When I was about 7, my family went to the water park with some friends. And I was terrified. I was the kind of kid who imagined a hundred horrible outcomes for every situation. What if I flew off the slide? What if someone poured acid in the swimming pool? What if there was a shark in there? No matter how the adults cajoled me, no matter how much fun the other kids were having, I would not go down that slide. I dimly remember hanging out by myself for most of the day, bored and lonely.

After a few hours at the park, my friend’s mom came up to me and said, ‘We’re going to leave soon… this is your last chance to go down the slide. You want to go together?’

Reluctantly, I said yes.

I climbed up the many, many stairs, my stomach as twisted up as the slide we were about to go on. When I got to the top and looked down into the gushing water, I wanted to chicken out. But the mom took my hand and sat behind me and together we flew down the slide. And it was wonderful.

‘I wanna go again!’ I said as soon as I surfaced.

She shook her head. ‘Sorry. We have to go now.’

Even today, sitting at my keyboard, I can still feel the wrench of disappointment. It seemed so unfair that just when I’d learned that I liked it, it was time to leave. Worst of all, it had been my choice. My choice to spend all day watching other people have fun.

Fear is something that has plagued me my whole life. Late at night, it nudges and pokes and prods, keeping me awake. Fear is a mustachioed villain sitting at the edge of my bed, whispering cruel things in my ear. “What if you never get published?”

I thought once I got a publishing contract, things would change, and they did. Now my fear says, “What if no one buys it?”

“That’s ridiculous,” I try to laugh. “My mom’s already promised to buy at least 2 copies.”

He clears his throat and tries again. “What if nobody buys it… except for your mom?”

Which is, of course, an infinitely terrifying thought.

And so I’ve spent much of my adult life trying to oust the unwanted visitor. A few years ago, I finally understood I was fighting the wrong battle. Fear wasn’t going anywhere… but I didn’t have to listen to him. Now, over the last few months, I’ve realized something much more important. I’m glad he’s there.

Because ever since I missed out on that water slide, fear became my arch-enemy. Fear was the voice that egged me on, taunted me. And I fought back.

Scared of traveling? Screw you, Fear! I’ll spend a month in France as an exchange student.

Scared of being alone at night? So’s your mom! I’ll go camping in the middle of a rattlesnake-infested desert.

Scared of life becoming ordinary? Up yours…I’ll go to college, way across the country, on a rocky island in Maine. I’ll be a writer. I’ll dye my hair purple.

Scared of the book not selling? I’ll work harder on my revision. I’ll create a killer book trailer. I’ll get people as excited as I am. Boo-yah.

And now, I discover that my life has not been defined by fear, after all. But it has been defined by my response to it. And I’m so grateful. So next time my mustachioed friend shows up in the dead of night with his insidious ‘what ifs’… maybe I’ll just smile and go back to sleep.