Giving Fear a Name

Lifting the Lid

Photo by Caroline Hernandez on Unsplash

You know that moment when you’re boiling water for spaghetti. The lid’s rattling, steam’s hissing out the sides, and you’re frantically turning down the temperature so it doesn’t make a scene?

That’s what my body feels like every time I go to the doctor.

It’s not the needle. It’s the moment before. The anticipation. The pressure. The swirl of old scripts whispers to me to be brave. Be good. Don’t make anyone uncomfortable.

I’ve laid on exam tables feeling hot and cold at the same time. Fighting the urge to leap out the window while my brain quietly tells me, This is fine. It’ll be over soon. That gap between what your body is doing and what your brain is saying is dizzying. Disorienting.

It reminds me of being fifteen, sitting in a podiatrist’s office after summer band camp. I had plantar warts. Disgusting. I was mortified. When the doctor offered to cut them out, I said yes. Not because I was tough, but because I wanted it all over with.

Even then, I had already learned the rule:
Don’t make a scene.

Fear doesn’t always come in screaming.
Sometimes it hides in your palms, your stomach, the back of your throat.
It’s a slow churning.

Behavior analysts call it covert behavior. Private events. Physiological responses. All the stuff that happens inside you, but still follows the same rules as observable behavior. If it’s punished, it gets hidden. If it’s named or labeled—aka “tacted”—and reinforced, it becomes something you can manage.

But fear that’s hidden builds. Like steam under a sealed lid.

Photo by Dominik Bednarz on Unsplash

My childhood taught me how to look composed. No mess. No tears in public. I could cry, but only if it didn’t upset anyone. The real rule wasn’t don’t cry. It was don’t make her uncomfortable.

Doctors’ offices broke through that mask. I couldn’t override the response. Sweating. Fainting. Shaking. I wasn’t scared of the pain. I was scared of losing control in front of someone else. I thought fear was something you were supposed to hide well.

But the moment I started naming it, that’s when it changed.

“I’m afraid.”
“I feel it in my arms and stomach.”
“I don’t want to be here.”

Those words didn’t erase the fear, but they gave it form. That’s tacting. And once I had the language, I could find my footing. Let’s try self-deprecating humor.

“If I can survive a Brazilian wax, I can survive this.” 😂

We chuckled. It snapped me out of spiraling. The dermatologist was both caring and quick. I wasn’t being punished here. It reminded me that I’ve done hard things before. And made it through.

For most of my life, staying quiet earned me approval.
But it never made me feel safe.

Now, I want something else. Not to avoid fear, but to meet it with honesty. With curiosity. With a little more room to breathe.

The other day, my two-year-old and I were deep in a nap-time standoff. He caught the look on my face and asked, “Are you frustrated?”

I said, “I am a little bit.”

He paused. “I’m a little bit frustrated too.”

I knelt down, held his hands, and said, “Can we try again?”

He nodded. “Yes, Momma.” Then he climbed into bed.

That moment didn’t happen because I masked how I felt.
It happened because I didn’t.
Because we both named the thing.
Because we got to try again.

He doesn’t have to manage me to stay loved.
And neither do I.

I’ve never had a moment like that with my mother.
She never learned how either.

We’re breaking the old rules.
Learning new ones.
There’s room now. For mess. For being human.

Tacting doesn’t erase fear.
But it releases the pressure.
It lets the steam out.

Photo by Chris Lawton on Unsplash

Try This:

🧭 Anticipate. ⚓️ Anchor. 🌊 Adapt.

🧭 Anticipate: Make Room Before It Rises

• Name the pattern.
  “This place has a story in my nervous system.” Say it. Write it.

• Prepare your supports.
  Fruit snacks. Tea. Essential oil roller. Headphones. Bring what helps you stay present.

• Let someone in.
  Tell a friend or even the receptionist: “This makes me anxious.” You don’t need to brace alone.

⚓️ Anchor: Stay With the Wave

• Tact the storm.
  “My hands are sweating.” “I feel shaky.” “This is the part where I want to leave.” Let the language hold you.

• Release the performance.
  Loosen your jaw. Soften your shoulders. Let it be messy. Let it be true.

• Use a bridge phrase.
  “I’ve survived worse.” “This always feels hard.” “I’m safe even when I’m scared.”

🌊 Adapt: Move Differently This Time

• Use humor.
  “If I can survive a wax, I can survive this.” Let laughter interrupt the spiral.

• Create a ritual of return.
  After hard moments, come back to yourself. Sit in the car. Eat something warm. Call someone who gets it.

• Shift the metric.
  Don’t ask “Was I calm?”
  Ask “Did I stay with myself?”

  Aim for 1% better

A little something to carry with you.

I made this phone wallpaper as a reminder. Not to be fearless, but to meet fear differently.
Not to stay calm, but to stay with yourself.

📲 Click below to download it:

• PNG version (for your phone lock screen)

• PDF version (if you’d rather print or keep it saved)

Let this live in your pocket for when your hands get sweaty, your chest gets tight, or your nervous system starts whispering old rules.

Progress, not Perfection.