Low diatribe

"I need your help," she said. "How do you do it? How do you present at these huge meetings? I'm terrified to speak up in those kinds of situations."

She was a talented engineer I'd been mentoring. Sharp, capable, the kind of person who made everyone around her better. But she didn't feel comfortable voicing her ideas in large group settings. She'd watch others speak while her insights stayed locked inside.

She was looking for the secret. The technique that would make the fear go away.

I didn't have one.

"I'm scared too," I told her. "I do it anyway."

The silence that followed wasn't comfortable. She'd asked for a solution, and I'd given her what felt like a non-answer. But it's the only honest answer I have.

I have almost the same level of anxiety calling a restaurant as I do speaking in front of large crowds. The scale of the task doesn't change the anxiety level. Calling to place a takeout order triggers the same internal alarm as a keynote presentation.

Anxiety is anxiety, regardless of stakes.

People see the performance and assume it means something about the internal experience. They watch you present to a hundred people and think: "They must not be afraid." They see confidence and mistake it for the absence of fear.

But confidence isn't the absence of fear. It's acting despite it.

She was looking for the moment when I overcame my anxiety. When I learned to not be afraid. When I figured out how to make the fear stop.

That moment never came. The fear didn't stop. I just stopped letting it make my decisions.

There's a misconception about courage that we carry from childhood. We're taught that brave people aren't afraid. That heroes feel no fear. That confidence means certainty.

It's a lie that keeps people frozen.

I'm not fearless. I'm practiced at carrying fear while still moving forward.

I realize how absurd it is to panic about a phone call to order food. It shouldn't trigger the same response as presenting to executives. But it does. The anxiety doesn't calibrate to the actual stakes. It just shows up — indiscriminate and insistent.

If I waited for the anxiety to go away before acting, I'd never make the call. I'd never give the presentation. I'd never do anything that triggered that response, which means I'd never do anything.

So I learned to do it anyway. Not because I'm brave. Because the alternative is letting anxiety write my life.

When I told her "I'm scared too," something shifted in her face. Not relief exactly. More like recognition.

"Does it get easier?" she asked.

"The fear doesn't get smaller," I said. "You just get better at carrying it."

I stopped trying to overcome fear. I've been working to change my relationship with it. Fear becomes information instead of instruction. It tells me something matters, not that I shouldn't do it.

I've learned to hear the fear without obeying it.

Pops used to tell a story about how I learned to walk. I must have heard it a thousand times.

"You wouldn't let anyone see you learning to walk. If we were in the room, you'd just sit on your butt and crawl. I'd leave the room and hide around the corner. When you thought no one was watching, you'd scoot over to the couch or whatever and pull yourself up over and over, falling every time. The moment I came back in, you'd sit right back down like nothing had happened. Then one day I set you down in your room and went to talk to Mom in the living room. Two minutes later you came walking out. You learned to walk without letting anyone see you."

I spent decades operating that way. Perfect it in private. Only perform when polished. Never let them see you fall.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that pattern was keeping me frozen. The things worth doing don't wait for you to master them in secret. They require you to fall in front of people. To shake visibly. To admit "I'm scared too" and do it anyway.

I'm still that kid who doesn't want anyone to see him fall, except I don't let that stop me anymore.

After our talk, she presented at the next big meeting. Her voice shook. She kept going.

Afterward she told me: "I was terrified the whole time."

"I know," I said. "And you did it anyway."

That's not a lesser version of courage. It's the only version that exists.

I still get anxious before presentations. I still dread making phone calls. The fear hasn't diminished with practice. Sometimes I still catch myself giving in to it. What's changed is my willingness to let it stop me, and I still have to work at that.

The anxiety shows up. I acknowledge it. I do the thing anyway.

Not overcoming. Not conquering. Just carrying.

The line is here. The work starts now. And yes, it's terrifying.

I'm scared too — I do it anyway.