Preferably Not with a Lawnmower

On Fear, Self-Expression, and Hitting ‘Publish’ Anyway

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It starts with a lawnmower engine, a few ropes, and a plastic container of gas strapped beneath a metal seat. Add a parachute, a stranger behind you, and eclectic gusts of wind. Now imagine climbing into that setup willingly, hoping the metal cage holds, the gas engine doesn’t stall, and the parachute doesn’t yield to the wind. Just for fun!

That's what I did last weekend. I sat in that metal cage, my feet dangling above the clouds (literally!), my heart somewhere between my spine and my throat.

It’s called paramotoring. It’s the kind of activity you do partly for the view, partly for the story, and partly because you’re a few screws short but you still get by.

As we took off, the earth shrank and the sky expanded. I’d assumed my nervous system would revolt. But up there, suspended between gravity and grace, I felt strangely calm and joyful. There’s not much else you can do when a lawnmower is flying you above the Atlantic Ocean, except surrender—and maybe reflect on the screws you were missing that got you there, above the clouds and, frankly, through life in general.

That raw and loud experience is one species of fear, but there are others, like the kind triggered by certain kinds of self-expression. The kind that doesn’t scream but simmers, and often shows up as procrastination. Not the novel-worthy type, maybe, but the daily, dragging one.

The fear of sharing what we think or feel can show up in the form of a comment left unsaid, a text never sent, or in creative efforts, like writing or painting or singing. And often, it’s enough to keep you revising, rehearsing or rewriting endlessly...or hovering over the ‘Send’ button without ever pressing it.

Starting this blog brought up that kind of fear. Not because the stakes are high in a life-or-death sense, but because it’s personal. And I found out that personal can make you feel vulnerable. You're revealing something tender in front of strangers who don’t know you, and who might be expecting something different. It may be like walking into a board meeting in a swimsuit. You just don’t know the dresscode or the expectations. Which is exactly what inspired the name of this blog: Spiritually Naked.

I’ve been journaling since I was eight. Every year of my life is tucked into a drawer, in handwritten notebooks. Writing is how I process, integrate, let go. This blog started as a reflection on that very process of being a sample size of one. It’s second nature. But sharing that writing? Whole different sport. A creative high-wire act with no safety net. Not even a parachute.

We talk about this fear often with friends in creative endevours. The paralysis before hitting "post." The hesitation before sharing your work. The low-level dread that someone will call it too long, too short, too much, not enough, too deep, rather vague...or somehow all of the above. The fear of judgment feels very alive and vivid, maybe because...

Deep down, we still feel like the opinions of others could rewrite who we are.

Which reminds me of a book that changed my relationship with fear: Susan Jeffers’ Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway. Her central idea struck me as something I’d known deep down, but had never quite put into words:

Fear will never go away as long as we continue to grow.

I find this perspective surprisingly freeing. It reframes fear not as a sign of inadequacy, but as a natural byproduct of stretching. If you're doing something meaningful, fear is part of the terrain. And it doesn’t have to be something creative. It could be speaking honestly in a conversation that might shift a relationship. Or applying to something that feels slightly out of your league. Or even sharing an idea out loud when no one asked.

Fear may show up not because you’re off track—but because you’re onto something new.

Jeffers also talks about the myth of control. That we spend so much time trying to eliminate risk, manage outcomes, perfect our readiness. But all of that is noise.

What actually helps isn’t eliminating fear; it’s building trust in yourself, meaning your ability to handle whatever stretches your limits.

Trusting in your own ability to handle whatever comes—not that you'll make the right decision, or that the outcome will go your way, but that you'll have the capacity to meet whatever arrives and keep going. Yes, you might mess up or things might go sideways. It’s not about predicting what will happen. It’s knowing you’ll find your way through. That’s what makes Jeffers’s question worth sitting with:

What am I afraid of, and do I trust myself to handle it if it happens?

This question reminds me of something I heard from Jeb Corliss, a BASE jumper and wingsuit pilot of 25+ years. He has completed more than 2,000 jumps, flying through caves, over mountain ridges, across narrow gaps at speeds that make breathing optional. And, as far as I know, he’s one of the few still alive with that kind of record.

In our conversation, Jeb said he feels fear like everyone else, but he’s just learned how to move through it and do what needs to be done. Most of us don’t build that reflex, but we can. Which is why Susan Jeffers’ “no-lose model” is important:

Whether something goes well or not, you win. Either you succeed, or you learn. Either you get applause, or you get stronger. And with that mindset, fear stops being a stop sign. It becomes scenery.

Here’s where all this leaves me…after books, metaphors, and lawnmower engines:

The task is not to be fearless. But to make peace with fear’s presence.

So no, we don’t have to go paramotoring. If there’s something we’ve been circling—an idea, a gesture, a quiet urge to say or show or send something. These are the quiet thresholds we need to cross, on a daily basis.

And no, we don’t need to eliminate fear. We just need to move with it Corliss-style. Even if we feel a little exposed, or especially then! Preferably not with a lawnmower, but hey…you do you.

So whatever you're carrying right now, a half-finished canvas or an unsent WhatsApp message, let’s take the act of showing up, even imperfectly, as a green light.

I’ll go first! Here we go: post published!