh!” Then a “Woo-hoo!” I burst into laughter as I get knocked off onto the sand, the white foam washing over me. What a rush! My first wave! Instantly, I was transformed. Hooked. My instructor felt it, too.

“Dang, Amy might be starting her own surf academy one day,” he remarked, on the first day of meeting me.

After that first session, which I’d call a stroke of beginner’s luck and confidence unriddled by fear, the weeks following that, well— it was nosedive after nosedive after nosedive. People also began getting injured, hit by the giant foam boards. The instructors kept telling us to be aware of the fins potentially slicing our heads, a mentor got stung by a stingray, and I myself had a ton of random cuts and bruises from unknowingly getting caught up in the leash. Now being absolutely enamored with surfing, my entire TikTok feed also became pro surfers wiping out while riding through these massive 10 feet barrels. 

Consistently, though, at the start of every session, the founder would always optimistically remind us that “surfing is one of the least dangerous sports, statistically. There are more reported injuries playing basketball!”

I knew he was right, we were only in about waist deep, you could stand up even if you “drowned.” These were baby, beginner waves. Still, while in the beginning we went deeper and deeper into the ocean to catch longer rides, my 18-year-old mentee Mariana and I sometimes would sip our coffee in the morning, both staring ridiculously concerned at the rising tide some weeks, and just decide to stay in the white water with the children.

One session, while I was on the board, getting mentored myself, after I spent the whole morning getting my sinuses wiped clear from wiping out each time, my mentor decided to get in front to watch me on the shoreline to see what I might be doing wrong.

“I don’t get it. I’m not too in the back, I’m not too in the front, I’m popping up at the right time!” I was getting super frustrated. Why couldn’t I do what I had so easily done on the first try?

“Honestly, this is so normal, Amy, I’ve had a lot of sessions like this, too,” Mariana said, a mentee for the last three summers in a row. “It’s rare to catch waves, especially as a total beginner.”

“Really?” Something I didn’t know, but made sense.

Boom. Nosedive again. My 60-something-year-old mentor named Nancy on the shoreline swam up to us, laughing. “I know what’s happening. So you get up, and then,” she scrunched her face in this crazy, silly fearful face and her shoulders went up to her ears, “You freak out and then nosedive.” She kept laughing.

I looked down at the water and scowled. You mean— I can’t stay on the board because I’m… scared? Argh! A flurry of thoughts began. My fist clenched.

She looked over at my face and then immediately stopped laughing, “Sorry, it’s not funny. I shouldn’t laugh.”

“Huh?” Her response poking a hole in my balloon of frustration, “No! It’s fine, it’s funny, you can laugh, besides I’m not easily embarrassed, Nancy.” I enjoyed her light-heartedness, because most of the time, I was laughing there with her, but on this rare occasion, was becoming a pouty baby. “I’m just annoyed. I just need to keep going! I’m going to get this right! 

“It’s because I keep thinking that something bad is going to happen. That I’m going to nosedive even before I pop up. Or that the board will hit me. Or that I’ll drown. Or-or—”

“It’s my.. mind!”

Mariana blinked, realizing the connection I had made between my brain and my body, and slowly nodded in agreement. Yeah, that is what is going on, her face read.

Nancy stared at me and smiled, “Alright then, kid, get back on.”

That summer, Nancy, Mariana, and I spent eight weeks in the ocean, getting whipped and tossed around. Mariana and I caught a lot of waves, but we spent more time falling off the board than staying on. Each week, though, I was proud of us simply for showing up, many mentors and mentees skipping sessions towards the end. But the three of us remained. Nancy beamed at Mariana’s and my perseverance. 

“You girls are absolute rockstars!” Nancy hugged us on the last day in early August.

“This is actually my first summer that I attended all sessions, Amy,” Mariana confessed.

“Really!”

“Yeah, I had the most fun with you.”

I was sad that the summer program was ending. But just last week, I was invited to go to the off-season surf group during the last weekend of September— a casual weekly gathering created by the founder, who brought all the same gear, wetsuits and foam boards, and allowed the mentors to come and surf every Sunday all year-round. This time, without the kids, as school was now in session. Mariana had gone off to Berkeley. (Okay, “brain like Berkeley,” it’s a Frank Ocean lyric, hehe.)

Though I was excited for the opportunity to continue chasing my childhood dream of surfing, alongside an amazing bunch of people, there grew a small pit in my stomach over the week as the days led up to it. It had almost been two whole months since I went surfing, and if my fear was bubbling back then, I was certain that the time away increased my fear. I worried that the fear had grown so big, that maybe I’d be too scared to even try again? 

Could I even get back into the water with my board?

Would I even want to?

As I drove there at 8 AM on a Sunday to Dockweiler Beach, a new moon approaching in only a couple of days, the waves were definitely larger. Being zipped into my loaner Roxy wetsuit, I carried my foam board out there again with the rest of the group. It was scarier to be out there, alone, with no Mariana or Nancy by my side. And in the beginning, I practiced just getting in cobra position and riding to the shore. Then I started getting comfortable on my knees. Then eventually working myself up to standing again. Baby steps.

That same week, earlier, I also managed to accidentally spill hair oil all over on my bedroom floor. The grease made the wood floors slippery. As I live in a loft, my bedroom has no door but simply has an open hallway that leads down a very large, long flight of stairs to the living room. The staircase is so long, I believe it is the length of two normal flights of stairs, so you have to be very cautious not to fall down. (I have, before, and my entire left side of my butt was bruised purple.)

Komey, my dog, is an adept staircase traveler— she normally goes up and down any and all stairs with grace and ease, her cute little booty trotting pointed in the air. Click, clack, click, clack, her nails go. On her usual launching pad, the area where she happily descends to go downstairs, I unknowingly missed some lingering oil spillage. 

One of the mornings, Komey inevitably slipped, and I heard her tumble a little but she made it safely downstairs. Though she was fine, unscathed, this inevitably scarred her. Immediately, feeling so terrible, I scrubbed down the floor with the best wood cleaner, twice, and ran my hands over the floor numerous times to make sure.

For the next week, and to this day, I have now had to do what I call the “Komey elevator.” As she stands on the edge of launching pad, normally ready to step down by herself, she instead sighs, huffing and puffing at her new imprisonment, her little tail wagging out of frustration. Like, “Agh, I wish I could go down by myself, but I can’t! I’m gonna slip again!” 

I’ve tried treats, tried putting a rug with adhesive so she knows she won’t slip on the spot, which usually remedies our other slippery issues. But she won’t. I tell her, “Komey, Mommy wiped it all down, you can do it now! You are safe. I promise you won’t slip.” She simply won’t go downstairs anymore.

So now I go down the first step, sit down, facing the descent, and have her hop into my arms to carry her down the long flight of stairs. “Komey elevator!” I say, understanding the cause of her newfound fear. “I just hope this doesn’t last too long, Komey girl.” I sigh.

One afternoon, I brought home a visitor, and Komey loves visitors. She was sleeping upstairs, as I opened the door and was about to proceed to tell my friend about the new predicament, expecting to haul myself upstairs to bring her down. But before I even spoke, I heard her little click-clack trotting down the stairs fiercely, as she came charging up to my guest, to attack her with kissies. 

Hey, she did it! I was jazzed, it was finally over, I thought, but the next morning, she stalled again.
So the next morning, I tried to recreate the anticipation of a guest coming over, sans guest, and instead of pausing at the launching pad, I just hopped out of bed with excitement and quickly ran downstairs, “Come on, Komey girl! It’s a new day! We gotta get the day started!” 

Without having time to think, she hopped right out of bed and followed me downstairs. The next day, I tried it again, but I stalled for a nanosecond, thinking to myself, “Will she do it again?” Dogs are wildly intuitive, psychically connected to their owners and the spirit realm. She smelled my nanosecond of hesitation and stalled. I had to climb back upstairs and Komey elevator her down.

Another time, she confidently went down one step by herself, and then just stopped and laid down on the step. Staring at me, concerned, it was like she had forgotten about the slip, then when she landed on the step, she suddenly remembered again.

“Ah, it’s the trauma,” I sighed, “You have it, too. The illusion of fear. This is what happens to all of us humans.” Though she had no logical reason to be fearful anymore, it was psychological. I picked her up and brought her down again. For the next few mornings, I would visualize her going downstairs happily, hopeful it’ll somehow manifest again. I know it will. She is a brave girl! I just have to be patient.

Back on the beach, my heart was pounding through my chest, more than in the summer, for sure. Though I was paddling mainly in the white water, I was fighting a ton of anxiety. I was about to put my board down, feeling too scared to continue especially without the camaraderie, and just go swimming, until one of the mentors, an older Vietnamese American man with five years of surfing under his belt, sensed it and came over to instruct me.

As we waited patiently in the calm for the next rolling set of waves, he casually laid his forearms at the end of my board, floating.

I frowned and admitted, “I’m scared.”

He shrugged, “Why? We’re in the white water, look, it’s only about knee deep,” He stood up to reassure me, “You can’t drown. We’re safe!”

“No, I know. It’s just… getting caught up in a wave. The spin cycle. My sinuses. It’s the… the loss of control,” My voice trailed off. I frowned again. “ It’s… it’s… psychological.”

I thought, I’m— Komey. I saw her cute furry face stalling on the stairs.

He smiled understandingly, “Nah, you got this.”

I’m Komey! I thought. So, I visualized myself going downstairs safely— or rather, surfing safely to the shore, again and again, every time before I started paddling. After the second or third baby wave I successfully caught, which was pretty quickly with his moral support, he exclaimed, “You don’t need me! You got this, Amy!”

That first Sunday back in the water, I surfed many baby waves, on my own, screaming and dying of laughter.

The exhilaration of skydiving but in two-feet high water. 

Fear is programmed all around us, and born within us. It can be learned or innate, for example, a biological fear of heights is hardwired into the human brain, because from an evolutionary sense, falling at extreme heights quite literally killed, and still, kills us. (Makes sense why I never could get over it.) Other fears, like a fear of aggressive dogs, are learned— through often a traumatic, negative experience perhaps during childhood, or by adopting a parents’ learned sense of fear of them. Fear isn’t always bad, in that sense, because fear’s primary function is to protect us from danger. To keep us safe. But living in such a technologically advanced society, many of our fears no longer actually serve us: We get food delivered to our doors, catch a ride by the tap of finger, and most illnesses can be cured through a drug. 

Yet, we still live in a very fearful society.

Society at large— our governments, capitalism, the education system and many other institutions and industries— profit off of our fear and self-doubt. If we are enslaved by our perceived fears, we are not empowered to lead and live the lives that are rightfully ours— abundant, true, and joyful. Our potential remains un-actualized, and to their benefit. We stay in relationships that have expired far past the date, in jobs that keep us exhausted and burnt out, trapped and chained to these cycles of perpetual stagnation, dying— depressed and anxious, never dissenting, always staying in line, easily controlled.

The most pervasive perceived fear of the human condition? Not being enough. Its runner-ups, or adjacently connected? The fear of failure and the fear of rejection. They’re all connected, branches to a tree. We come into this world— whole and enough— yet through the hellish but also miraculous landscape that is life, however treacherous and demoralizing it may be, our sense of self-worth becomes blurred and filtered through the lens of other blurred and filtered, marred souls. To put it succinctly, we have mental illness, because it’s a mentally injuring world.

In 2024, the fitness industry alone is estimated to be worth $90 billion, and is projected to grow to $202.78 billion by year 2030— all sustained by our fear of not being enough. Buy this to get the abs you don’t have. The toned arms you wish you had. In our fat-phobic culture, to be thin, to be “fit” is to be worthy. The beauty industry? Projected to generate $648.6 billion this year, always selling something us to fill the hole of our perceived ugliness. Let this mascara, one that you own already five other versions of, make you beautiful, you fugly ogre! Across billboards, television, radio, and social media, they are psychologically feeding us these messages constantly on a loop, through clever, manipulative, subconscious marketing. In effect, it is no wonder that the art we want to create never gets made, the love that is our birthright to be experienced goes unreceived and unrequited, and joy is seemingly nowhere to be found. It’s no wonder!

But the most powerful, insidious thing is not even our own conditioned or perceived fears themselves, but rather fear itself. Why? Because fear, when living rent-free and unruly in our heads, then morphs into anxiety, which, if then stays longer than its welcome, morphs into our limiting beliefs apart of foundational belief system.

Our fears, in essence, ultimately then become self-fulfilling prophecies— falsehoods seemingly now horrid “truths” about ourselves.

Part two in the next e-mail!