Lara Galinsky writes:
"It's exactly the advice your mother didn't give
you, unless your mom was a rule-breaker like my mine. Fear means go.
This was one of my mom's favorite principles. She said it when I was petrified
to go to school for the first time; she said it when I was going to be on live
television and was nervous I had nothing valuable to say. She believed fear was
a compass — an indicator of the direction you should go in if you want to
become the person you have the potential to be.
I always liked the sound of the phrase — I considered myself a
bold adolescent after all — but it wasn't until I was an adult that I fully
understood it.
Long before I came to work at Echoing Green, I was invited to be a judge for the fellowship
committee, which selects individuals from among the world's most promising
social entrepreneurs. When I arrived, I found myself among some intimidatingly
accomplished people — a PhD chemist/engineer/professor, a laureate-quality
poet, and activists behind some of the most successful social movements of our
time. I made my way uncomfortably to my seat, aware that I was one of the
youngest and least experienced judges in the room.
Over the next two days, we spoke with dozens of potential fellows
— young social entrepreneurs putting their lives at risk to protect the human
rights of the most vulnerable people, jumpstarting new philanthropy movements,
and developing innovative solutions to chip away at the gap between the haves
and have nots. The story of one finalist particularly moved me. His name was
Terrence Stevens. He was a paraplegic man with spinal muscular atrophy who grew
up in a housing project in Harlem.
Terrence told our panel of judges how he'd been arrested when
police pulled a friend and him over and found cocaine inside his friend's
luggage. He was sentenced to 15 years to life in prison under the Rockefeller Law, which doled harsh sentences to first time offenders.
Terrence faced incredible adversity in a broken prison system.
Confined to a wheelchair, he relied on fellow inmates to bathe him, dress him,
and even put him on and off the toilet. Prison guards punished him when he was
unable to perform certain physical tasks, like taking his pants off during a
strip search procedure after a family visit. The prison system didn't have
anywhere near adequate health care for those with disabilities, which caused
him to suffer a collapsed chest wall. He survived because he, his mom, and
fellow prison activists advocated for his needs. And after 10 grueling years,
he was pardoned by Governor Pataki and released in 2001.
Terrence could have left prison bitter and angry. He might have done
his best to forget his experience altogether and focus on starting a new life.
Instead, he went back to the prison system, this time to help others. He
established an organization called In Arms Reach that runs an intensive
mentoring program for children of incarcerated parents.
My fellow judges and I voted to name Terrence an Echoing Green
Fellow that day and ten years later his organization has served more than 1,000
individuals, including children, guardians, and other family members. It is a
source of stability and advocacy in the otherwise chaotic lives of children and
families affected by incarceration.
Back in 2002, I was proud to vote for Terrence and honored to be
on such an impressive selection panel. I left the two days of interviews
feeling deeply inspired but I also walked away — just as I walked in — with an
emotional swirl of embarrassment and inadequacy. In comparison to the potential
fellows and the other judges, I felt small. They were poised to make an
enormous difference in the world.
And, there it was: the fear. I was afraid of not being smart
enough, or experienced enough, or capable of making a real difference.
Immediately, I could hear my mother's voice: Fear means go.
So I did just what she told me to, and what Terrence had done. Instead
of letting my discomfort dissipate as my day as a judge became a safe memory, I
went back to Echoing Green as uncomfortable as it felt. I began to volunteer,
spending more and more time working with the organization and eventually
working as a consultant to it. One day Cheryl Dorsey, the president, offered me
a job to work for the organization. Today, I help run it as senior vice
president.
Next time you're afraid of something, instead of turning around,
take these three steps.
1.
Acknowledge
you're afraid. Instead of swallowing
or hiding your fear, and pretending you don't have it, look at it. For
instance, if you are continuously avoiding a particular activity or person,
have the courage to ask yourself "why?" Doing this requires honesty,
authenticity, and vulnerability.
2.
Determine
what kind of fear it is.
Ask yourself: Is this a healthy fear that I need to pay attention to (e.g., Is
there a hungry bear on the path ahead of me?) Or is this a fear rooted in my
own insecurities and self-doubts? It can be difficult to tell the difference at
times, but if you really want to know the answer, pay close attention to what
your gut says.
3.
Acknowledge
it as a gift. If it is an
insecurity-based fear, it could be one of the most powerful gifts you'll ever
receive. These fears are like a compass. They tell you where you need to go —
toward that which scares you.
Over the years, I've learned that fear is a great teacher. If we
pretend it doesn't exist, we miss out on all of its lessons. We aren't able to
improve, become stronger, and build our self-confidence. On the other hand, if
we embrace it as a guide, it can help us move through life's challenges and
come into our ultimate purpose — making us more fulfilled, and increasing the
positive impact we have on the world."
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