Everything. I'm afraid of everything.

 “What are you afraid of?”

That was my mother. I don’t remember the context exactly. I know it was sometime in the mid-90s. I picture me, my mom, dad, and two daughters sitting at a table in an Italian restaurant one town over. It’s dusky outside and in. Probably mid-week, because that’s when my parents liked to take us out. 

I remember the tone of her voice: irritated. 

I remember my mood in response: pissed.  Beyond pissed. 

Pretty sure I said nothing. Or something non-committal like: “I dunno.” Maybe I shrugged. 

How else to respond to those words, that tone, in a public place with impressionable kids nearby?  Also, if I responded truthfully, I’d break open a dam and out would spill a river of paragraphs that would kill me to say, damage my kids to hear, and probably barely impact my interrogator. 

I don’t think my mom ever understood how much courage you need to: go to court on your own, file restraining orders, testify in front of judges, lawyers, family, and strangers about awful things, work 14-hour days and at the same time keep it together enough to raise two kids. Just getting out of bed was a struggle back then. 

What I was afraid of in the 90s: everything. I was stumbling through uncharted territory, living a nightmare of a life that, in simplest terms, I never expected or felt I deserved to live.  One shoe would drop. Then another. Storms of dropped shoes every second of every day. It was awful.  

I didn’t have the words at the time to describe my headspace then, but I have them now: depression, anxiety, all due to and part of a whopping case of post-traumatic stress disorder. Well, it’s “post” now. During most of the 90s it was present. Worst thing ever?  At the time, yes. The birds of sadness were not just nesting in my hair. They were pecking at my brain and chewing on my innards. (see Sharon Creech, Walk Two Moons.)

Now, with decades of distance, therapy, and lots of time for reflection, I’ve developed some skills. I still have residual stuff, including the occasional trigger, but for the most part have learned how to cope and move on. 

Have yet to meet a person whose life has gone as planned, though back in the ‘90s everyone was doing better than I was. Or so I thought. Like I said, I know more now than I knew then. I still have a lot to learn.  

One thing I know for sure. That moment when my mother asked me, “What are you afraid of?” Irritated the crap out of me back then. But now? I embrace the whole scene like a gift.

Whenever I’m afraid to step outside of my comfort zone --  choosing to run a race I know I’ll struggle to finish, or, like this very minute, as I struggle to write something I’m not sure I’m really ready to write, I think back to that night in the restaurant, and my mother’s words. 

I recall the tone especially, and how awful I felt as I struggled to come to terms with a response, any response, and couldn’t, because deep down, even as I had an answer – that my life right now was fraught with worry and fear and she had no idea – I was wondering too about anger, fear, and who I wanted to be, and how the heck would I ever get there. 

I was teaching sixth grade in 2001 and had some close relationships with some awesome parents. Of course I told everyone back then, my fellow teachers, students, parents that I was running the Boston Marathon, because that’s who I was at the time. 

One of the parents who I chatted with at dismissal nearly every day, gave me a book of courage quotes to help keep me motivated. Her last name translates to “king.” So, every time I think of her, even now, I picture a crown on her head. 

Before every long run for Boston 2001 – every, single, long run, I kid you not – I read a page from that book, which sat right on top of my bureau so I couldn’t miss it. I’d open randomly to any spot. I’d read that quote and as I ran, often further than I ever thought possible, I’d keep that quote in my heart. I’d think it. Sometimes I’d even shout it. 

That book is trashed now, because I taped pages from it all over the house – my bedroom mirror, bathroom mirror, kitchen cabinets, refrigerator, and to my pencilholder, stapler, index card box, and file cabinet at school. Here’s a favorite quote that I repeat even now, after all these years: “Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear – not absence of fear.” 

My mother is in my heart with every breath I take. Her words, including, “What are you afraid of?” They’re everywhere all the time, embedded in every fiber of my being. For better, worse, best, I am my mother’s daughter.  

Life has changed a lot since she passed. Often, I still walk with fear. But you know what? That’s a good thing. In fact, fear is one of my best ever triggers. If I want something hard and I want it bad enough and I’m afraid either to go for it or that I will fail, my mother’s words come hard and fast. And in that same instant, so does courage. And resolve. 

The whole reason for writing today was to get down on paper before I forget, what it was like to climb the Sydney Harbor Bridge. I was going to write about how I was afraid at first. My brain told me I needed to write this instead.

I’m sure the memory of climbing that bridge will be just as clear tomorrow as it is today. 

But now I need to sign up for my next overseas race. It’s in an absolutely crazy location and the logistics of getting there are a little overwhelming. There are fear triggers everywhere. I know I’m not totally ready to do this. But I’m going to try. 

Forward, courage.