I’ve always kind of envied fearless people. I’ve never been one of them – I’m anxious, I worry about everything, no statistic is too small to be considered as a distinct possibility. Other people do crazy things – jump out of airplanes, bungee jump off bridges, climb up mountains – me, I get nervous every time I merge onto the highway.
I’ve envied those people, but I also think being fearless is crazy. Not being afraid of anything seems the definition of insanity. Our ingrained survival instinct makes us fearful for a reason – our own safety. My survival instinct is, I think, just kind of overactive.
But since losing Amy, I find myself thinking more and more, that what I’m doing right now is pretty damn fearless, too. That maybe “fearless” doesn’t have to mean not having fears – fears are natural, normal, and often justifiable. Maybe it’s pretty fearless to have those fears and decide to do it anyway. Maybe you don’t have to actually BE fearless, but rather just LIVE fearless.
I am afraid, every day. Afraid that we’ll lose this baby, too. Afraid to hope for too much. I was afraid to be pregnant again, and who could blame me? I’m afraid of my surgery tomorrow, and who could blame me? I’m afraid even of the spinal block I’ve agreed to. But maybe what’s important is – I’m doing it anyway. I’m afraid, but that doesn’t run my life, anymore. And maybe that’s just as fearless, in its own way.