If I Let Go of Fear, Who Would I Be? | We Don’t Talk About That by JBE Mindful Pathways
We Don’t talk About That | JBE Mindful Pathways
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I don’t think people realize how many of us were raised by fear.
Not by a person.
By fear itself.
It sat at the dinner table.
It tucked us in at night.
It whispered in our ear before we spoke, before we loved, before we chose anything that might cost us.
And it didn’t scream — it shaped.
Shaped our decisions.
Shaped our self-worth.
Shaped the way we disappeared in rooms where we should’ve taken up space.
No one teaches you how to unlearn something that protected you.
Especially when that protection became your personality.
Because fear doesn’t just live in the loud moments.
It hides in the stillness.
In the way you keep saying “I’m fine” when your chest is on fire.
In the way you downplay your dreams so people don’t call you “too much.”
In the way you’d rather overachieve than ask for help.
In the way you stay in places you’ve outgrown because safety feels more holy than freedom.
Fear convinces you that staying small is being wise.
That silence is safer than truth.
That settling is just being grateful.
And that survival… is the same thing as living.
But I’ve been sitting with a question lately.
One I’ve been afraid to say out loud:
If I let go of fear… who would I be?
Not just what would I do.
Not just who would I love.
But who would I become if fear stopped running the show?
Would I finally stop apologizing for needing rest?
Would I stop making myself palatable just to be liked?
Would I take up space — real, loud, joyful space — and not flinch when someone tried to shrink me back down?
Would I stop calling it love when it’s actually emotional survival?
Would I stop mistaking control for safety?
Would I stop parenting myself the way fear once did — with rules, with limits, with quiet punishment?
I’ve lived enough life to know this:
Fear is not always loud.
Sometimes it’s dressed like responsibility.
Sometimes it sounds like your mother’s voice.
Sometimes it hides in prayers.
Sometimes it lives in your body — in the clench of your jaw, the ache in your chest, the way you tense when joy walks into the room.
And we don’t talk about that.
Not really.
We don’t talk about the fear of being alone, because we’d rather pretend we’re independent.
We don’t talk about the fear of being seen, because what if they look too closely and leave?
We don’t talk about the fear of joy, because we’ve been trained to brace for impact.
We don’t talk about the fear of success, because somewhere deep down, we think we’ll lose people if we become too big, too bright, too free.
But maybe it’s time we did.
Maybe it’s time to talk about how fear became our first language.
How it learned our pressure points.
How it made itself look like love.
How it made safety feel like a cage.
Maybe this is the part where we stop asking, “How do I get rid of fear?”
And start asking: Who am I without it?
So if you’ve ever found yourself stuck between what you want and what you’re afraid of…
If you’ve ever dimmed your light so you wouldn’t blind someone else…
If you’ve ever stayed somewhere too long because the unknown felt worse than the pain you knew —
This is for you.
We’re not just going to name the fears.
We’re going to see them.
Touch them.
Unpack them.
And maybe, for the first time…
Start letting them go.
The Inheritance
The thing about fear is…
It doesn’t always feel like fear.
Sometimes, it feels like control.
Like needing a plan, a backup plan, and a plan for when the backup fails.
Like not letting yourself want something unless you’re sure it’ll say yes.
Like second-guessing joy before it has a chance to settle in.
I used to think I was just being smart.
Cautious.
Prepared.
But underneath that was fear, dressed like strategy.
Fear that said: Don’t want too loudly. Don’t trust too quickly. Don’t relax just yet.
Fear that told me good things don’t last unless you hold them tight enough to break them.
No one talks about the fear that lives in success —
The kind that whispers, “If you shine too bright, they’ll leave.”
Or the fear that comes with rest —
That quiet panic that says, “You haven’t earned this yet.”
No one talks about the fear that lives in love —
The one that makes you test it, sabotage it, push it away just to see if it comes back.
No one talks about the fear of being truly seen —
Because what if they see it all and decide you’re not it?
So you become an expert in performance.
In smiling. In managing. In being okay.
Until one day, something breaks — not big, but sharp.
A comment. A missed call. A moment that shouldn’t matter but does.
And suddenly, you’re right back where fear likes you best:
On edge.
Second-guessing.
Shrinking.
The Disguises
It’s funny how fear almost never introduces itself as fear.
It shows up wearing better outfits.
It comes dressed as logic.
As responsibility.
As “just being careful.”
As “I don’t need anyone.”
As “I’m fine.”
It’s in the way we triple-check our tone in a text, afraid of sounding needy.
In the way we rehearse conversations in our heads before we ever say them out loud.
In the way we leave first so we don’t have to be left.
In the way we say “I’m just being realistic” when what we really mean is “I’m scared to hope again.”
Fear is clever like that.
It convinces us it’s wisdom.
That it’s maturity.
That it’s safer to expect the worst than to be caught off guard by joy.
And what’s wild is — the science backs it.
Long-term fear literally changes your brain.
The part of you meant to protect yourself from danger becomes hyper-alert, while the part that helps you make calm decisions gets quieter.
So even when things are good, you don’t feel safe. You stay braced for a fall, even when you’re standing on solid ground — and studies show that long-term fear can physically reshape our fear–memory pathways in the brain.
I didn’t realize for a long time that I wasn’t just protecting myself — I was avoiding myself.
Avoiding the version of me who wants more.
More softness. More stillness. More room to be seen without flinching.
But fear doesn’t like that version of you.
It prefers the one who over-plans.
The one who keeps the peace even when it’s choking you.
The one who earns their worth with productivity.
The one who apologizes before they speak — just in case.
And here’s the thing that never gets said out loud:
You can look confident and still be terrified underneath.
You can be successful, loved, put-together — and still live in quiet fear that you’ll mess it all up if you stop trying so hard.
That’s called high-functioning anxiety, and it’s real.
It doesn’t look panicked — it looks polished.
But on the inside, it’s fear running the whole show… while wearing your face.
Because fear doesn’t always make a scene.
Sometimes it’s quiet.
Polished.
Disguised.
It’ll have you believing that shrinking is noble.
That self-abandonment is grace.
That being alone is peace, when really it’s protection.
That staying small is humility, when really it’s fear asking you not to risk being misunderstood.
So you put on the costume.
You play the part.
You smile, you serve, you overextend — and the whole time, fear is whispering, “This is the only way to be safe.”
And like most of us, you listen — not because you’re weak, but because it feels true.
Avoidance becomes your default.
And it makes sense: psychologists have found that avoidance is one of the most common fear responses — whether we’re avoiding conversations, vulnerability, rest, or risk.
But safety isn’t supposed to cost your voice.
It’s not supposed to require you to disappear.
The truth is, fear will wear whatever mask it needs to…
Until you look it in the eye and say, I see you.
And once you see it — you can choose something else.
The Cracks
Fear doesn’t always knock down the door.
Sometimes it just slips through the cracks.
It shows up in the tiny moments.
Not just in the big, obvious breakdowns — but in the micro-decisions.
The text you don’t send.
The compliment you brush off.
The boundary you almost set… but don’t.
It’s in the way you talk yourself out of good things.
The way you stay in relationships where you’re tolerated but not cherished — because you’re afraid that being alone might feel worse than being unseen.
It’s in the way you wince when someone says they love you.
Not because you don’t believe them — but because somewhere deep down, fear is already drafting the exit plan.
Psychologists say that when you’ve experienced abandonment, trauma, or emotional inconsistency, your brain becomes wired to expect disconnection.
Even in safety, you prepare for loss.
Even in joy, you brace for the crash.
It’s called anticipatory anxiety — a quiet dread that teaches your nervous system to flinch, even when nothing is wrong.
And that’s how fear starts to write your story.
It edits your dreams before they’re fully formed.
It teaches you how to shrink inside your own potential.
It turns “I want this” into “But what if I can’t handle it?”
It turns “I love them” into “But what if they leave?”
You start to perform your personality instead of live it.
You become a curated version of yourself — still kind, still funny, still there… but not you.
Because you might be too much. Or not enough. Or too loud. Or too soft. Or too real.
Fear doesn’t care what the truth is.
It only cares about keeping you safe — even if it means keeping you stuck.
And here’s the heartbreaking part:
Most people won’t notice the fear in you.
Because they benefit from it.
They benefit when you don’t say no.
They benefit when you don’t ask for more.
They benefit when you doubt yourself just enough to stay quiet.
So fear becomes familiar.
Comfortable, even.
And the more you live inside it, the more you start to believe this is just who you are.
But it’s not.
That hesitation in your throat? That ache in your chest when you dim your own joy?
That’s fear talking.
That’s the crack in the foundation.
And the longer it goes unnamed, the more it spreads — into your confidence, your creativity, your relationships, your dreams.
You don’t need to tear the whole thing down to rebuild.
But you do need to pay attention to what’s leaking through.
The Voice
Fear isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it whispers in a voice that sounds just like yours.
It doesn’t scream “you’ll fail.”
It just gently suggests “maybe you’re not ready yet.”
It doesn’t yell “you’re not good enough.”
It just wonders “what if someone else is better?”
It doesn’t always tell you no.
Sometimes it just asks “what will they think?”
And before you realize it, you’re having full conversations in your head with a version of yourself that’s only ever trying to keep you from becoming more.
Not because you’re broken.
But because fear has been speaking over your dreams for so long, you started to believe it was wisdom.
Psychologists call it internalized fear-based self-talk — a mental loop shaped by past pain, shame, and rejection. The same kind of voice that confuses knowing with bruise. Research even shows that chronic anxiety can rewire the limbic system, making emotional reactions feel more like automatic reflexes.
It shows up in the form of caution, self-criticism, and hesitation.
And the longer it plays, the more your nervous system treats growth as danger.
That’s why even joy can feel threatening.
Even peace can feel suspicious.
Even rest can feel irresponsible.
And worst of all?
We often mistake this voice for intuition.
We call it gut instinct — but it’s really a bruise.
It’s not your knowing. It’s your wounding.
And because it sounds like you, it’s the hardest thing to challenge.
You trust it because it’s familiar.
Because it’s protected you before.
Because it kept you safe once — so now it shows up before every risk, every dream, every open-hearted leap…
Just in case.
But here’s the thing:
That voice might have been useful once.
Back when silence was safety.
Back when disappearing meant survival.
Back when your nervous system was just trying to keep you alive.
But you’re not there anymore.
And the same voice that once protected you is now keeping you from becoming who you’re meant to be.
Because growth doesn’t speak in warnings.
Love doesn’t arrive with disclaimers.
Joy doesn’t apologize for showing up unannounced.
So the next time that voice shows up —
Before you believe it… ask it who taught it how to speak.
Because if the answer is trauma, fear, rejection, or loss —
Then it’s time to teach it a new language.
The Release
Here’s what I’ve learned:
You don’t have to kill fear to be free.
You just have to stop letting it drive.
There’s no grand ceremony for letting go.
No sudden lightning bolt that snatches the fear out of your chest.
It’s quieter than that.
Softer.
It starts with a pause.
A deep breath before you say the thing anyway.
A shaky yes even though your voice trembles.
A boundary whispered instead of swallowed.
A decision that doesn’t come with permission or apology. And even science backs that up — just talking about your fear, whether with a friend or a therapist, helps your brain calm the amygdala and turn on the prefrontal ‘okay, we’re safe now’ part.”
Fear doesn’t always leave.
Sometimes it just moves to the back seat.
And that’s enough.
Enough to begin.
Enough to change your story.
Enough to stop asking fear what you’re allowed to want.
The truth is, courage was never the absence of fear — it was the refusal to be ruled by it.
And when you let go of fear —
Not by force, but by truth —
You start to remember who you were before you were afraid to be her.
The version of you that danced before watching the room.
That asked questions without shrinking.
That believed something good could actually stay.
That didn’t flinch every time love came close.
Letting go of fear isn’t a clean break.
It’s a practice.
A returning.
A thousand tiny rebellions against the voice that says play it safe.
And sometimes you’ll still choose fear.
You’ll still flinch, freeze, fade out.
You’ll still scroll instead of write, settle instead of speak, apologize for just existing.
But one day —
You’ll notice you’re not doing it as often.
You’ll feel yourself breathing deeper.
Standing taller.
Saying no with less guilt.
Saying yes with more joy.
And that’s when you’ll know:
Fear didn’t leave.
But it lost its power.
You are the one writing the story now.
And it’s no longer being edited for safety.
So if you’re standing where I was — in the in-between, holding both the fear and the longing — just know this:
You don’t have to have all the answers.
Just start asking the question.
If I let go of fear… who would I be?
And then, little by little — become you.
With grace, grit, and a love that refuses to quit.
Keep showing up—even when it feels like no one’s watching.
Your presence is powerful. Your love is building something they’ll one day thank you for.
From one storm survivor to another—
With strength and softness,
~ Jujubee Divine Empress
Founder, JBE Mindful Pathways
Wellness Advocate | Writer | Mother | Still Learning, Always Loving
✨ Ready to dive deeper? Explore more eye-opening stories like this in the We Don’t Talk About That collection — where silence ends, and truth begins.
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