It’s barely 9am and I’m already having a hard time concentrating on my work. Granted, it’s a Saturday, and I’m not feeling especially motivated, and the cozy, quiet café I found so inspiring a few weeks ago, is now a noisy, cold and drafty hangover cure for a bunch of wannabe hipsters. Inspiration feels far, far away. I suppose it’s no accident then, that I see a mess of flyers on the wall, with such inspiration sayings like “every artist was first an amateur” or “it always seems impossible until it’s done”. Yeah, yeah, universe, I hear you. Get to work. Put your fingers on the keys and just fucking write.

I stopped counting how many times I’ve been told writing isn’t really a job, or how great it was that I’d found a “hobby”. Mostly because I have amazing friends and family, who for the most part, have drowned out most of the dissenting voices with their support and genuine belief in my abilities. The one voice I can’t seem to ignore, however, is of course my own.

Everything I write is crap—until someone else convinces me it’s not. Every day, I question the path I now find myself on, and wonder if I can really handle living off my savings, sticking to a budget or paying out of pocket for health insurance.

Then I remind myself how I feel every day I’m not writing. I mean, really not writing. As in, waking up at 4am and dragging myself through irrationally congested freeways to a job that, while I know I’m good at, leaves me feeling empty and unfulfilled. It takes about an hour each day, after I’ve waded through the minutia of morning emails, voicemails and the shit I didn’t get to the day before, that I realize I’m not where I’m supposed to be. That I’d give anything to be holed up in a grimy café, with uncomfortable chairs and tables that are somehow, never the optimal height for a laptop.

In those moments, I’m filled with a certainty that both comforts and emboldens me. In those moments, I know I’m making the right decision. Success or failure is something I can’t really define, because how do you measure the success of the written word? While nearly all the naysayers try to define it financially, I don’t. Yes, I would love to define my writing career, in part, with a paycheck. But that isn’t what I’m trying to get out of it—it’s just a bonus.

Yet, today, when I have literally the two entire days to do whatever the fuck I want, I can barely get a word down. These are the times when I start to get a little worried. What if the only thing that motivates me as a writer, is misery? What if, that job that I struggle through every day, is the one thing that lights that fire that inspires me to write? Where will that passion come from when that’s gone? Will I feel that same need to write if I can do it freely, whenever I want, at my own pace? The way things are going today, it’s not looking good.

At least, that’s how I feel. The reality is, in the time it took me to mull over these thoughts, I somehow managed to spit out a little over 500 words. That’s 500 more than I thought I could do about 10 minutes ago.

Maybe those annoying posters have a point. Maybe this isn’t impossible. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

Photo courtesy of Corey Holms

© 2013, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

I went to a small high school–less than 200 students total, and only a little over 40 in my class. One wouldn’t think such a small student body could support the arts, but someone had the foresight to dedicate one large corner of the 100+ year old building for exactly that purpose. It was in this room, that I first discovered the power of art.

One week, we were covering photography–which I already knew I was attracted to–and found myself eager to get to class, and a little dissappointed when it ended.

It was also the first time art moved me to tears. I don’t even remember the picture. It wasn’t famous. The rest of the class didn’t like it.

But for me? I felt a soft electricity blanket my skin, and my eyes welled up with tears. I was physically moved by this one little photo, in a book that by that time, was probably out of print, the photographer long forgotten.

If only they knew.

I remember wishing I had paid attention to the name of the photographer, so I could look him or her up one day, and share how much their vision had inspired and touched me.

A Second Chance

Of course, these days it’s much easier to track down the creative eye behind the lens, so when I heard from Sara, I couldn’t wait to take advantage of this second chance to tell an artist how her work has moved me, and she has a beautiful gift. I’ll let her visions say the rest.

If you’d like to see more of Sara’s work, check her out here.

Thank you Sara for sharing your talent, and conquering your fear of sharing your work with others!

All photos courtesy of Sara.

© 2013, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

The way we talk about happiness, you’d think it was the most valuable currency in the galaxy. When parents tell their children of their aspirations for them, it usually boils down to something like, “as long as you’re happy honey, we’re behind you 100%”. Or, when you’re trying to act like an adult after a painful breakup, and tell your former love, “I just want you to be happy, really”.

You knew it was bullshit when your parents said it, and you knew it was even more of a load when you said it to your ex, but you gobbled it up and dished it out all the same. What the hell for? I can understand the rationale for not revealing the true identity of Santa Clause to a four year old (or however old kids are when they still believe in Old St. Nick), but after a certain age, why do we continue to profess our aspirations for something that may not actually exist?

A friend and I have been discussing this very topic for quite some time, and have yet to come to any sort of agreement on the matter. While I, who can sometimes come across as a bit surly, actually do believe such a thing as happiness does exist, I’ll concede that its definition remains a mystery. My friend, however, leans more toward the stuff of myths and mystery, than something that can truly be achieved.

At least, that’s what he tells me.

So, I started thinking about what exactly happiness is—to me at least—and recalled one particular moment, that still comes to mind when I think of pure happiness.

Passing the Series 7

Long long ago, in a galaxy far , far away, I worked at a bank—a broker-dealer if we’re getting specific. I’ve always hated math, and pretty much loathed anything relating to markets, money or exchanges, since I first noticed my father reading the Wall Street Journal as a child. I don’t even know if they do this anymore, but back in the day, stock prices and indexes were neatly printed in the daily papers, in the tiniest imaginable type, and lined up to form an image that to this day still pops into my head when I think of the stock market. Unless you had the paper close enough to smell the ink, it was nearly impossible to decipher the three and four letter codes, and corresponding prices, let alone understand what they all meant. For me anyway.

I could barely convince myself to balance my checkbook (and often didn’t—back when we still used checkbooks). I just didn’t like numbers. I didn’t like finance all that much, and I certainly never anticipated a career requiring me to be knowledgeable of such things.

So, although thrilled when the bank offered me a promotion, I was understandably horrified when they stipulated I had to pass the Series 7 and 63 to keep the job. I knew I wasn’t meant to do this, and I nearly turned it down.

I also didn’t think I could do it. There was no-way-in-hell I could ever pass that test. It was notoriously difficult—not CFA, the bar or MCAT difficult, but good chunk of test takers would fail on their first attempt—and my job was quite literally at stake if I didn’t pass. But, my desire to assimilate won the day, and I accepted the position, vowing to myself I’d study hard and pass.

Let me assure you, studying for this test was torture like I’d never know before or since. I knew I had to do it, and I knew I’d pull through—eventually. But truthfully, I didn’t think I’d pass. Studying for that test was easily one of the most painful ordeals I’ve endured from a professional or academic perspective. But, whether I liked it or not, test day came, just like my calendar said it would, and I resigned myself to the fact I would fail as I drove to the sterile test-taking center, somewhere in Pasadena, California.

After slogging through annoyingly cheerfully basic computer screens for four of the six hours I was allotted, I called the fight. Mercifully, the test was electronic, which meant after months, and the fresh hours of torture, I’d finally know peace. One way or another, I’d know my fate.

I finished earlier than everyone else, which certainly meant I’d done something wrong. By that time, my brain was fried, and my nerves were raw. I was just done. I clicked the button to submit my answers. Then clicked again, when asked if I was really sure I wanted to do that—as if the computer knew how unsure I was of myself. “Fuck you” I thought, and hit submit again, and yes, again once more. I was so pissed off with the “are you really sure you’re ready to seal your fate” questions with cute little dialog boxes, I almost didn’t care about the result.

And then, as if in response, with it’s own “fuck you” the screen went completely blank, then flashed a tiny line of black letters in the middle of the 15 inch monitor, telling me to “please wait” while my score was tabulated. By far the longest 23 seconds of my life, and suddenly, I wanted to take it all back.

In the span of seconds, I spun on my heels and immediately cared desperately about the result. Now, with my future quite literally at my fingertips, I silently begged for a second chance—”I’ll study more next time!” I promised in vain as I pleaded with the universe for a mildly destructive earthquake, power outage or freak EMP flash that would necessitate a re-do. That didn’t happen, but I would’ve been less surprised if it had, than what happened next.

The screen blinked again, briefly, and a new tiny line of black text appeared in the middle of the page. If I focused, I knew I could make out the message, but my eyes wouldn’t cooperate—I was better off not knowing.

But, nearly as quickly as the sickness of fear and failure washed over me, a surge of confidence overcame me. Before even knowing the results, I could feel my cheeks hurting with the smile that stretched across my face.

I don’t remember making a sound, but I certainly did something, because the instant I saw, “Congratulations…..your score was, blah, blah, blah….you PASSED” I could feel the entire room of bloodshot eyes shooting daggers into the back of my skull for disrupting their concentration.

I quickly gathered my two and a half pieces of scratch paper allowed, my calculator, my pencils, and my claim ticket for my bag, and rushed toward the exit. The proctor, at this point smiling nearly as stupidly as me, gently extended a hand and quietly reminded me to claim my bag and turn in my test materials. I looked at him with what I can only imagine looked like shock, and mouthed, “I passed!” He replied “I know” silently, with a smile as he handed my bag.

I stepped outside, greeted by one of the most beautiful California Tuesday afternoons in recorded history, and marveled at what had just happened. This test, this impossible feat that I was certain I could never beat, was suddenly a credential on my resume. Me, the financially-challenged, was now deemed by the NASD (now called FINRA) as suitable to trade securities. You know, all those tiny little codes on the back of my father’s Wall Street Journal?

In that moment, I accepted—what I had previously deemed after-school-special drivel—the idea that in fact, just about anything was possible. If I could pass that test, me, the one who loathes all numbers not on my paycheck, knew anything was possible, and promised to never underestimate myself again.

And in that brief, sunny Tuesday afternoon, I was complete. I can’t say for sure what exactly happiness “is” but in that moment, I understood with the certainty of a zealot, my path was purely of my own making, and it was beyond blissful.

 Happiness—A Cruel Master

Yet, the cruelty of this is not lost on me, as some of the most painful and most definitely not happy moments (ahem, years) of my life were, as a result, dedicated to a field I loathed, because I passed that fucking test. One I didn’t even want to take, and until I admitted I didn’t like the idea of failure, one I wouldn’t have cared if I passed or failed if my paycheck hadn’t depended on it.

So, what did I learn? One of the happiest moments of my life, led to many of the most difficult, painful and disappointing. Was I wrong in thinking I was happy at that moment? Was I merely just satisfied I had achieved a standard set by someone else—someone I didn’t even know, not really a person at all, but a global corporation? Was it possible that, in part, my perceived joy on that day was attributed to the fact that, with this credential, I could fit in?

I could be like everyone else—even if I didn’t want to be.

And that’s what I did. I spent all of my twenties pursuing a career I hated, because a test told me I was “good enough” to fit into this little box that society had created. After all, I grew up in Montana, went to state school and didn’t really give a shit about designer handbags. I wasn’t an artist, I wasn’t a scientist and you’d have to break both my arms and legs before you’d convince me to go to business school (all that math, you know). How the hell could I ever expect this society to take me in? Where did I fit?

I didn’t, and I knew it—I was going to have to fake it, and this test was my golden ticket. And in that moment, after passing that terrible test, that childish part of me that still seeks the approval of my elders and friends, reveled in the proof that I was one of them.

That was the beginning of a very slippery slope. Rather than appreciating what was unique about me, I patted myself on the back for forcing myself to conform to a standard I knew didn’t apply to me, yet I strived for just the same.

On this happiest day, I celebrated the death of my creativity and curiosity, and welcomed what would turn into over a decade chasing an ideal that didn’t exist for me. I don’t know if I’ll ever catch up to this thing called happiness, but I do know that what satisfies me in life is not dependent upon it. I’ve considered this before, and after this exercise, I’m even more convinced. For me, what I get out of life isn’t about happiness, it’s about truth.

The instant I discarded what I knew to be true, and embraced what society seemed to value, I lost sight of what was true to me. Yes, that moment when I passed the test was a beautiful high—but like most highs, it didn’t last, and what I was left with was the hollow shell of an idea I didn’t truly believe.

I started out this post, expecting to tell you how we’re all capable of so much more than we give ourselves credit for, and that if someone who cringes when calculating the tip after dinner can pass the Series 7, the world is your oyster.

But I’m ending it with the conclusion that happiness can be a dangerous distraction—it certainly was in my case. Where would I be if I had failed that test? My fear of rejection still tempts me to believe my life would’ve been ruined, and that despite all the years of misery I suffered as a result of my “success”, it was just one of the many bumps in the road we’re all told we have to endure to get us where we really want to go. Obviously, there’s some truth in that, since, I am here, writing this now, but….

What if I’d failed, and been forced to take a different path? What if I’d listened to what I knew was true for me then, and as it turns out, still is now? How long would it have taken me to discover my love for writing, literature, travel, the ocean? Would I be traveling the world, writing beautiful stories about far-off places and people? Would I have found love, would I be healthy, would I have ever stopped loving the person I saw in the mirror every morning?

What if, what if, what if.

That’s the lesson happiness has taught me, and I’ll never trust that feeling again.

I couldn’t be happier.

© 2012, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

Fear has been a very important part in my life. It has always been the signpost that pushed me to move towards it.

Being a very shy and introverted person, it was expected that I had trouble interacting with people, resulting being very bad at the socializing skills. That’s why one of my biggest fears has always been to interact with people successfully.

The first time I faced my fear.

School and high school were pretty bad in terms of developing these socializing skills. Once you start being a certain way it’s very difficult to change form one day to the other, or from one school year to the next. So I was looking forward to start college to have a fresh start. New people, new life, new attitude. I wanted to put into practice being nice, talking to people, and making friends.

However, all my happiness went away on the first day of class, when I met my own particular nemesis from high school, one of the guys that used to make fun of me and my nervousness when I had to articulate a whole sentence in public.

For him I was “the mute”. And all I had wanted was to leave “the mute” times behind. Then, I felt that all the strength I had been collecting for that beginning in college just crumbled at my feet. I was sure he was gonna talk about me to the other classmates, and hence behaving differently from my usual shyness seemed then impossible.

The first semester was quite solitary, and frustrating again. I didn’t find the courage to talk to anybody.

And then the Christmas holidays arrived, and a class dinner was organized. I knew the place and the time but I hadn’t talked to anybody during the 3 months. I was like a ghost. How was I gonna make an appearance?

I debated for weeks, and couldn’t sleep. I was always picturing the worst case scenario: Entering the place with all the people staring at me in silence.

The evening came. I still didn’t know what to do. I was expecting stares and silence when I appeared, but I still knew that I had to do it if I wanted something to change. That was the opportunity. I was shit scared when I was walking towards the restaurant. But, then I arrived and yes, it wasn’t easy—the groups were already made and some environments are friendly than others, and lets say that my hometown is not the most open and welcoming and easy to make friends, it goes by connections, you don’t talk to strangers.

Anyway, the result? I met my friend, one that has become one of my best, and I had fun! The situation didn’t change that much but I had a couple of people I talked to. I made a couple of friends.

But the best outcome of all, was how I felt about myself. I felt proud of myself and somehow I got addicted to that feeling.

Since then, I recognize very well that when something scares me it’s something I must do. So I do it. Because I can’t bear the feeling of disappointing myself.

Since then:

- I was scared to go to England to work. It was my first job and the first time I left the country. I was scared to accept the offer, that’s why I accepted.

- I was scared to apply for that job with a high school in France, in case I was accepted and had to move there, and face a teenagers class. So I applied. I got the job. I moved there and I faced the class full of teenagers. And that was the one of the highlights in my life and the beginning of my teaching career.

- I was afraid of leaving my boyfriend in France and pursue my teaching career in Spain, because I couldn’t find any teaching jobs in France. So, I left France and improved my teaching experience while the relationship with my boyfriend went bust.

- I was petrified of leaving my comfortable teaching job in Spain and follow love. So, I followed love and had the time of my life.

- I was afraid of leaving a stable paycheck for being self-employed. Few months of reflection were enough to find the courage to leave that job and start scheming the next move towards being self-employed and free of the ties that living in a fixed place with a fixed job implied.

- I was scared to start traveling and lose a place to call home, so I booked a flight.

Now, do I have any fears? Yes, one and constant. I am afraid of not being strong enough to keep up with the way of life I want to have, so I keep moving out of my comfort zone because I know that even if is exhausting sometimes, the rewards are so satisfying that there is no chance for me to stop anymore.

Overcoming fear is so addictive!

Maria is a girl after my own heart—constantly looking inward, she’s relentless in her quest to better understand the life that surrounds her, including her own. Although she claims to fear much, I’ve rarely seen her give in to it, which is constant motivation for me, and I’m sure others as well. You can find Her Fearlessness on Twitter @DianadeBelflor, or if you’d like brush up on your Spanish, she’s a great teacher.

© 2012, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

This is Caroline’s second guest post on FearLess Jenn – you can check out her first post here. Clearly Caroline has been busy over the past year as well – and not surprisingly, still kicking ass—despite the fact her adventure didn’t come with a how-to guide.

There is no manual on how to become an entrepreneur, you have to write your own.

Each day is a blank page that you progressively fill with happiness, disappointment, joy, hard work, laughs, tears, hope, anger or love.  Some pages are easy to write, some aren’t. Some chapters are quickly put together, some aren’t. Some days are good ones, some aren’t.

It’s been one year that I’ve left my comfy job in England to try my luck as a shoe entrepreneur in my home country, and I wish someone would have written this manual.  I think employees don’t fully realize how working for someone else is safe and fairly simple, I certainly didn’t.

Back then, I never worried about getting paid, taking the wrong decision or if I would still have my job the next month. Now, I’m worried all the time because there is no certainty in anything. I wake up each morning hoping that this crazy dream I had one year ago is here to stay, I deeply wish that all the work I’ve done will pay off, I strongly nourish the thought of creating that life I’ve always wanted for myself.

But I have no guarantee.

That’s the big risk with jumping from the employee-cliff to the entrepreneur-dark hole; there is no guarantee of anything. You might make it out alive, or you might not. I’ve just launched my shoe collection for women with bunions, Caroline Macaron, and I still don’t know if I’m going to fly like a bird or hurt myself badly on the ground. Because you never know until you try everything possible to build you wings.

I’m scared, hell scared but I’m not looking back and I won’t. If the price to pay to feel alive is to hurt myself on the ground, then be it. I would rather feel some kind of pain than feeling nothing at all.

Don’t let fear keeping you away from being alive.

As if quitting her stable gig to pursue her dream of making shoes with her mother wasn’t cool enough, Caroline has also has a great website, The Story of Us with her partner in crime, Vikki.  The pair started the site to build a community and share the stories of people from all walks of life, and in all stages of their journeys.  Whether you’ve already made a change in your life, or are just thinking about it, check out their site….you just might find you have a story to share as well!

Follow her around on twitter @FrenchyCaroline and @CarolineMacaron

© 2012, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

The last weekend in May has always been an important benchmark for me. For many in the U.S. it marks the inauguration of summer, celebrated with barbeque and beer with friends and loved ones. This was a part of my tradition too, however, the spring and early summer also tended to be times of year when I became introspective–more so than usual. I’m not sure why, but every year, like clockwork, I go through a “phase”.

And that’s how the next chapter in my life began–367 days ago today.

Some of it you know the story, some of you don’t. So today, to commemorate surviving a tumultuous, agonizing and beautifully surprising year I’m going to share it with you.

But to really get where I’m coming from we have to go back a little longer.

Never For Money, Always For Love

That’s a line from one of my favorite Talking Heads songs. If you’ve ever visited my house, you’ll find a beaten up bit of paper with exactly that phrase scrawled across it, precariously perched on my bathroom sink. Stained from years of water and toothpaste splatter, I keep it there as a daily reminder. Because four years ago, I briefly forgot (or chose to ignore).

Four years ago, I took a job I knew was wrong for me. Even before my first day, I secretly hoped something would go wrong and the offer would fall through. But it didn’t, and after the second day, I knew I was screwed. I immediately started looking for another job, fully aware how terrible that would look to any prospective employer, but I didn’t care.

As if suddenly clairvoyant, I sensed danger and misery ahead. Unfortunately, I started at the inception of the recession, and finding another job turned out to be a fruitless search. So, I sucked it up as best I could.

It was awful. For the first two years, I dreaded waking up and going to work so powerfully, I spent most morning commutes in fear I’d yak all over my suit. Not the best way to start your day.

My drives home weren’t much better. I’d experience a minute or so of complete bliss as my hands pushed open the office door and I was free, only to realize the ending of this day, just meant I had to do it again tomorrow. The next 90-9,000 minutes were spent mired in the most miserable traffic in Northern California. All I could do was cry.

I’d made a horrible, horrible mistake.

I was fairly new on the dating scene, after breaking up with someone I’d spent the past eight years with, and my entire “life” in the Bay Area. My old office was filled with energetic twenty-somethings, among whom I was the mature, responsible one. That was fun. The new job, however, was filled with pretentious assholes with unbelievable egos. Of course, not everyone in the office was like that—there were a few individuals I truly liked, but for the most part, my days were spent either getting yelled at, or ignored. I had left my pretty sweet gig in San Francisco—one in which I had authority, and managed a team of 13 people and had my own budget—to a dark, isolated office where I was the only person under 35, single and not driving a car that cost more than my house.

Now, as someone with a history of depression, I should’ve known better–this was a pretty dangerous combo. Not surprisingly, I spent the next few years shutting down and detaching myself from anyone, or anything that reminded me of the life I left behind. That was the only way I knew how to survive—any glimpse of happiness, success or even everyday mundane tasks, conned me into thinking there was hope.

Of course, I knew better. Hope was gone for good. I fucked it all up, and now I had to pay the price—this was my fault.

Fast forward about three years to Memorial Day weekend. My friends (amazingly, I still had a few) had a tradition to all hang out that weekend for the past few years, and I had been mentally preparing for the next 72 hours of performing as a cheerful, successful and well-adjusted single woman in her early 30′s. Everybody knew I was miserable, but like I said, I was lucky anyone wanted to hang out with me, so I’d be doing my best to be fun and cheerful, no matter how much it pained me.

If you’ve ever had to pretend you’re something you’re not for any period of time, you know the special hell this is. By the end of the weekend I was completely drained, and absolutely desperate to go home and hide in bed.

My friends are amazing, and while those closest to me had some idea of what I was going through, none of them could really understand, and to this day I wonder if some of those friendships were irreparably damaged because they just couldn’t handle being supportive and understanding every single time they saw me. And I don’t blame them. I hated to be around me, so I can’t imagine what it was like for everyone else.

There was one friend however, that for whatever reason, could see from miles away how much I was suffering. If you’ve been reading a while, you’ll know him as my good friend, Kevin. Kevin hitched a ride home with me that weekend, and we got to talking—you can read that story here.

From that day forward, everything was different.

I teetered between joyful hope, and devastating defeat on a daily basis. I knew I needed to do something but I had no idea what, or how.

Kevin gave me a list of blogs he was reading at the time, and suggested I check them out. I agreed, but in my head was thinking, “I don’t need any of this fluffy, idealistic bullshit—from a 25 year old, no less.” So, I went home and sulked, and cried myself to sleep, too tired to confront my dread for the next day at work.

The next day, I spent the first few hours staring blankly at my screen, doing my best to pretend busy so no one would talk to me. I could feel tears welling in my eyes—I don’t know why—and I decided to give in. I would follow my friend’s advice and read through all the blogs he suggested.

Amber Rae

First on the list was Hey Amber Rae. When I first saw Amber’s tumblr, I immediately thought; awww, she’s so cute! And so positive! How nice for her. I want to throw up.

Not because I didn’t like what she was saying, but because I pretty much loathed anyone on the planet that I even suspected might be happy. It just wasn’t fair. I had 10 years on this girl. She should be reading about me.

Of course, it took me all of about 30 seconds to get over myself. I read through her posts and found myself smiling at the sentiment, connecting with all the little snapshots from her notebooks, and eventually, appreciating the optimism. Then, I saw a link to another site of hers, revolution.is. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, stop reading right now and check it out. This is a requirement–you need to understand where my head was at.

So, assuming you just read a story about some kick-ass person who’s beating the odds, making a difference or just doing her own thing and loving it, that alone is pretty inspiring. But what struck me that day, was that despite how vastly different each of these individuals were, they all had one thing in common—they weren’t afraid to find out who they really were.

I, however, was terrified.

I was also miserable. Whatever ego issues I had about gleaning any words of wisdom from this spunky girl completely dissolved when I read Dave Radparvar’s story. Dave is the co-founder of Holstee–a company I’d never heard of before that moment, and has been a part of every day of my life since. (If you’ve read the Holstee Manifesto, you know what I’m talking about. I have one copy on my fridge at home, and one prominently displayed by my desk at work.)

After reading the Holstee Manifesto for the first time, something clicked. I continued reading each revolution.is story with increasing urgency, certain that within these stories, my own would become clear. I struggled all day, poring through everything on Amber’s sites, waiting for my life to just magically change.

It didn’t.

Instead, something far better transpired. I was just about to give up, when I saw a link to something called “The Passion Experiment“. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. Amber was offering the opportunity to work with her one-on-one. It was as if Amber had sensed my anguish and suffering–my need to find some meaning, any meaning. I knew this wasn’t the life I was meant to be living, but from where I was standing, there was no way out.

I had no options, no mentors, no champions.

And here was Amber, a complete stranger, offering to help me find all those things, and more.

So, I applied. And I felt like a pathetic asshole the entire time.

As I wrote out my answers to the questions on the application, I was burdened with doubt, and fear. What was I doing? I have no clue what I’m looking for, why would someone as well-known as Amber Rae have any interest in talking to me? And besides, what the hell could some chick who doesn’t even know me, tell me about my life?

But, like I said, I was out of ideas so I clicked “send” and waited for the nausea to pass.

Exactly one week passed, and by then I assumed my application had been passed over, because, of course, in my mind it was uninteresting, or worse yet, ordinary.

My alarm went off at around 4:30 am and my daily dread for the workday set in. As is my custom, I reached for my phone to check my work email so I’d be prepared for whatever disaster was waiting for me. No work emails, that was a good sign.

But I did have one personal email. It was from Amber.

My heart sank, and I hesitated for a moment before opening what I expected to be a rejection letter. A canned response, thanking me for my application and essentially telling me “don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

That wasn’t what it said.

The next thing I knew, I was talking to Amber on Skype (my first Skype by the way). We connected immediately, and before I even knew what was happening I was telling her my life story. My defenses kept threatening to revolt and shut me down, yet something kept me talking. And she kept listening.

When she did speak, after all the surprisingly positive and non-nauseating things she had to say, there were two things she said that have stayed with me every day since.

First she told me how much she liked my writing. My writing? What?

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I’d always loved writing, sure, but never thought I was any good. Besides, after eight years with a “real” writer, who had a ridiculous vocabulary, and had memorized all every book ever written, I’d always assumed I’d never make it in that club. I never let even the possibility tempt my imagination.

And then, she said “writer” and something within me awoke. Although still plagued with doubt, and pretty certain nothing tangible would come of my work with her, I suddenly knew what I wanted to be doing. Right at that moment, I just felt it. I knew. Of course, knowing, at the time, was not nearly as powerful as self-doubt, and I immediately tried to stuff that hope back down into the depths of my subconscious, until it was safe for it to come out–if that ever happened. Of course, I could’ve tried the rest of my life and it wouldn’t have changed what had just happened. For the first time, I recognized something within myself that had potential.

The second thing she said to me, was that I was a beautiful girl. She said it with such sincerity–yet with confusion in her eyes. I didn’t know it then, but already, Amber could see who I was. Underneath all my fear, doubt and exhaustion there was a beautiful woman–inside and out. She could see it, but she could also recognize I couldn’t.

I didn’t believe either of her comments then, but I know them to be true now.

We worked together for several weeks, almost immediately focusing on my writing. I found myself enjoying every little assignment she gave me, and relished in writing every email. One day, I shared with her how an acting class in college had changed me, eventually setting me on a path that led me to San Francisco, and giving me the first glimpse of the confident woman that was hiding within. She loved it, and what she said next, was the catalyst that sparked a fire I doubt will ever be extinguished.

You are an incredible writer. Would you be comfortable sharing things like this online? The entire read I felt deeply moved and connected with your story. The climax, uncertainty, fear, and triumph at the end.

It was as if I was only waiting for permission. Despite my absolute and complete horror at the thought of anyone reading something I’d written, within 24 hours, my first blog was up.

After that, I was writing every day, and , and I soon knew I was ready. Ready for what, who knows? But I knew something had to happen. I couldn’t possibly continue on with my current job, something had to change.

And, once again, I felt I had no options. I couldn’t possibly quit my job. How would I survive? Suddenly, the honeymoon was over. It was ending up just like fear and doubt had assured me it would. The jig was up. It was good while it lasted.

Of course, Amber wasn’t about to let that happen. Despite the fact we were no longer technically working together, we were still in seemingly constant contact. And then, Amber started introducing me to people.

And that’s how I met Sean.

Sean Ogle

I had started reading Sean’s blog, Location 180 before Amber had mentioned him, and was impressed with him from the start. Sean’s story sounded pretty similar to mine, so I related to him immediately. When Amber mentioned he was a close friend, and suggested she should introduce us, I was beyond thrilled. Why? Well, for one thing, this is one of Sean’s mottos/resume:

Currently doing the stuff most people just talk about doing…

This guy was no joke. He’d done things I wouldn’t even allow myself to dream about. Yet, there he was, starting a business while oceans away from home. At a minimum, I’d hear about some great travel spots–even if my work would never allow me sufficient vacation time to visit them.

I was super nervous when we had our first chat–I knew he was only talking to me as a favor to Amber, and had no clue what I was going to say. But, much to my delight, Sean was engaging and supportive, while still maintaining a certain level of understanding of what it’s like being chained to a desk. He’d been there too. He understood where I was coming from, and what I would be giving up if I tried to turn my writing into a career.

His understanding was comforting, but what was most powerful about Sean was his refusal to accept excuses. Whether it was for himself, or others, Sean wholeheartedly believed (and still does) we have no excuses to not be living the life we desire.

There are only seven days in the week, and someday isn’t one of them. – Sean Ogle

So, although he could sympathize with my situation, he wasn’t there to coddle me–he was there to challenge me.

Sean soon joined Amber as a mentor. I couldn’t believe my luck. But Sean never saw it as luck. Like Amber, he saw something in me and wasn’t afraid help me show it. After chatting with him one day about the emotional roller coaster I’d been going through as I deliberated quitting my job, he suggested I write a post for his new venture, Location Rebel. As one of the inaugural members of Sean’s new community, I couldn’t have been more honored. People were going to read this. People I followed on Twitter, people I considered talented and inspiring. Reading something I wrote. For days, I was simply too excited to sleep. This was too good to be true.

He asked me to write about embracing fear, a topic with which I’d become intimately involved over the past several weeks. I’m not sure if he truly understood how much the opportunity meant to me. That post was my first published piece outside of my own little tumblr.

Published.

Oh, yeah, and there was one other tiny little side-effect. This blog.

Yep, this blog was inspired by and created as a result of writing that post for Sean and Location Rebel. As I contemplated how fear impacted my decisions, I realized how much it was impacting my entire life. Not long after that, a list emerged of all the things I’m afraid to do, and about 24 hours before the article went up, FearLess Jenn was born.

Same Same But Different

Several years ago, I visited Thailand. My first trip completely solo, and my first trip as a single woman. I was terrified, but excited. I knew it would be one of those experiences that would suck at the time, but I’d look back on fondly later on. Which is pretty much how it went.

One of the phrases I heard often by the locals (usually around tourists) was “Same, same, but different”. I thought it cute, and endearing but didn’t really give it much thought.

But after meeting Sean and Amber, I started to get it–or at least, I had my own interpretation of it.

I was the same person. My genetic makeup hadn’t changed, my personality was the same, and all my victories and vices remained uniquely mine. But something was different. I realized it the first time I saw one of my close friends for dinner, not long after I started working with Amber and Sean. I was struggling, my writing felt like it wasn’t going well, and I still didn’t know what I was going to do about my job.

In other words, I felt like dogshit.

And my friend, upon seeing me in this shitty state, simply beamed. Jenn! You look great! You’re actually glowing!

Huh? How is that even possible. But there it was, and who am I to argue with my closest friends. I was the same, which was great. But, I was also different, which was fucking incredible.

My Muse

If either Amber or Sean ever had any doubt about what I would do with the guidance and support they so willing shared, I was over the moon excited to show them. In November of last year, you may recall my drooling account of my very first article for The Daily Muse.

In case you didn’t read it, let me sum it up for you: I’m a fucking writer now. A WRITER.

Wri-ter. Me.

When I think of all the heartburn and preparation for rejection I made before I contacted TDM to apply as a writer–well, it still conjures up a lot of uncertainty. But here’s the thing: At the time I first reached out to them, I actually had proof I could write. Of course, that didn’t make it any easier for me when I met the Managing Editor over beers one afternoon. I’m surprised I could even form a coherent sentence, let alone convince her to give me a chance.

Which, by the way, she totally did. We’re also great friends now, imagine that.

Now, I write every, single day. Every day. I recall maybe a day or two here and there where extenuating circumstances prevented me from putting pen to paper, but they were always for good causes, eventually serving as fantastic inspiration for some story either already told, or in the works. I went from sheepishly launching a tumblr under a pseudonym so no one could possibly ever read my work, to having a bi-weekly column for an online magazine that grows in popularity every day (because it kicks-ass, trust me). Oh, and some of those articles? They’ve been published other places…like this little outfit called Forbes. Have you heard of them? How about The Huffington Post?

I still have to pinch myself every time I see them go up. How did this happen? Well, by now it should be obvious. Yes, I love to write, and I’m practicing every day to improve. But without the people in my life who saw something in me I couldn’t at the time, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

Writing this post was difficult. Not because it was hard saying any of the things I’ve shared, but because I was so worried I wouldn’t say enough. Or the people I mention won’t like what I wrote. Or the scores of other people who have been instrumental in my metamorphosis will feel left out that they weren’t mentioned.

I’ve been worrying about this for a long, long time.

And then I hit the one year mark, and realized I needed to live up to my new identity as “FearLess Jenn” and just fucking say what’s on my mind.

This, of course, is just the beginning, and I can’t wait to share even more stories about all the wonderful people who’ve inspired, motivated and supported me—you know who you are. The mere fact that your eyeballs are reading these words is proof you have been a crucial factor in encouraging me to pursue my purpose. No matter how frightening it may be.

So thank you Amber.

Thank you Sean.

Thank you Daily Muse.

And thank you.

Much love,

Jenn

© 2012, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

This past weekend, something really big happened. Epic.

I fell in love—again.

For the first time in years, I felt that giddy warmth and comfort that only comes from knowing, and trusting someone for a long time. I liked everything about this person—eyes, hair, shape, flaws and all.

This was someone I could truly imagine spending the rest of my life with. It was almost too good to be true.

There were moments when I doubted myself, and my fear of being hurt or disappointed nagged at my thoughts whenever I caught myself smiling “too much”. But I persisted. This just felt too damn nice to let my insecurities win. What if this was a once in a lifetime opportunity? What if I’m never in this exact spot again? (Which a friend recently reminded me, I wouldn’t be—a moment is gone forever once it’s passed.)

Suddenly, all my plans and hopes and dreams were possible. Go to Paris? Why wait? Morocco, Tanzania, London? Absofuckinglutely. My heart swelled with joy, as I visualized the life I’ve always wanted, unfolding bit by bit, my beloved blazing the path.

Love really is the best drug, and I don’t know how I’ve abstained from it so long.

I also realized, no one else has to love this person but me. It didn’t matter where this person fell on my friends or families’ scale of attractiveness. It didn’t matter what my parents thought. I loved this person, and that wasn’t just enough—it was everything.

All my life I’ve found plenty of happiness in doing for others, and I’m sure I’ll continue to do so—but I neglected to understand how important it was to focus my energy on this one person first, before anyone, or anything else.

As Monday evening rolled around, and the holiday weekend drew to a close, I briefly worried this was just a fling. What will happen tomorrow morning? Will I feel the same? What should I do to make sure this feeling doesn’t wane?

I sat, perched on my back porch, and could feel the sun’s heat ease as the sky turned a beautiful mess of pinks and oranges and blues. I gazed down at the hand resting on my knee, and marveled at it’s simple, perfect beauty. Each finger, knuckle and even a wrinkle or two, held a lifetime of stories, and I loved them all. Scars and scrapes only enhanced its appearance—to me it was the perfect hand. And it was connected to a person I could finally love…

Me.

© 2012, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

c.1981, photo by Mark Hanauer

Pain doesn’t make anything, nor does poverty. The artist is there first. What becomes of him depends upon his luck. If his luck is good (worldly-speaking) he becomes a bad artist. If his luck is bad, he becomes a good one.

~ Charles Bukowski

When I hear people talk about writing and literature, I get the sense everyone fell in love with the craft at early ages. I imagine noses buried deep within the valleys of Narnia, or strolling the gardens of London with Jane Austen as their guide. I imagine a lifetime of beautiful memories, building up—saving up—to amass a literary feast, from which they’d turn to in times of joyful solitude, sorrow or just plain boredom.

Literature was this behemoth institution, that legions of humanity would turn to as their trusted companions until the end of time.

This is not something one just “decides” to be a part of one day. No, literature—writing—is a sacred craft. A gift.

Or is it?

I read as a child, and I did my homework in high school, but I have no memories of sequestering myself to a cozy corner all afternoon to read The Lord of the Rings. I was a late bloomer. I didn’t read Tolkien until I was in my early twenties. Then, Nabokov, then Orwell, then Dostoyevsky….you get the idea.

Maybe my late-onset love of literature explains why I’m so intimidated by it.

That intimidation constantly holds me back. It tells me I’ll never be able to write like Charles Bukowski—who’s one of my favorite authors—and any attempt to do so, would be pointless. Yet, it’s Bukowski himself, or rather, his words, that refuse to let me quit.

I follow Bukowski Quotes on Twitter (@bukquotes) who tweets a quote from Buk every day. Sometimes I catch it, and other days not, but when I do, I feel this need to write. To keep trying.

To say fuck it, and do it anyway. My way.

Bukowski wasn’t perfect, and he certainly wasn’t shy in admitting it. In fact, it’s that intimacy that inspires me most. This whiskey-infused, dirty old man, could describe the ecstasy and torment of love, the clever grace of a cat or the dark corners of a lonely soul, in a way that makes my skin tingle, heart race and tears streak down my cheeks.

I’m intimidated because I respect the art. Most of my life I’ve held writers on such a high pedestal, I’d forgotten what drew me to them in the first place: their humanity, their vulnerability, and their flaws. All of it. The very traits I cited as reasons preventing me from aspiring to such heights, were those drew me to them in the first place.

Literature isn’t an institution. It’s not a club of whom only the literati are invited to join.

It’s something to which anyone can reveal the artist within.

People like Bukowski, and me.

© 2012, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

I see a lot of lists cropping up this time of year.  I’ve been known to jot down a list or two myself, but typically I’ve avoided doing year-end summaries or resolutions for the new year.  Partially because – let’s be honest – I hadn’t done anything all that list-worthy in the previous year, and I didn’t really believe I’d accomplish much in the year ahead.

A bit glum, I realize, but I’m being honest.

But this year, fuck it.  I’m making a list.  This year has been one of the best and most difficult of my entire life, and it seemed appropriate to close the year by sharing with you (and reminding myself) what one can accomplish.

It’s easy for me to remember what happened during a particular year, as my birthday is on December 31st.  Each year starts off with a clean slate. A new year of my life begins, right along with the rest of the Gregorian calendar.

On the first day of 2011 I was wandering through the freshly fallen snow on the streets of Tahoma in Tahoe, not completely sure I actually knew where I was staying, let alone how to find my way back. Yet, I was completely fine with being lost.  I needed to get lost.  The road I’d been struggling down was leading nowhere, and I knew it.  Something had to give.  I just didn’t know what, or how.

Looking back on this year, I’m surprised with how telling that first day of the year actually was. I had been searching for deeper meaning in my life for several years, but hadn’t made the requisite changes and sacrifices to make any real difference. I just continued to wander down the same path, hoping by some magical coincidence, my life would change.

I spent much of the year frustrated, depressed and filled with an ever increasing sense of desperation for something to change.

I was unhappy in my job, and intellectually uninspired. I thought about trying something new, but always arrived at the same conclusion – I’d been in one industry for over 13 years and had long since passed the point of no return. I was stuck.

This belief resulted in the overall dulling of my senses, and had convinced me that I was never going to do anything else, and essentially my life would never get any better. All those lists I had made in years past were meaningless.

Each day at work became more and more painful, the hours dragging on for what seemed like eternity. Then, something changed.

I’d had several interviews for other jobs early in the year, all of them with reputable firms that would have paid me well, and surely would’ve improved my quality of life. Yet, I felt no excitement for these interviews, and found myself dragging my feet at every step. I winged every conversation, not fully realizing why. It wasn’t until I heard myself telling an interviewer:

Thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me, but I’m not sure I’m the right fit for this role. Good luck on your search though!

I hung up the phone, trying to understand what I’d just done. Based on my resume, I was a perfect fit for the role, so why would I torpedo the interview? It all made perfect sense. My resume reflected where I worked, but not who I was. Deep down, I didn’t want my life to be best described via my resume.  I wanted something more. Of course, I had no idea what that was. Yet.

It took a good friend challenging me to take responsibility for my situation and unhappiness to snap me out of my dullness and take action.

That was on May 30, 2011. Here’s what has happened between then and now:

1.  I re-discovered my love for writing
2.  I started my first blog so I could get over my fear of sharing my work with others
3.  I quit my job (or I tried to anyway, more on that later)
4.  I was asked to write my first ever guest post/article
5.  I started my second blog, FearLess Jenn (you are here)
6.  I gave my first interview
7.  I took risks with my writing, and shared things I would’ve never dreamed of revealing only a few months earlier
8.  I made my first ever pitch for a series of articles, and ended up with my own column for online magazine, The Daily Muse
9.  I saw my name in the byline for the first time
10.  I started to try writing fiction (I’ve always wanted to write fiction)
11.  An author who’s work I really like followed me on G+ and Twitter (seriously, that was a big deal to me)
11.  Two of my articles for The Daily Muse were re-published by Forbes (here and here), and one by The Huffington Post
12.  I have my first interview for a part-time writing job – tomorrow!!

These things may mean something to you or maybe they don’t. The beauty of it though, is that they mean everything to me.

Before writing this post, I dug out my bucket list.  I knew I had set a deadline of my 35th birthday which will be here in just a few days, and knew I hadn’t achieved everything on that list. But, what I didn’t realize until reviewing this past year, was that my old bucket list didn’t really reflect who I was.  Rather, it was more of a representation of all the things I thought I “should” do by a certain age.

Most of the items on my list are still things I’d like to do, but none of them had anything to do with my fulfillment on a more personal level.  What I found even more interesting, was the fact that writing was nowhere on my list.  Isn’t that strange?  The one thing in many years that has truly challenged me and makes me happy, is something I’d never even considered a part of what my life would look like.

I was a little surprised that I’d been so detached in making that list – buy a house, go to Italy, go to grad school – all perfectly wonderful goals for someone else, but on my deathbed, I sincerely doubt I’ll be regretting not going to grad school, or feel accomplished because I bought a home.  These were not the types of things I’d truly regret not having done, but I chalked it up to my being young when I made the list.  Still, I was disappointed I’d never revised my goals in all these years.

Then, for some reason I thought to turn the page over – which didn’t make much sense given I’d titled the list “10 Things To Do Before I’m 35” and the last item on the list was clearly marked #10. But something told me there was more and sure enough, there it was – three additional items tacked on, and quite possibly the only real bucket items I needed.

11.  Love myself
12.  Let love find me
13.  Be confident in life

I don’t remember adding these, or what inspired me to do so, but I think it’s no small coincidence that once I actually started to achieve these three things, the universe seemed to be on my side.  All of the wonderful milestones I’ve had in the past seven months, big or small, were a direct result of me letting go of the idea of who I “should” be, and paying attention to who I really am.

According to the Chinese Zodiac, 2012 is the Year of the Dragon, which also happens to be same sign under which I was born.

I find astrology interesting and fun, but never really felt they applied to me.  Then I read this description of a Dragon personality:

Dragons are the free spirits of the Zodiac. Conformation is a Dragon’s curse. Rules and regulations are made for other people. Restrictions blow out the creative spark that is ready to flame into life. Dragons must be free and uninhibited.

I couldn’t agree more, and I have a feeling 2012 is just the year to let my inner dragon spread its wings.

© 2011 – 2012, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

It sounds silly to say I’m afraid to be afraid, but sometimes that’s the only way to explain it.  Admitting you’re afraid of something can feel like defeat.  A weakness.  A chink in your armor.

As a woman, living in an urban environment, I love that I’m often not afraid of my surroundings.  My first few years in California were spent in San Francisco, and I was proud I felt comfortable virtually anywhere in the city, frequenting some of the more sketchy neighborhoods before they were filled with hipsters and still grimy.  Although I now lovingly call the East Bay my home, I still feel that confidence when I pay a visit to the other side of the Bay.

So, when a good friend invited me to an event he was hosting in the heart of the Tenderloin (one of San Francisco’s notoriously “bad” neighborhoods), I didn’t blink an eye.  “Of course I’ll be there!”  I was excited to see my friend and support his cause, and was admittedly excited to dust off my street savvy.

As it tuned out, my savvy appeared a bit, ahem…rusty.

Actually, no.  I take that back.  It’s not that I’m less savvy.  In fact, I think I’m smarter and more aware than I was the last time I’d traipsed down the sticky streets of San Francisco’s underbelly.

No.  The city had changed.  While throngs of shoppers filled the bright and shiny San Francisco Shopping Center – recession be damned – a mere three blocks away, crack addicts and pimps were busy making their transactions as well.

I’d seen all this before.  Nothing new, just part of living in a “big” city.  Right?

If this was so normal, why did I feel like such an intruder?  True, I no longer called San Francisco my home but I’ll always feel like San Francisco is still “mine” in some small way.

But that night, nothing about those streets felt nostalgic.  I could no longer affectionately claim this section of the city as mine – and I don’t think anyone else could either.  Resident or not.

There was a sickly stench of desperation that fogged the streets as I carefully paced my steps.  Breezing past shadows lurking in doorways, yet avoiding the mistake of moving too quickly and risk appearing fearful and out of place.

Of which I was both.

The short walk from the parking garage to my destination quickly morphed into a much longer, more frightening journey.  While my pride in my city insisted I walk slowly and calmly with my headphones still hanging in my ears, my sense of self-preservation forced me to slide my iPhone into my bag.  The instant my hands demanded the warmth of my pockets, suspicion and fear reminded me I needed my hands free.  I stopped short of balling my keys into my fist as a weapon, lest I be branded as a tourist.

When I saw the warm glow from inside the shiny glass doors of my destination I thought my journey had ended.  I was safe.  I was greeted with smiles, and hand shakes and friendly faces inside, but my comfort lasted only a moment.

After I sat down and tried my best to participate in the discussion, all my senses were screaming at me to turn around.  Our backs were to the door – fully exposed the to the wild and terrifying world waiting on the other side of those glass doors.  The entire evening, I resisted the urge to jump at every sound – fully expecting a mob of monsters to rush through the door at any moment to devour us all.

And then I remembered I still had to walk back to my car.

I was too embarrassed to call a cab, or ask someone to walk me at least a few blocks to a busier street.  So, instead, I left a little early, hoping to avoid the melee that fear had assured me would occur if I stayed even one minute longer.

I smiled brightly as I left, hoping not to betray my true horror as I stepped out of the well-lit, warm safety of that room into the dark unknown.

This time, I left my pride far behind and walked briskly down the street.  Hands free, hair pulled back and donning my best “don’t fuck with me” face.

None of it mattered.  The hungry, lonely and desperate eyes could see right through my imaginary armor.

A mob of people seemed to materialize out of nowhere, forcing me to cleave right through a contorted mess of undulating bodies, trash, smoke of too many kinds to mention, one groping hand and more than a few unseemly comments from the sidewalk’s occupants.

I could see the light of Market Street just ahead, but it gave me no comfort.  These streets were invisible to the outside world.  I had no doubt, a scream for help would be swallowed whole by the sorrow and desperation that blanketed this still barely-beating heart of San Francisco.

When I finally did emerge from the darkness of the Tenderloin, I was not overcome with relief.  As I walked by the squeaky clean windows of the shopping center, I felt no comfort, no peace.

Instead, I felt ashamed and incredibly sad.

Ashamed because I have the luxury of escaping the horror of those streets.  I have the privilege of a job, health insurance, friends and family.  All I did was walk a few blocks down a dirty street and observe a scene that was no doubt a PG version of what was going on behind those darkened doorways.  I had briefly walked between two worlds, and although I felt sympathy for those that inhabited one, I was in no hurry save anyone but myself to get back to the other.

I haven’t been truly afraid – as in afraid for my life – for a very, very long time.  I thought about my little list of fears on this site, and all the things I’ve been so “afraid” to do, and damn if that didn’t put shit into perspective.

The experience reminded me that fear has a purpose.  In this case, it reminded me how fortunate my life has been, and more importantly, I need to do more to contribute to my community.

It sucks that I was afraid to walk down the streets of “my” city – but it’s far, far more terrifying that some people actually live in places like this.

I never thought volunteering was something I was afraid to do, but given how rarely I do it, and after this experience, I have to admit, I might be a little scared to get my hands dirty.

What about you?  Do you have parts of your community you’re scared to set foot in?  How have you used that fear to motivate you – or, how has that fear prevented you from taking action, and what would it take to get you involved?

© 2011 – 2012, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

Yesterday was my authorial debut.

I don’t think I’ve slept more than three consecutive hours per night since I found out this was happening.  The whole experience has been a bit surreal.

Somewhere out there on the Internet, for all to see, is a column, that says “By Jennifer Winter”.  It even has my picture!  In other words, it’s totally legit….I swear, I’m not making this up.

Like I said, surreal.

I’ve always had mixed emotions associated with the idea of seeing my name in print.  When I was younger, I was briefly interviewed by the local newspaper while attending a local basketball camp at The University of Montana.  I think they quoted maybe two or three words, which I’m pretty sure weren’t incredibly insightful…something along the lines of, “I really like basketball” or “Coach Selvig is nice”.  Hey, I was 14, gimme a break.

But when the paper finally came and I saw my name in faded black ink that smudged to the touch, something stirred with joy deep in my heart.  I hadn’t actually done anything and certainly didn’t say anything all that interesting, but suddenly, I felt as if I had a forum.  To me, at that moment, the entire paper was the avenue to which my words could reach everyone in my hometown, the entire state of Montana…hell, maybe even the whole world!

And then, the gravity of that realization hit me – hard. I immediately understood the power and weight of words and felt a deep sense of respect for those that wrote them, mixed with an incredible fear for uttering the wrong ones myself.  My feelings of pride and celebrity for being merely named in an article, spiraled into anxiety and paranoia when I fully understood my mediocre words were on display for anyone to see.

Now that I think about it, this might be where some of my writing stage-fright originated.  A few silly words in a newspaper that few (if any) could read today.

Fast forward 20 years, to the debut of my very first column.  In an online magazine.  Which is, you know, online.  For the ENTIRE PLANET to see whenever they want, probably for the rest of my life.

When I woke up that morning, dizzy from the precious few hours of sleep I did manage, my first thought was…dear god, what have I done??  This wasn’t a small town newspaper that would eventually be reduced and recycled into toilet paper or filler for packing boxes.  What I wrote would actually be read, and probably by a much wider audience than that paper way back in the early 90’s.  What the hell was I thinking??

Now EVERYONE would know if it turned out I was a shitty writer.  What if no one likes my style…what if no one even bothers to read it? What if, what if, what if….

Dizzy.

The freakout ensued all morning and I secretly began to hope the column would be pulled while simultaneously feeling deathly afraid of that same scenario.

Deep down, I knew this was happening.  Despite a million little voices in my head spreading doubt and fear, trying to convince me I wasn’t good enough, and who was I to think they’d actually put that garbage on their perfectly respectable, and well-read site…underneath all that noise, I just knew.

I mean, I have an editor.  Me.  An EDITOR…to edit my writing.  A good friend gently reminded me of this fact mid-freakout, and in that moment, everything became real.

Whether I was going to be a one hit wonder, overnight success or (please, please, no) just moderately tolerated, my name was about to be “in print”, ready or not.

And then, it happened.

I refreshed my browser for the 78th time, and magically, there it was.  My very first piece in an online publication – not just an article, but my own fucking COLUMN.

I didn’t know what to do.  I sat for a moment at my desk at work, and just stared at the screen.  I couldn’t even focus my eyes enough to read through the piece.  I just stared.

There was my name up at the top, right next to a tiny picture of me, all lined up nicely with the title of my column.

More staring.

After about five whole minutes (which is an ETERNITY in Internet time…and feels even longer in cubical time) I started to get excited, and it occurred to me I should share this great news with my friends.

I started emailing and messaging, still slightly worried my announcement would fall on deaf, uninterested ears, but I was past the point of no return now.  I was too excited to keep this to myself.

When one of my friends asked me how I felt, I paused for a moment to reflect.  I wasn’t really sure. “Oh, I don’t know, pretty good, I guess” I dodged.  She didn’t let me off that easily,  “C’mon, how do  you feel, right now?” she pressed.

Here’s what I said:

I kindof want to throw up…but in a good way.

I’m more proud of myself at this moment, than I have been in YEARS.

I feel like I just won a race at a track meet back in 8th grade.

That pretty much sums it up.

I’m proud and excited and I want to throw up.

But in a good way.

P.S. What’s that you say?  You want to read the article??  I’d be honored

I’ll be popping up on The Daily Muse every other Tuesday in my column Skirts & Suits (this is the inaugural post).

© 2011 – 2012, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

It was a beautiful fall afternoon.  The leaves were changing, the sky was a crisp blue, and a in a few short hours, monsters and zombies would be walking the streets.

It’s my favorite time of year.  At least, it used to be.

I love horror movies, I love a great ghost story and I love to be surprised.  But it’s not the same anymore.  Not since the last time I was really, truly in love.

This year, along with the last few, Halloween was a bittersweet reminder that love does not actually conquer all, and those lucky enough to be in love right now, might not find themselves such in a matter of years.

As I zipped through the fallen foliage, I realized I had become one of those women.

You know the type.

They casually strut their single status at just the right moments, when their coupled friends are wishing they were unattached (even if just for a moment).  They take pride in their independence, and find strength in the fact they can make a decision whenever they want.  All the while not so subtly implying all the committed people in the universe have it wrong, and it is they, in fact who are losing out.

When did this happen?  When did I loose my connection to the one thing I have ever fully and truly believed in?

When did I lose my faith in love?

When I think about the concept of love, I still romanticize the idea.  I still daydream about some special guy, reaching across a table at a crowded restaurant and holding my face in his hands, simply gazing into my eyes and smiling.

That’s it.  That’s all I really need(ed).  Don’t get me wrong, I’ll never say no to flowers or a surprise dinner or weekend away, but….

When the lights go out I need to know the person on the other side of the bed knows what my face looks like in the dark.  I need to know he can imagine the shape of my nose, the feel of my earlobe between his fingers, the lingering scent of a perfume that is uniquely mine.

The last time I felt that way it was nearly a decade ago, and the power of that intimacy haunts me still.  The idea that emotions of that intensity and depth are possible, while at one time felt like stupendous bliss, now feels like a infection.  A disease.

I can’t escape the nagging feeling that love is actually real, yet at the same time I am overcome by the knowledge that nothing lasts forever.

I am torn between two worlds.

I suppose it’s only appropriate I have an affinity for horror movies.  It makes sense.  The full range of human emotions are often on display.  From childish fears to supernatural phenomenons – the characters, and the viewers experience it all.  We endure the psychotic, hypnotic course of life, death, love and hate, and completely and fully connect with one another in the process.

And after 118 minutes, the ride is over.

The screen goes blank, we get up from our seats.  Whatever sense of another we may have had, vanishes behind scrolling credits and sinister background music.

And when I cautiously crawl into bed, I know whoever I was hoping would recognize me in the shadows is just a myth.

Just another scary story, whispered around an autumn campfire, frightening unsuspecting twenty-somethings into the arms of a love that may never last.

What reminds you of love lost, or longed for?

© 2011 – 2012, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

I love Friday afternoons.  With the work week ending, I always look forward to the two and a half days I have to myself, to do anything my heart desires.

This past Friday, the weather was beautiful and I’d just finished having a happy-hour cocktail with colleagues from work.

I smiled as I unlocked my car and put the top down – it was definitely a convertible day.  I flipped through a stack of scratched cds and found the right groove for my mood, hit play and pulled out of my spot to wind my way down out of the parking structure.

The first few minutes of my drive home are always the best.  It represents this beautiful moment in time, where something I had been waiting for had finally arrived and unlimited possibilities awaited me in the future.  Ideas rush through my head, things to do around the house, things to write, and plans to meet up with friends.  I love this part of my commute.

Unfortunately, it only lasts about three minutes, since that’s all it takes before I’m stuck in traffic for the next hour, at least (if I’m lucky).

With the first slam of the brakes and honk of a horn, the sparkle in my eye fades, and I come back to my reality.

My reality is that, no matter how inspiring those first few minutes of the weekend may be, in the end, I will be alone.

Everyone has their own preference as to how much social time and how much alone time they need, and from what I hear from those people, it works out great when they can keep that balance.  I, however, do not have such a balance.

I spend way too much time alone.

Lots of people are afraid of being alone for all sorts of completely understandable reasons, but what I’m scared of is not the actual being alone part, rather, the reasons why I choose to be alone.

I know, it doesn’t really make much sense.  I crave interaction with others, I love my friends and family and I get such a kick out of people-watching and just wandering around.  But I almost never actually do it.  Why is that?

For the past several weekends I’ve really thought about this.  Every Friday I go through the same routine, and every weekend I still go through the same motions.  Every minute, wanting, wishing, I would just step outside the house or call a friend.

For those of you who have been following the site, you know I’m working on my self esteem, and I have no doubt this plays a huge role in keeping me solo most of the time, but I don’t think that’s all of it.

My theory is that, over the past few years it has become easier for me to be alone than to be with someone.  After ending an eight year relationship a few years back, I have taught myself to be self-sufficient, and have convinced myself I don’t “need” anyone else.  When I’m alone, I can do what I want.  I can stay up all night watching Dr. Who re-runs, or spend the day hopelessly trying to teach myself how to knit (or maybe it was crochet).  If I wanted to read in a corner, or re-arrange my bedroom, I could just do it.  I didn’t need permission, and I didn’t need to consider anyone else’s feelings.  I could be every bit as selfish as I wanted to, and no one else would know the difference.

But this weekend, when I tossed yet another dirty dish in my sink and didn’t think twice about doing the dishes (because who would know?) I realized I needed to re-assess my comfort level with being alone.

Before, I just told myself I liked my independence, and it was healthy for a young woman to be able to take care of herself.  While that’s all well and good, I now realize it was just a cover.

I think, I choose to be alone because I’m so terrified I’ll always be alone.

Wait, what?  Ok, let me explain.

A few years ago, I was recently single and was enjoying my newfound independence.  I met up with friends often, and was dating pretty regularly.  On the surface I felt like I had a lot of people in my life, and that made me really happy.

One weekend, I decided to hang out on my own and do some work around the house.  I hauled out my circular saw, a giant ladder and a few other DIY implements and gleefully began to “improve” my house.

At one point over the weekend, I was perched at the top of my not-quite level aluminum extension ladder, a beer held tightly in one hand, a few screws in my mouth and wielding an electric drill in my other hand, it occurred to me I might be acting a bit…ahem…unsafe.

So, naturally I cradled the drill under my arm while I took the screws out of my mouth and placed them in my pocket.

Much safer.

As I moved to re-position the drill back into my hand I lost my balance and my foot slid off the rung of the ladder (apparently flip flops are not OSHA approved for scaling ladders).

While my feet and legs smacked against the rungs as I violently slid down and off the ladder, I looked down to see the shark infested waters below.  At my feet was my circular saw, numerous screw drivers, nails, screws and a really big, sharp rock.

This might be bad, I thought.

I had no urge to call out for help, or even to cry out in fear or pain.  No one would hear me.  I knew when I landed, whatever happened, I was on my own.

I finally smacked down on the concrete, narrowly missing a handful of deadly objects.  Shaken, and a bit bruised, but otherwise fine, I looked back up at my ladder and began to sob uncontrollably.

I wasn’t hurt, but I was scared.  In the few moments it took me to slide off that ladder and face a potentially dangerous fall, one realization washed over me.  It would be days before anyone even suspected something was up.  Days.

As I sat on the warm concrete of my patio, surrounded by tools and the remains of my shattered beer bottle, I truly understood what it meant to be alone.

But the realization that I was completely alone didn’t scare me, instead it made me completely and devastatingly sad.

Ever since then, I’ve had the somewhat morbid thought that something will happen to me one weekend, and no one would ever know.  At least, not until I didn’t show up for work…you know, at the job I loathe?  What kind of a way is that to go?

Not long after that incident I started to become a bit of a recluse, which on the surface seems exactly the opposite of what I would expect someone to do in this situation.  How does isolating myself protect me from loneliness (and a gruesome encounter with power tools)?

Until recently, I just assumed my solitary confinement was inflicted because I had grown too self conscious to be around other people.  But after this past weekend I realized that wasn’t really it.

As I described earlier, every Friday I run through the same routine, only to accept the fact that I will spend my weekend alone, left to my own devices (although far away from ladders).  I’ve now grown comfortable with my loneliness, and never really expect to interact with too many people, excluding the folks in line at the grocery store.

This past Sunday evening, it occurred to me I hadn’t spoken one single word out loud the entire weekend.  I’d had a few electronic conversations, but no actual, real life human contact.  And I was totally fine with that!  Even I had to admit, that’s a little fucked up.

I realized with horror, that I had already accepted that I was going to spend the better part of the rest of my life alone.  By hiding out, I was desensitizing myself to the kind of isolation most people would find unbearably depressing.  I was actively choosing this life, because I didn’t believe it would ever be any different.  I’ve been saving myself from the inevitable withdrawals that come from getting used to having someone around, then watching them go.

Of course I’m scared I’ll end up alone, we all are.  But what really terrifies me is that I seemed to have accepted a fate that has yet to be written, and is far from certain.

© 2011 – 2012, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

Caroline

Caroline’s story naturally resonated with me – she too was unhappy with the direction her career was going, and took the brave steps to change her future.  Check out how she conquered her fear of quitting a stable job to follow her dream.

Fear #1 – Quitting my job in England to make shoes in France

I remember my first day as Marketing Executive in a translation company located in the north of London.  I was excited and proud. I just landed my first real job, not something where I would see customers all day, where it would involve some cleaning or where I would have to stand up constantly.

In this one, I would get some responsibilities, challenges, brainstormings, discoveries, interesting tasks and a pretty sweet salary (without forgetting the nice desk), I couldn’t have been happier!

Only few months later and the passion was completely gone.  I looked at my colleague sitting next to me and I remember wishing not to end up like him; trapped in a gold prison where I would do the exact same thing each day.  Where I would make the same dreams at night and where I would believe that I still had the time to realize them.

I knew that if I didn’t run away, I would become him.

So I ran.

I’m now back in France and starting a shoe business with my mum.  Do I know how to make real shoes? Not really. Do I think this project will allow me to sustain myself? Hopefully.  Was I scared when I took the decision to leave everything?  Hell yes.  Am I feeling alive and happy?  More than ever.

Don’t let fear make the choices for you.

As if quitting her stable gig to pursue her dream of making shoes with her mother wasn’t cool enough, Caroline has also just launched a new website, The Story of Us with her partner in crime, Vikki.  The pair started the site to build a community and share the stories of people from all walks of life, and in all stages of their journeys.  Whether you’ve already made a change in your life, or are just thinking about it, check out their site….you just might find you have a story to share as well!

Keep an eye on Caroline…I have a feeling we’ll be hearing more from her.  I for one can’t wait to see that first pair of shoes (I’m a 7.5 U.S. in case you were wondering Caroline)!

© 2011 – 2012, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

All weekend I tried to write.  Actually, every weekend I try to write.  Sometimes I get something down, but most of the time, nada.

This terrifies me.

If I’m going to somehow make a life for myself that involves writing, shouldn’t I be able to do it all the time?  Shouldn’t I be overcome with inspiration and motivation to work at every possible moment?  Does this hesitation and lack of ambition mean I’m on the wrong path?

For two full days I sat and stared at this screen, words refusing to come together in a meaningful fashion.  I tried everything.  I went for a walk, I tried to meditate – I even braved weekend traffic to head to the beach.  No matter what I wrote, they were just words.  They held no meaning, expressed no emotion.

For two full days I was not a writer. Maybe I never was.

For someone who has quit her corporate gig to pursue a “passion” for writing, I seemed to be in little supply of the stuff.

I often feel like I made a mistake.  Like I’m not supposed to do this.  Yet, here I am, writing this post.  It’s not going to win any awards, but I wrote something, and I think that counts.

Writing and posting pretty much anything scares me, but not writing scares me even more.

To be continued….

© 2011 – 2012, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

The first blog I started was mostly an experiment.  My writing had always been something I kept private and even with the blog, I didn’t think anyone would actually read it.  That meant I could say pretty much whatever I wanted and didn’t really worry too much about who would find out (there were a few exceptions).

But when I started this site, my goal had shifted – I want people to read this stuff, and I want others to share their experiences and comments as well.  Before I even published the first post, I started to get anxious about how people might respond to my very pubic honesty.  Anyone could read this now.  My friends, my parents, my boss…ex-boyfriends.  Yikes.

What if they read it and they don’t like what I have to say?  Do I really want my mother knowing how much I curse?  What if my (soon to be former) boss stumbles across one of my posts about how miserable I’ve been in my job?  Shit!  Sorry mom!  What will people think???

As these scenarios play out in my mind, I get a tad queasy.  It’s not that I don’t want them to know how I really feel, but sharing it without filter?  That sounds dangerous.  Maybe I’ll just make a few minor edits…

Um, no.  That’s not going to work.

A huge goal for starting this site in the first place, is to be committed to being brutally honest with myself and you.  Honest about what scares me, honest about how I feel, honest about my failures and yes, honest with my gratuitous use of curse words to illustrate my fucking point.  Because if you were talking with the real me, that’s exactly who I’d be.  No filter.

I grew up believing “censor” was a bad word, and I feel pretty much the same today.  Obviously, there’s a time and a place for tact, discretion and little white lies.  This is not that place.

This is a place where you and I just let it all out, risk being exposed, mocked, dismissed, and on and on and on (although I don’t really believe those things will happen).  I could come up with a million reasons why it would be safer and more proper to edit my thoughts, but again, I’m here to face my fears, not indulge them.

I’ll be the first to admit, I’m really, really, really scared to be completely honest, but I’m going to do my best.

I’m leaving this item open for now, because I’m already tempted to edit the next post for fear of how others may react, so clearly I still have some work to do.

I never said working through these fears would be easy, and let’s face it, if I “won” every time it wouldn’t be very realistic (not to mention boring).

So, from this day forth I’m committed to do my best to not censor myself…and when I’m tempted to do so, you’ll be sure to see an update on good ol’ #26.

To be continued….

© 2011 – 2012, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

It all started with a conversation with my dear friend, Kevin.

Discovery Bay, California

It was Memorial Day weekend, and we were driving back from a relaxing outing with great friends and beautiful weather.  One would think I would have been relaxed and happy, but something was bothering me.

Something was always bothering me, actually.  All my friends knew I loathed my job, I wasn’t happy.  Kevin, bless him, was my captive audience, and he listened patiently as I rambled on and on about all the things wrong with my life, and how helpless I felt, and how dismal my future seemed.

When I finally stopped to take a breath, he chimed in.

He said, “You know Jenn, movement creates movement.  You have to do something if you want something to happen.”

I pondered this for a moment, knowing he was absolutely right.  And I asked him, “if I’m really so unhappy, why haven’t I done something about this yet?  I would give anything to change my situation…”.

I was filled with desperation and tears began to well in my eyes.

We started drilling down to figure out what exactly was holding me back, and the answer was simple.

Fear.

At that moment, I made a decision.  As the saying goes, “get busy living, or get busy dying”.  I knew I wanted to be part of the former, so I put on my big girl pants and made a promise to myself.

No matter what, I was going to try.  If I wanted something, I was going to figure out how to achieve it.  If I wasn’t happy, I’d figure out why.  If I didn’t like a situation, I would figure out how to fix it, or get out of it.  The time for waiting was over.  Now was the time for action.

It wouldn’t be easy, but my desire to “find myself” far overpowered my fears, so I jumped in, head first.

I signed up for a twitter account, and started following a few bloggers/entrepreneurs.  Within a week I was scheduling a Skype call that introduced me to a woman who literally changed my life forever.  Within two weeks, I was introduced to a fella that has also inspired radical changes in my life.  I consider both these people my mentors, and I can’t stress enough how crucial their involvement has been.  Don’t worry, I’ll tell you about all the amazing people who have supported me along the way at a later time, but for now, I just want to highlight that making changes is a tough gig.  Suffice it to say, if it weren’t for all the people that believed in me, I couldn’t have done this.

So how did I get started on this whole “FearLess” thing?

While working with one of my mentors, we discovered I liked loved to write.  I had stacks and stacks of notebooks I had accumulated over the years, but I’d never shared them with anyone.  Standard writer’s fear I guess.

I was so afraid people wouldn’t like what I wrote, or worse, didn’t think what I had to say was worth reading, so I just let my work collect dust in the back of a closet.

Then my mentor suggested I start a blog and just try “putting it out there”.  With my stomach in a knot of anticipation and uncertainty, I did it.

I got so sick with fear after posting that first entry, I had to go lay down the rest of the night.  But, when I woke up the next morning, I still wanted to write, and I was just a tiny bit less afraid.  So I kept going.

I continued to do things that scared me (see the list here), and before long I felt my confidence building.  Time to put this to the test and take a really big risk.

Start a site…and actually tell people about it this time.

I wanted to start this site to reveal my fears, big and small, then share with you my experiences as I try to work through each.

I also hope this site will inspire you to duke it out with your own fears – and when you do, I’d love to hear about it!

Thanks for stopping by!

Much love,
FearLess Jenn

© 2011, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

I’m not sure exactly where my wanderlust came from, but I’ve had it since I was young.  I traveled a fair bit with my parents growing up although I’m sad to admit I didn’t appreciate those trips as much as I should have (I blame it on being a teenager).

After moving to San Francisco from Montana, my desires to explore only grew.  My first trip overseas was to Boracay, in the Philippines, with my then boyfriend; someone who helped me explore strange places and encouraged me to try new things.

Over the next eight years, we continued to explore together, but he and I both noticed I was not completely at ease when we traveled.  A comment he made to me upon our return from a trip to Belize stuck with me.  He noted he quite felt relaxed when traveling with me, because he always felt he had to look out for the both of us.

I was stunned and hurt by that remark, although I knew he didn’t mean it to be critical.

Fast forward several years, and past a painful breakup.  With my newly minted diving c-card in hand, I was ready to prove him wrong.  I booked my first solo trip – to Thailand.

Wandering around Bangkok

My goal for the trip?  Make no plans, wake up each day and do whatever I wanted to do.  Even if that was nothing.  If I felt like wandering aimlessly around, and drink beer at 10am, then that’s exactly what I was going to do.  I didn’t need to see elephants (I never did actually).

What resulted were three of the most amazing, difficult and revealing weeks of my life.  For the first time, I had no one to call, no one to depend on.  No one expect anything from but myself.  Although I was truly afraid to embark on this journey, I knew I could do it.  I had to…I wanted to prove to myself I was capable.

Every day I woke up with this slight to moderate fear that the world would just collapse in on itself because I was doing something different.  Because I didn’t make hotel reservations and wasn’t planning to go to see the giant Buddha, life as we know it would cease to exist.

Happy to report, that did not happen.

In fact, I derived quite a bit of satisfaction out of ignoring the touts and pretending like I was an experienced, solo-world traveler.  I loved the fact that they had the hardest time figuring me out.  Clearly American, blonde, well-fed…what the hell was she doing wandering around the fish markets of Bangkok – by herself?

But the best part was when I stopped observing and started interacting.  Looks of suspicion confusion quickly dissolved into smiles and laughter (and I’m sure a few jokes at my expense, but I didn’t care).  I was doing exactly what I wanted to do.  No tour guide, taxi driver or hotelier could tell me what to do, and I loved it.

My favorite story is my experience with my “guide” in Chiang Mai.  I was nearing the end of my journey, and had reluctantly given up diving to explore the Northern part of the country.  I had heard a lot about Chiang Mai and I was bursting with excitement and anticipation.  While I had a vague idea of what it might be like, in keeping with my vow to not make plans, I purposely didn’t do too much research, so that as many experiences as possible would be a surprise (I love surprises…although they rarely happen).

I arrived in Chiang Mai mid-afternoon, and wandered around to find a place to stay.  Once I settled on my lodging, I decided to let someone else do the guiding for once, and asked the nice folks at the front desk to call me a car for the afternoon.  My driver arrived and cheerfully accepted my request to “show me the sites” for the afternoon.  We agreed on a price and I let him run with it.

Of course, I had heard of the jewelry and rug store ploys used on regular tourists, but clearly, I had evolved beyond this, right?  Ha.

Umbrella making factory in Chiang Mai, Thailand

I didn’t recognize it at first…the driver took me to an umbrella factory, which seemed a little hokey at first, but the scenery was interesting, and I snapped one of my all time favorite photos there, so I pretty quickly forgave him for dragging me there.

I wandered blissfully among the drying parasols, completely unaware of the throngs of tourists surrounding me.  My guide, close by, seemed bothered by the fact I wasn’t buying anything.  Eventually he ushered me out, assuring me he had another, equally inviting destination awaiting, and we had to get moving to get there before it closed.

Pffft.

I knew something was up when I started to notice the beautiful green scenery slowly disappearing in the rear-window and colorful bazars were replaced with bland strip-mall like structures.  He pulled up to a suspicious looking building, and for some stupid reason I agreed to go in (Mom and Dad, don’t read this part).  As we walked up, armed (with semi-automatic weapons) guards appeared at the entrance, and briefly spoke to my escort.  I realize now, it was just for show, but at the time, I was like, holy shit!  This is how I’m going to die!  I’m going to die and no one will ever find me!

They guided me through the door into a darkened showroom….scenes from some of my favorite horror movies flashed before my eyes and I put on my toughest glare as I reached for my camera to use as a weapon if necessary.

A loud pop! and hum bathed the room in fluorescent light, and three of the friendliest Thai people I had met thus far greeted me with pure happiness on their faces.  The dust on the counter-top told me I was their first “customer” in a while, and my fears were quickly replaced with empathy.  I looked around to see what I was supposedly shopping for, and, you guessed it.  Rugs.

Beautiful rugs, for sure, but, um, that’s not going to fit in my backpack guys.  I complimented them on their handiwork, but right off the bat let them know that there was a misunderstanding, and I was not, as they say, “in the market”.

I was polite as long as I could stand, and then requested my driver take me home.  There were a few tense moments when wordless exchanges were made between store owners, driver and guards, but they finally permitted me to leave, implying as best they could that their children just might starve to death because I didn’t buy a $5,000 rug.

By the time we got back to the car I was a little pissed.  I told my driver to take me back to my guest house and didn’t speak much on the way back.  He seemed genuinely apologetic, and I told him it was no problem with a smile and paid our agreed-upon fee – and a more than fair tip.

We parted ways, and with a final glance I caught his smile, and we both realized he had given me just the kind of adventure I was hoping for.

© 2011 – 2012, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

I’ve always loved the water – my parents used to call me a little fish.  I swam every chance I could get, usually only drying off after they coaxed my pruned little body out of the water (promises of s’mores usually did the trick).

As I got older, my love for the life aquatic only grew, and I began to imagine myself deep under the sea, discovering a whole new planet as I glided gracefully over corals and swam nonchalantly by sharks without blinking an eye.  Diving was in my blood, I knew it.

Hol Chan Marine Reserve, Ambergris Caye, Belize

Only one catch.  The guy I was dating at the time (and for the next eight years) didn’t share my obsession.  I was too scared to try it on my own, so I settled for snorkeling.

Snorkeling was great, but mostly all it did was confirm how much I wanted to dive.  Over the years, through amazing destinations including Hawaii, the Philippines and Belize, I continued to try to convince my boyfriend to dive with me, but he never relented.  I missed out on some of the most incredible diving destinations because I was too scared to go after what I wanted.

So when we broke up, the FIRST THING I did was sign up for a diving class.  I loved the classes (Bamboo Reef in San Francisco is awesome) and I was a natural.  I couldn’t wait to get out into the ocean.

Naturally then, when it was time for my open water check-out dive I was a bit surprised at how nervous terrified I was.

Anyone who’s been diving in Monterey, California knows what the conditions are like…cold, murky and rough water.  It’s a challenging site to say the least, but on the plus side, I was assured that if I could dive there, I could dive anywhere in the world.

After layering on my dive skin, a rented 7mm full suit, and a 3/4 shorty (remember Randy from A Christmas Story?), I could barely move my arms and legs.  After hoisting on my BC and tank, putting on my gloves and boots I was exhausted.  We walked about 50 yards from the parking area to the beach and I really started to consider backing out.  What the fuck was I thinking?  Diving in a pool was easy.  But the ocean?  A freezing cold, murky, dark rough SEA?  I began to tear up as we approached the breakwater.

The waves looked huge, and I quickly lost all confidence.  I hesitated.  My suit tightened, I felt claustrophobic and trapped.  What was I trying to prove?  I didn’t have to do this, right?  I looked back toward the safety of the parking lot and stopped in my tracks.

My cheeks were hot with fear and disappointment, and the tears welled up, despite my best efforts to subdue them.  Just when I had accepted defeat, I felt a strong grip on my neoprened hand.  I looked up and found my trusty instructor, Paddy holding my hand and guiding me into the water.

Without a word, he gently (but firmly) guided me to the water, letting go to allow me to put on my fins and start the swim out to the designated drop.  Swimming on the surface was painful and screamed against all my fight or flight responses.  Every fiber of my being told me to stop, and start screaming for help.  But my desire to dive persisted, and I kept going.

When we arrived at the designated location, I thought the worst was over.  Boy was I wrong.  As the waves tossed us around like toys and we all struggled to keep our heads above the swells I was overcome with fear.  I was quite literally paralyzed.  It was time to descend, and I watched with horror as gloved hands holding inflator hoses disappeared below the choppy surface.  I remained on the surface, now unable to control my tears.  I couldn’t do it.

Once again, without a word, my instructor gently grabbed my hand and signaled we were going down.  He didn’t pull, he didn’t force, he was just there.  Before I knew it we were on the sandy floor, the frightening waves 30 feet above.  I almost laughed, regulator in mouth, upon realizing how difficult I had made this for myself.

Although I was still scared, the wonder of the world around me was astounding – so much so I forgot to breath (kindof an important thing to remember when under water).  I was official, I was hooked.

Newly certified, I planned my first solo trip – to Thailand.

Upon arriving, I spent a few days in Bangkok then headed out to the islands to dive.  I was so excited to explore warm waters…it was

Koh Tao, Thailand

all I could think about!  The water was beautiful, and Koh Tao, and the island was known for its great diving.  I found a great place to stay, unpacked my gear and headed to the beach to find a dive shop.

I parked myself at a bar along the beach and nursed a few beers while I stared longingly at the dive shop next door.  Maybe tomorrow.

I repeated this for two days before finally mustering the courage to walk into the dive shop.  I was intimidated.  All these kids were experts (as far as I knew) and I was horrified at the thought of revealing my inexperience, but I really wanted to do this, so I grew a pair, and signed up for the next dive.

The first jump was scary, and I had already told the dive leader I was nervous, so she was kind enough to take me under her wing (no hand holding though).  I ended up with her as my dive buddy which turned out to be the best possible outcome.  I felt comfortable with an experienced diver by my side, and she knew where all the cool fish were hiding.

Phoenix Divers - Koh Tao, Thailand

After we surfaced I eagerly pulled out my dive log to record all the events of my first (actually third) dive.  She giggled as I passed it over to her to “sign off”.  A practice I would later learn was more for the textbooks than real life, but she obliged, and I now have several saltwater smeared stamps as proof.

On top of being completely blow away at the beauty under the surface, I quickly fell in love with dive culture.  It was standard practice to get a good meal and share a few beers after a dive, something I had no fear of whatsoever.

No longer afraid, I spent every possible moment for the next two weeks under water.

Becoming a divemaster (or possibly an instructor) is now on my bucket list (but not on my FearLess List)!

Fear conquered (and then some)!

© 2011 – 2012, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.

© 2011 – 2012, FearLess Jenn. All rights reserved.