When my brother was seven, he was convinced he could fly. To test this theory, he jumped off the top of the stairs. Numerous failed attempts later, he and everyone around him were very much satisfied with the notion the he, in fact, could not fly. I, however, was not convinced. For that split second he was in the air, he was just fine. It seems to me his landing was the problem. But after that, he retired his cape and decided the superhero gig wasn’t for him, so I guess we’ll never know.

A few years later, when I was seven, a girl in my class told me I was a bad singer. This, of course, was back when I was in every school musical, convinced I was going to be famous. Granted, her little first grader voice wasn’t anything to be envious of either, but nevertheless, I stopped singing solos and faded into the choir at the back of the stage. I decided that she must be right to have so confidently called me out on my lack of talent, even when she seemed to have nothing to gain from it. I reasoned that the singing gig wasn’t for me, so I guess we’ll never know.

When I was thirteen, I was friends with all the wrong people. The kind that were more harmful than helpful, more toxic than encouraging. The kind that made me beg my parents to homeschool me for eighth grade so I wouldn’t have to go back. Thankfully my parents had more sense than I did, and denied my pleas. And instead of being my own personal purgatory as I had assumed it would be, eighth grade ended up being one of the best years of my life. I stopped clinging to old friendships that only managed to keep their place in my life because I was afraid of having nothing left. Because I was afraid of being alone. If I had listened to my fear and spent the next year hiding, I would have been. Instead, I made new friends, better ones than I had ever had, and I figured out that running away didn’t solve anything. I decided I was better off without those poisonous friends in my life, and to this day, this is something I know for sure.

Four years later, I still have people discouraging me from the things I love. But I realize now it wasn’t my own incompetence or lost interest or general inadequacy that made me fail; it was my fear that they were right. That if I went against their advice and with my gut, I would end up with failure in my hands and regret in my past.

This I believe is the real cause of failure. Not the inability to do something, but the fear. The fear that says it’s better to give up than risk falling short of our own expectations. And this is something I refuse to fall victim to again. Because I refuse to let my fear decide my fate.