A while back I mentioned in a post on my Facebook profile that there were exactly 14 steps between the back wall of my bedroom and the end wall of the hallway in the upstairs of my home. The reason I knew that, I explained, was because I had the habit of pacing that distance while I mulled over whether or not the idea I’d just had was a good one. Most of the ideas I had while pacing did meet my criteria for good ideas. They

1. Would educate or help or inspire people in some way
2. Seemed likely to generate some sort of income which would allow me to stay housed and fed
3. Allowed me to do something I liked, generally reading, writing or talking. (Since no one seemed to want to pay me for eating and getting paid for sex seemed likely to take all the fun out of it.)

So I’d mull over my idea, decide it was a good one, dry off and put some clothes on (the best ideas always seem to happen in the shower) and charge off to set the latest great idea in motion. And I would. To a point. I’d announce said great idea. I’d line people up to participate. I’d write things to do on a list. I’d have the boat on the shore and one simple push from my foot would start it floating away and then…

I’d get a cramp in my leg and have to tend to that. I’d see a fish jumping and have to find my fishing pole. The clouds would gather and it looked like a storm so it seemed best to keep the boat on shore until the conditions were better. I’d decide I needed more study, more practice, to be better so that everything would be perfect. Sometimes I’d drill a hole in the bottom of the boat and sink it myself, because I knew that was what was likely to happen, so why not just get it over and done?

In short, I’d do everything but try.

I could give you a whole song and dance about why this sequence of events happened. I could tell you about my sad childhood and adolescence (worse than some, better than others, I’d suppose). I could tell you the tale of my dark year and how everything crashed around me and I sat in the rubble and didn’t care, yet still somehow found the strength to get out and get better. I could tell you about the people who told me I was worth something and the people who told me I wasn’t, and the bullies that lived in my head, and a million other stories. They’d all be good stories, and they’d all be well told and they’d all be precisely, and exactly, beside the point.

Because the point is this – if you don’t believe, you won’t try.

Now, I can lay claim to a lot of beliefs. I believe dark chocolate can make almost anything taste better, except coconut or raisins. I believe that people deserve to be treated well, and I also believe that not everyone gets what they deserve. I believe that hard work should pay off, but I also believe that the world isn’t always fair and that sometimes you can work hard and still fail. I believe that I have a right to decide for myself what I believe in and what I don’t, and that just as I don’t have the right to criticize other people’s beliefs (as long as they don’t cause physical or mental harm to others) they don’t have the right to criticize mine. I believe in a lot of things, some important and some that might seem silly to others, but there’s one thing I often don’t believe in, the thing that seems to keep the boat on shore, and that’s this —

I don’t always believe in myself.

It’s not that I don’t believe I can do the work or make the idea, whatever it might be, prosper, because I’m fairly confident in my track record of achievements. The problem is more that I don’t believe I deserve to, or should get to do that. Somewhere, somehow, I decided or learned or came to assume that good fortune and achieving a dream and doing what you loved was for other people, people who weren’t me. It was also scary to think about reaching for a brass ring when you’d already ended up in the rubble of your life once, and the darkness had almost swallowed you.

The thing about this sort of belief and this sort of fear is, although it may sound dramatic, it’s really not. It’s a small voice in your head that simply says “Not for you” and metaphorically slaps your hand. It’s the procrastination that sends you haring off after some small detail instead of staying the course and moving forward. It’s the routine that feels safe but keeps deadening your soul. It’s everyone who says “It’s a steady paycheck” or “The job market is tough right now” or “How many people make it as an embroiderer/writer/hand model?” It’s every time you talk about how someday you’re going to do something big or follow your dream, and everyone around you rolls their eyes because they’ve heard that before. It’s the monster under the bed and in the closet and it’s the dream where it’s test day and you’ve forgotten both to study and your clothes. It’s all the small things and the big things and the stupid things and the painful things that pile up and make you scared.

If no one’s ever told you – scared is the enemy of trying.

The thing is, much as we might like there to be, there isn’t always a cure for scared. You can tell yourself you’re prepared. You can tell yourself you deserve to succeed. You can recite affirmations, triple check your plans and carry your lucky rabbit’s foot and you knees may still shake and you may still have a million rationalizations for why that boat should stay firmly on shore. Even if you believe you’re prepared and you believe you’re deserving, and you believe the universe supports your every desire, you still might be scared.

And that’s simultaneously o.k., and doesn’t mean shit.

Be scared all you want.

Do it anyway.

Now, I understand my credibility on this issue isn’t huge as I’ve just spent the last thousand words or so telling you I’m a scaredy – cat, but I’m going to posit the idea that being a scaredy – cat means I know of what I speak. A boat on shore, or an idea that never gets launched doesn’t help you or anyone else. Also, failure might not be an exciting or happy option, but it’s a far better option than never making an attempt at all. And safe, while a lovely illusion, is just that, an illusion, and not doing things doesn’t keep you safe, it just keeps you dull and timid and less than all you could be and really, who needs that?

So, the idea that sent me pacing my upstairs hallway in my dampness, goosebumps and towel this afternoon was this – what if I said so what if I’m scared and tried anyway? What if I accepted that my knees would knock and my stomach would knot and people might not like what I did and that I could end up in the rubble of my life again and was o.k. with that? Or, scarier yet, what if I allowed myself to entertain the idea that things could go well, I could do something new and succeed at it, and that the things I wanted to do and be could be things that I deserved and could have?

What if, in the end, it didn’t matter what I thought, or what I felt, it just mattered that I tried?