“The thought of being in a serious relationship scares me.”

I was told this by someone I had just recently met and started hanging out with. Someone I like. Someone I enjoy spending time with. And based on his words and actions, I’m fairly certain he felt the same way. The connection was real enough to soften some of the bricks in the walls I’ve carefully built around myself—though I still moved forward with caution.

I could be pissed. And honestly, at first, I was. But after letting my emotions settle and getting back to a wise mind, I realized something important: I get it. I really get it.

What I wish, though, is that we could have a conversation about what that fear actually meant. Fear is a broad word. It can hide so many things—past hurt, loss of control, the weight of expectations, the risk of getting it wrong. I wish we had talked about what exactly he was afraid of, instead of letting fear stand in as the final answer. Maybe understanding it could change something. Maybe not. But it would be honest.

I’d like to say I’m not afraid of much. I’ve been called fearless more than once. For all intents and purposes, I’ll take it as a compliment. I understand the perception. But nothing could be further from the truth. Not even close.

Here’s the difference between perception and reality: I’m scared—terrified, actually—of a lot of things. Fear just doesn’t stop me. Fear alone isn’t enough to keep me from going after what I want or from attempting things that might seem out of reach. I’ve taken giant leaps of faith. I’ve toed the line at an Ironman. I’ve packed up my life and started over in a new city with a new job, knowing almost no one and having no guarantees.

I’m a risk taker. And living in fear prevents us from taking risks.

I can’t be so afraid of making a mistake that I refuse to choose. I would rather make a choice and discover it was the wrong one than live in the limbo of “what if.” What if everything I want is on the other side of fear? What if there really is nothing to fear but fear itself?

When it comes to relationships, though, there’s an important distinction between fear and caution—and the two often get confused. Fear freezes. Caution slows. I move into relationships with caution, deliberately and slowly, not because I’m unwilling, but because I know myself. I know that moving too quickly overwhelms the emotional side of my brain. I’ve learned that pacing is not avoidance; it’s self-awareness. Caution allows me to stay grounded. Fear would keep me from moving at all.

The fear is still there, of course. Vulnerability—and everything that comes with it—is terrifying. I have a history with trauma and abandonment. The anxiety tied to that can be overwhelming, sometimes enough to make me want to crawl under my desk and curl up in the fetal position. And yes, that has happened.

But still, I move forward. Carefully. Intentionally. With my eyes open.

Because growth has never come from playing it safe. Connection doesn’t happen without risk. Love—real love—requires showing up even when your hands are shaking and your heart is racing. It means trusting someone else with pieces of you that were once broken. It means choosing courage, not because you’re fearless, but because fear doesn’t get to make your decisions anymore.

If you really want something, you can push the fear aside—at least enough to take a step forward. Fear doesn’t disappear, but it stops being the loudest voice in the room. And when you can’t push it aside at all, when fear makes the decision for you, it’s worth asking the hard question: did you ever really want it, or did you just like the idea of it?

Moving forward doesn’t mean ignoring fear. It means acknowledging it, respecting it, and refusing to let it dictate your life. It means taking one small step at a time, even when you’re unsure of the outcome.

So yes, relationships are scary. Opening yourself up is scary. Letting someone see you is scary. But staying closed off forever? That’s scarier.

And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s this: I’d rather move forward afraid than stand still wondering what might have been.