Becoming Fearless

When we think of the word fearless, we often imagine explorers and adventurers—risk-takers, bold and brave individuals who are seemingly unafraid. Undaunted, they say “yes,” and at enormous personal cost, they pursue the object of their quest with relentless determination. No matter what anyone else says or thinks—or even what they quietly fear themselves—they keep moving forward.

That definition doesn’t feel like me. It doesn’t look like me. And yet, I have decided that this is me.

I am not at my ideal weight. My gray hairs are becoming more noticeable, and I can no longer hide the wrinkles on my face the way I once did. Still, in spite of these physical signs, I know I must dig deeper. I must peel back the layers of who I have always been in order to become who I am becoming.

This week, I decided to take a writing workshop in my new city.

Armed with a tiny notebook that fits neatly into my purse, I set off. I had only been to this city once before—and never even gotten out of the car. But this time, I drove in, found parking in a garage, and walked into a room full of strangers.

I felt different from them right away. I don’t speak with the deep Southern drawl many of them had, which made me lean in closer, quiet myself more intentionally, and listen harder to what they were saying.

There were about twenty-five people in the workshop. We were asked to do two impromptu writing exercises and then share what we wrote with the group. While public speaking makes most people shrink, I felt surprisingly free. I didn’t know these people. I had nothing to lose.

The first prompt was: Write a letter to something you’ve lost.

So here is what I wrote:

I am standing in a new place. An unexpected position, still mourning the past and pieces of me, even as I step into transition.

I feel like the slate is being cleaned but I’m left with feelings of panic - do I really sweep it all away?

What do I put in that vast empty space? Do I just sit and stare at the abyss, knowing I have said goodbye to so much yet unable to see what is filling that holy ground?

Empty.

Empty.

Empty.

As images attempt to crawl back onto that barren block of time and space I find myself chasing them, considering them, sweeping them back off the land.

You are no longer welcome to hold my attention captive - all the things I tried to wrestle to the ground, to hold still, or to control.

You are no longer allowed, you fears of failure, you monsters with piercing eyes and fangs longing to get sunk into me.

You are banished. All you people-pleasing high wire performers.

The ropes have been cut and are laying across that empty space - powerless - at ease - no manipulation, no control required.

I will boldly look out across that barren landscape and say

Welcome unknown friendships.

Welcome joy.

Welcome wild trying.

Welcome scraped knees and red face.

Welcome life.

The teacher reminded us that whatever comes through on the page is enough. I think that statement offers incredible freedom—permission to say what you feel without editing yourself into silence. I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wish I could live my life that way: without fear or doubt, trusting that whatever I do or don’t accomplish, however my life appears from the outside, is simply… enough.

As I continued searching for avenues of writing and self-expression, I stumbled upon a beautiful website based in the UK called The Sunday Letter Project. The idea is simple: take a pledge to handwrite a letter every Sunday—to a loved one, to yourself, to an old friend, or even to a stranger.

They describe it this way:

“To write, to ponder, to savour. To regenerate a practice that has connected humans for generations and is starting to be lost. We believe letter writing is a unique way that we can find our way home as humans, and we invite you to join us.”

What an incredibly beautiful gift—to give to yourself and to others. I joined, of course.

This exploration of writing awakened something in me that doesn’t live on the surface. It’s quieter. Deeper. A desire to connect with others through words. It may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but I know I needed it.

I want to be bold and brave. I want to be fearless in how I love people and in how I express their value in my life. This week reminded me that the things we value most deserve to be pursued with intention—doggedly, even—no matter how unfamiliar or uncomfortable the path may feel.

Fearless, I’m learning, doesn’t always look like bold leaps or dramatic risks. Sometimes it looks like walking into a room where you don’t know anyone, or putting words on a page you don’t yet understand. Maybe fearless isn’t the absence of fear at all, but the choice to move forward while still carrying it. This week, I took a small step toward something that matters to me—and for today, that feels like enough.