Fear whispered, ‘This will terrify you.’
I replied, ‘Thank you, friend.’
Little did I know, this conversation would transform my life.
When I was a teenager, I was often limited by fear. I would be shivering in my shorts playing rugby, clutching the muddy ball on a frosty English Tuesday morning, two lads running towards me, and I’d be terrified. I took that fear as a sign.
A sign that Rugby ‘wasn’t my sport.’ A sign that this game was to be endured and — ideally — avoided.
Rugby didn’t go well for me because I took this feeling seriously. It affected my performance on the field and made me weak, miserable, and vulnerable.
But at other times in my life, I would feel fear, do the thing as best as I could, and come out of it feeling invincible. For example, I’d be charging across a field in a different context: during a military exercise in school cadets, which I loved.
I’d be leading a group, heavy gear jangling, holding a rifle, shouting at the top of my lungs, adrenaline firing, under enemy blank fire. This was enlivening and exciting. I was feeling what could be described as fear, but I interpreted it more as excitement.
This experience was similar to being on the rugby pitch. But my response was very different.
Fear is just a feeling. It is a direct reflection of our mental state. If we have fearful thoughts, we will feel fear.
It is as simple as that.
I perceived coming under blank enemy fire in a way that I found invigorating. I had different thoughts about it than I had when I was playing rugby. As a result, my emotional response was very different.
You could see a ghost on a dark corridor one moment (fear) and then realise it was the outline of a coat on a rack the next (relief). It’s all interpretation, my friend.
What does this tell us?
Our feelings show us the state of our thoughts.
This is good news. Why?
Because fear no longer needs to limit us.
Fear shouldn’t make us cower in a corner. But it can inspire and guide us.
