Fear doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it slips into your mind disguised as good advice, until you realize it’s been steering your life all along.
Dear Fear,
For years, I mistook you for wisdom.
You wore the suit of reason,
sat at my table,
and whispered caution into my coffee.
You painted comfort in beige
and called it safety.
You told me to stay in jobs
that starved my soul,
in love that dimmed my edges,
in rooms where my voice
echoed back unheard.
I thought you were guarding me.
Instead, you were building walls,
brick by brick,
around the very life
I was meant to live.
You convinced me
dreams were for the young,
that settling was maturity,
that my cage was a sanctuary.
You shrank me.
Folded me in on myself.
Pressed your hand
over the mouth of my intuition.
But I see you now,
not a counselor,
but a thief.
You have stolen enough seasons.
Enough seconds.
Enough chances.
You have whispered your last warning.
Go find someone else to diminish.
I will no longer carry you.
Today, I open the windows.
Let the air rush in.
Let the light touch every corner.
Today, I remember
what it feels like
to breathe without your shadow.
When you stop mistaking fear for wisdom, you start remembering what it feels like to live in color.
