I’ve been well acquainted with fear all my life. Since childhood, it’s been whispering in my ear, telling lies and stories. It’s caused worry to enter my mind, and anxiety to rise up within me like a tornado.
I can’t remember the first time I felt fear, but I do know that it intensified after my grandma’s death and after my parents’ divorce. It would always rise up when something happened to me that was out of my control. Once fear took root, it would turn to worry, which could lead to ongoing anxiety.
For most of my life I accepted this as part of me.
I’m a worrier. That’s who I am. I’ve always been like this.
I’d brush it off like it was no big thing. Like it was a personality trait, same as having a sense of humor or great people skills. I acted as if it was something I couldn’t get rid of even if I wanted to.
For the most part, I dealt with it in silence. I’ve been a Jesus follower most of my life. I have faith. I believe. I’ve seen miracles. I’ve experienced miracles. I’m a mom. Wife. Author. Leader.
There was no way I was going to admit to everyone around me that my mind was a hot mess.
In 2013, I got sick. This began a season filled with medical appointments, tests, surgeries, infections, misdiagnoses. And in that time, the fear that I’d kept hidden for my entire life rose up and consumed me.
It took over.
It owned me.
And hiding it was no longer an option.
The next few years I was enslaved to it. But I also learned a lot. About God and myself. And in the end, I found freedom.
I’m a romance author. A storyteller. I’ve never wanted to write nonfiction. I’m not a pastor or teacher. I’ve never felt like an authority or expert on anything. But lately I’ve felt a stirring in my heart to share my story, and not in fictionalized form as I’ve done with other things I’ve gone through.
If you’ve followed my blog for any length of time, you’ve been with me in this fear journey, and I thank you for sticking with me. Now you can read the entire story…