I remember nights as a little boy. The shadows in the corner of my room turning into monsters. I pulled the duvet over my head, my heart thumping against my ribs. My tactic was clear: close my eyes, don't move, wait until the fear disappeared on its own. It never did. It only quietened down when the morning light seeped through the curtains.
Years later, I sat in my car as an adult man, my heart thumping again. This time, it wasn't shadows on the wall, but the weight of responsibility, worry about the future, an undefined, paralysing dread. My tactic remained the same: I pressed the accelerator harder, turned the music louder. Distract, suppress, look away. But fear sat in the passenger seat, staring at me.
I've spent a large part of my life running from fear. I've fought it, analysed it, prayed it away, and ignored it. Nothing worked. It only grew bigger, its shadow longer, its voice louder. It was an exhausting war I could only lose.
The Battle I Always Lost
My strategy was simple and fundamentally flawed. When fear arose, a wave of panic, that tightness in my chest, I did everything to get rid of it. I threw myself into work, sought distraction, tried to control my thoughts. I thought if I just fought fear hard enough, it would eventually give up.
The opposite was true. Every attempt to suppress fear gave it more power. It's like trying to hold a ball underwater. It takes enormous effort, and as soon as you relax for a moment, it shoots to the surface with force. My life became a constant struggle, an incessant attempt to keep that ball submerged.
I was exhausted. Spiritually, emotionally, and physically. The constant tension robbed me of sleep and joy. In my prayers, I sounded like a beggar: "Lord, take this away! Please, make it stop!" I didn't understand why God wasn't answering me. Why did He leave me alone in this struggle?
What if Fear Isn't the Problem at All?
The turning point didn't come with a loud bang, but in a quiet moment of total surrender. I was sitting there again, paralysed by fear, with no strength left to fight. And into that silence, a thought settled in my heart, so clear and alien that it couldn't have been my own: What if fear isn't the problem at all?
What if the real problem is my reaction to fear? My panicked flight, my furious struggle against it, my desperate suppression? What if fear is simply a feeling? A messenger, perhaps even. A signal, like the pain in a finger that warns us the hob is hot.
We try to shoot the messenger instead of listening to its message. We curse the alarm system instead of looking for the fire. Fear itself is neutral. It's only our judgment, our resistance, that turns it into a monster. All the power it held over me came from my suppression.
The First Honest Look
I decided to try something completely new. Something that contradicted everything I had done before. The next time fear came, I didn't run away. I stayed put. I closed my eyes, not to shut out the fear, but to look at it more closely.
I tried not to judge it, not to analyse it. I simply observed it. Where in my body do I feel it? As pressure on my chest. As a lump in my throat. As cold in my hands. I didn't give it a name like "fear of the future" or "fear of failure." I stayed with the pure physical sensation. Pressure. Tightness. Cold.
And then something strange happened. By allowing fear simply to be there, without having to fight it, it lost its terror. It was still unpleasant, yes. But it was no longer that overwhelming demon. It was just a sensation that comes and also goes. Like a cloud drifting across the sky.
This practice, this quiet endurance, is the first step to bringing light into the darkness. We stop holding the cellar door shut and dare to descend the stairs to see what's really down there. Most of the time, it's far less frightening than we imagined in our fantasy.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Psalm 23:1, 4 (KJV)
From the Shadows into Conversation with God
This step, simply accepting fear, is only half the truth, however. On its own, it's merely a mindfulness technique. What opens up a much deeper path for us as Christians is the next step: we take this perceived, no longer fought-against fear and bring it to Jesus.
Before, I prayed: "Lord, take away this fear!" Today, I pray differently. I say: "Jesus, look, it's here again. The tightness in my chest. The pressure. You see it. Please be with me now. Be with me in this fear." That's a world of difference. It's no longer a demand, but an invitation.
It is the deepest form of trust. I show God my wound, without demanding that He heal it immediately. I trust that His mere presence in the pain is healing. I stop pretending to be strong and that I have to manage everything alone. I become weak before Him. And precisely there, in my weakness, His strength meets me.
Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you. 1 Peter 5:7 (NIV)
This is what this verse truly means. Not to throw away the worry and hope God disposes of it. But to give it to Him, to show it to Him, to share it with Him. Just as a child runs crying to its father and shows him its scraped knee. The child doesn't just want a plaster; above all, it wants the comforting embrace of its father.
How Fear Loses Its Power
This path has changed my life. Not because I am now a person without fear. That would be a lie. Fear still comes to visit. Sometimes it knocks softly, sometimes it tries to kick down the door.
But it has lost its power over me. It is no longer the ruler in my house, but merely a guest who must leave after a while. I have learned to greet it, to show it to Jesus, and then to let it go. It no longer dictates my decisions. It no longer paralyses me.
By ceasing to fight it, I have disarmed it. Its greatest weapon was my own suppression. Now that I look at it, in the light of God's presence, it shrinks. The monster in the shadows turns out to be a small, trembling thing, itself full of fear.
Freedom from fear does not mean its absence. It means that it no longer controls you. It is the freedom to take the next step in trust in Jesus, despite the fear. It is the freedom to walk through the darkest valley and know: I am not alone. He is with me.