Lessons from fear and resistance and how to befriend them
I’m standing on the gunnel of the boat, so cold my arm hair is standing at attention, clutching onto the main mast to steady my shivering body so that I don’t fall in. The Maine sun is barely over the horizon on this mid-April morning. I’m in my bathing suit, trying to will myself to jump into water that’s about 50-degrees.
Everyone else aboard has already done their morning dip, a daily ritual at Outward Bound in which you jump into water first thing before getting dressed for the day. I look at them and envy their layers of fleece and wool. I look back at the water. Part of me is craving washing off last night’s sleeping bag stickiness, stink and sweat, yet something in me won’t let me jump. I want to do this, yet I can’t make myself move.
“Just do it!” Someone yells behind me. Someone else laughs. My cheeks flush hot. I feel embarrassed that my mind can’t compel my body to move, that I’m not tougher, that my internal struggle is on view to everyone, fully shaking in the cold.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself.
I lean forward …begin to let go…
“Just jump!” I get startled and instinctively grasp on tight again. I look up to see two fishermen laughing. I become aware of how all of this must look – I’m in a bikini. They can probably see my goose bumps from where they’re anchored 50-feet away. I’m white-knuckle gripping, doing a weird dance – lean forward, pull back, lean forward, pull back, lean forward, pull back.
Reflexively, I yell back, “I’m trying!”
‘Trying’ comes out ‘Try – yun’, sung with the southern drawl that creeps into my voice when my emotions are high, its I’m-not-from-around-here tone further exaggerated by my shivering voice. This makes everyone laugh, especially the fishermen.
I feel hot tears well up. I blink them back, take a breath and jump.
The cold water fills my ears and cools my eyes. My hair flies above my head. I taste salt.
I bob back up to the surface, powerfully kick and push myself back into the boat in a single movement, out of the water as quickly as I plunged in. It felt like forever on the gunnel and just 15 seconds in the water, if that long. I’m shaking from cold or adrenaline. My fellow instructors and the fishermen laugh and cheer. I force myself to laugh along, even as I feel my cheeks flush hot, tears close as I dry off and hurriedly get dressed.
As many times as I did morning dip and encouraged my teenage Outward Bound students to do it with me, I always felt resistance and an inexplicable surge of fear right before jumping in. I hated this fear, judged myself for it, even when I was able to override it quickly. I felt I had to be, or had to at least appear to be, fearless to be worthy of the role of Watch Officer, Outward Bound’s term for sailing captain.
I’ve found there’s a specific type of embarrassment and sometimes shame that arises with struggling to do something that seems to be so easy for others. I’m no longer struggling on the gunnel daily, yet have plenty of on the gunnel struggles, whether or not anyone else can pick up on my internal trembles. In the same way morning dip was a required part of my work at Outward Bound, public speaking, and writing and sharing online are a part of my on the gunnel struggles today.
I still don’t let fear stop me, and I’ve also let go of the idea of being fearless. I've realized fear helps me stay safe. It’s often shown me the path to the next area of growth, the next area for expansion. Lack of fear when it’s warranted can lead to rash, dangerous decisions (fellow parents of young kids can likely relate to the dangers involved in an underdeveloped sense of fear…)
I also find it fascinating what doesn’t scare me. I’ve been told that I’m brave by others for things that, for me, didn’t frighten me, even if they were growth experiences, like trans-oceanic voyaging or stepping in to mediate conflict within groups. Fear, I’ve realized, is universal in that we all experience it, and personal in that an experience which provokes fear in me is one my friend or colleague or that person I admire from afar does without thought, yet the inverse, that I can do with ease what scares them, is just as likely to be true.
There’s a difference between fears that keep us safe and fear that keep us small. What has helped me to shift limiting, on the gunnel fear from being an obstacle to a welcome companion on my journey is turning toward the fear and welcoming it.
I say “hello” to it, as if it’s a visitor I’m excited to greet.
Then, I get quiet, often with a pen in hand and a blank page in front of me, and I ask,
What are you here to show me?
What are you trying to keep me safe from?
What do you want me to know?
Then I listen for or write whatever thoughts come.
The act of naming a fear and turning towards it as if it’s a friend helps it shift from feeling like an immovable obstacle to an entity that can be worked with, something I’m in relationship with. I first learned this skill through a practice called Inner Relationship Focusing, a practice that has echoes and overlap in many different research backed practices. By naming the fear, sitting with it, writing as if I’m in dialog with it, I begin to see and feel into a path forward. Instead of being caught in trembles that keep me fixed, unmoving, as if I’m back on the gunnel, I disentangle real risk from perceived risks.
Working with fear in this way helps me to find a more easeful path forward, not without fear, yet with right-timed (think rumble strips on the side of the highway) and right-sized fear, no longer an obstacle, yet a helpful companion on my journey.
What are your on the gunnel fears?
What do you find easy to do that others view as brave?
What might your fear be here to help you learn if you begin to befriend it?
