Fear has a way of showing up when you least expect it — like standing on the edge of a five-mile swim in five-foot swells. The water churned beneath me, cold and uninviting. I had only learned to swim a year before. Standing there in my wetsuit, I remember thinking:
“Why the hell am I doing this? What am I trying to prove? I don’t need to do this. This is ridiculous!”
My body trembled, my stomach clenched, and I laughed too loudly at bad jokes just to distract myself from the fear. Around me, other swimmers whispered their worries about the weather, about not finishing. My kayaker cracked a joke, trying to lighten the mood, but the fear was thick in the air.
And then I looked down at my arms. Names written in black marker. People had texted me in the middle of the night, asking me to swim in honor of their loved ones battling cancer. This was bigger than me. I took a breath, stepped into the water, and said to myself: “Thirty minutes. Just swim for thirty minutes. If it’s too much, I’ll stop.”
Of course, I didn’t stop.
A few months later, I was backstage at TED. My palms were sweating, my feet pacing back and forth. I couldn’t listen to the other speakers; I was too afraid I’d compare myself to them and lose my nerve. The lights on stage were blinding — I knew once I stepped out, I wouldn’t be able to see the audience, which made me ache, because what I had to share was so deeply personal.
As I waited, I whispered to myself: “You’ve got this. Just begin, and let it unfold. This came to you… you can trust it.”
When they called my name, I walked out anyway. Just like the swim, just like fear, the talk unfolded.
At a retreat in Arizona for survivors of childhood abuse, I entered a labyrinth slowly, each step heavy with fear. I was exhausted from everything that was surfacing in me. My nervous system was unraveling, and the fear of what I might uncover nearly stopped me. But at the center of the labyrinth, I froze as a realization hit me: I am the mother of the child within me. Terrifying. Liberating. Both at once.
And then, more recently, Holland. A psilocybin retreat.
I don’t even drink alcohol — so the idea of taking this step was unthinkable. My nerves had me cracking jokes left and right until the woman sitting next to me said, with a smile, “Do you talk a lot when you’re nervous?” I laughed so hard the fear cracked open. Just before the journey began, she leaned in, gestured to the others, and whispered, “They are all in the control group.”
Laughter. Release. The fear began to dissolve.
And then it happened: a woman began to sing. Her voice was like medicine to my soul. Even in the midst of the psilocybin, it was her song that awakened every fiber of my being.
Each of these moments taught me something new about fear. But they all shared one truth: fear is an invitation. It’s not proof that you shouldn’t go forward. It’s a sign you’re on the edge of transformation.
Here’s what I’ve learned, after crossing these thresholds:
Fear isn’t proof that you shouldn’t go forward. It’s a sign you’re on the edge of transformation. Think of it as a compass pointing you toward growth.
You don’t have to promise forever. Sometimes, you just need to give yourself thirty minutes, or thirty seconds, to see if the magic reveals itself. Start small, and let the momentum carry you.
On the other side of fear is life, energy, wisdom, love. Fear is the doorway, not the barrier.
So my invitation to you is this:
What’s the threshold in front of you? What’s the thing you’re afraid to step into right now?
Write it down. Name it. And then, take thirty seconds. Take one step. See if it’s too much… or if it’s magic.
Here’s To Your Greatness,
Misti Burmeister