Anxious and proud since probably 2012
I’m so scared. It’s the only thought running through my mind, again and again and again. I intersperse it with synonyms, of course–a symptom of the English major that has never left me–but the message remains the same: I’m nervous. I’m afraid. I’m frightened. I’m terrified. Regardless of the variety, it’s just fear, over and over, constant, all-consuming.
I would say I feel this way, oh, I don’t know… every single time I travel. Every single time, without fail, ranging from slight worry to full-blown terror depending on the circumstances. And it’s not like I reserve this feeling specifically for traveling, either. I feel it all the time. Here, I’ll provide an example–the perfect example, actually–that will tie this story up with a cute little bow:
I can still vividly recall my ridiculous inner monologue as I drove towards my doom (a first date) last summer. It was simply–in a manner that perfectly parallels my current state of mind–I’m so scared, stuck on a loop. It felt like an understatement, too. My stomach was in knots, my mouth was dry, my hands were shaking, and I felt like I was a moment away from getting sick. If I could go back in time and ask that version of myself what she wanted to do, it would probably be to run and hide and avoid the whole thing altogether. Maybe I was wondering why I even set myself up to feel like this in the first place, or how anything could possibly be worth this much stress. Fight or flight? My brain begs me to flee every time, as if it’s experiencing mortal peril. It feels so real that I almost feel like my safety is being threatened, even when the only threat is the weapon that my mind can shapeshift itself into. When you feel genuine terror like this, giving up and giving in is all the more enticing. Having an out starts to feel like the only way out: I can come up with an excuse, and then I’ll be able to get out of this; I can cancel, and then this will all go away; I can bail, and then this feeling will subside. The worst part? It’s true. Avoidance, deflection, they work. The fear does dissipate, almost instantly. But when you bail, when you evade responsibilities and opportunities, the fear gets replaced by something much worse: regret.
To apply this logic to the example of that first date: I could have easily cancelled on him. It would have been almost too easy. I could have sent him some generic, obvious lie to get out of the date–I’m not feeling well, I got called into work, something came up–and then simply stopped answering his texts until the whole thing faded away into nothing. The thought nearly knocks the wind out of me. I would have missed out on a love that has become more meaningful than I ever even imagined love could be, and for what reason? Because I was afraid of what might happen?
Now, all I’m afraid of is what might not have happened if I hadn’t been brave enough to try, and I’m grateful that I will never have to find out.
Now, I get to experience a love that consumes me, that inspires me, that completes me; a love that I couldn’t have dreamed up (well, I kind of did, actually, but that’s a story for another time).
Now, I get to prepare to travel the world with him. I get to experience places on the top of my bucket list with the person whose love has surpassed all of my own prior expectations and hopes for what a partner could be, and how a connection could feel. And I get to sit here and think I’m so scared over it. Even though it terrifies me, it thrills me, too. The same way that first date did.
So I guess it all comes down to which you would prefer to feel: anxiety, or regret?