Pulling the Plug on Fear’s Fog Machine
The most dangerous kind of fear is the kind that sounds reasonable.
It doesn’t shout, “You’re going to die!” It sidles up beside you, looking like a concerned friend: “Be sensible. Stay put. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t be foolish.” That fear is a liar — but a polite one. It shows up wearing a tie, holding a clipboard, armed with solid arguments.
That’s why it’s so convincing.
Joseph LeDoux, the neuroscientist, suggests that fear isn’t some primal reflex hardwired into your bones. It’s a mental construct. Learned. Conditioned. That also means — it’s trainable. Untrainable, even.
Here’s the kicker: the life you want? The work you’re aching to do? The relationships, the adventures, the art, the calling? They’re all waiting outside the lines fear draws for you. Fear’s not in the moment — it’s in the waiting. It stretches five seconds of risk into a lifetime of secure dread.
Most fear doesn’t protect us from lions; real fear, the kind that signals actual danger, is rare. But the other kind? The ordinary, chronic fear of doing something unfamiliar or bold? It protects us from discomfort. From change. From feeling vulnerable, awkward, exposed. That’s the fear we obey without even calling it fear.
We don’t say “I’m afraid”. We say “I’m being smart”. “I’m not ready”. “It’s just not the right time”. Fear hides behind these polite disguises, passing itself off as caution, reason, common sense. And because we don’t name it, we don’t question it. We don’t fight what we won’t admit is there.
If fear is constructed, it can be deconstructed. If it’s learned, it can be unlearned.
In Susan Jeffers’s classic Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway (1987), she points out something people still miss: the fear never leaves. “The fear will never go away as long as you continue to grow”, she writes.
Fear isn’t a stop sign. It’s a signpost: “You’re on the edge of expansion”.
Underneath every fear, Jeffers says, is the same thought: “I can’t handle it”. We’re not afraid of failure or rejection — we’re afraid we won’t survive them. Her answer isn’t killing fear. It’s stacking proof: “I handled that”. Power grows with experience. Every choice either shrinks you or expands you. Every step moves you toward power — or away.
Every time you act despite fear, you reclaim space. Every time you name it, you deflate it.
And naming it? That’s where it starts.
We weren’t born afraid of everything. We were taught to be careful. “Don’t climb too high.” “Don’t speak too loud.” “Don’t risk too much.” The society trained us to shrink for safety. But playing it safe is really just playing it scared.
So open your journal.
Name it. Call it fear. Because fear’s a master of disguise — it’ll show up dressed as doubt, caution, reason, habit, obligation. If you don’t call it by name, it keeps hiding.
Write it down. Every ugly part. Don’t tidy it. Don’t clean it up. Spell it out: what’s the nightmare? What’s the worst-case? What are you really afraid of? Then — write what you’d do if it actually happens.
And while you’re writing? Write one other steady line beside every fear: “I can handle this”. “I’ve handled worse”. “I’ll figure it out”. Building that inner supportive voice isn’t about pretending things are fine. It’s about reminding yourself: you’re standing. And standing means: you’re not out.
Your journal isn’t just a page — it’s a tool. Writing down your fears, you’re not confessing weakness. Every word you write traces the wires back to fear’s fog machine power supply. And once you find the source? You know exactly what to do: walk up and pull that plug.
In the second part, coming after the weekend, we’ll go further. We’ll talk about what happens when you start training it. I’ll give you a glimpse of what it looks like to untrain fear by acting through it. Because fearing less? It’s a skill. And skills aren’t handed down. They’re built.
Meanwhile, if this feels like a full meal, upvote it, pass it to someone who needs it, and if you want to write to me, please do. I want to hear what you’re working through next.