I want you to feel less alone xx
When people ask about my fears, I give the usual, surface-level answers: the ocean’s vast unknown, the dizzying drop from great heights, the eerie grin of clowns. These are fears we can discuss casually, as though naming them renders them manageable. But the deeper fears — the ones that live in our hearts and minds — are harder to admit. They linger, hidden, whispering doubts and anxieties we often keep to ourselves.
Scared that I’d already wasted my potential.
Growing up too fast strips something essential from you — a chance to truly explore and embrace the boundless potential of childhood. For me, adolescence wasn’t a period of discovery but a series of responsibilities I didn’t ask for, and adulthood arrived too soon. Sometimes, I look at my peers and wonder how they managed to accomplish so much with ease. The pressure to catch up feels suffocating, like running a race while carrying a weight no one else seems to bear. There’s a constant ache in my chest, a whisper that maybe I’ve already missed my moment. That fear grows louder each time I see someone younger achieving the dreams I still cling to.
There’s a strange and unsettling fear I can’t shake — the feeling that I’m stuck at fourteen, emotionally tethered to a girl who never got to grow up. It’s as though time moved on, my body aged, and responsibilities piled up, but that version of me is still standing there, frozen in the moments I never healed from. I’m terrified that I’ll spend my twenties trying to fix her, to heal her pain, and in doing so, I’ll miss the best years of my life. It’s as though the past is stealing my future.
Falling in love again.
Falling in love for the first time felt like stepping into a universe where everything was vibrant and new, like discovering a part of myself I didn’t know existed. It was thrilling, effortless, and naive. Teenage love carried a sense of invincibility — there was no fear of failure, only the joy of connection. When it ended, though, it shattered me in ways I didn’t know I could break.
The heartbreak left scars, and now, love feels less like an adventure and more like a risk. Falling again means reopening old wounds, risking rejection, and facing the vulnerability that once left me undone. It’s not just the emotional risks that haunt me but also the uncertainties about intimacy in adult relationships. What if I’m not what they need? What if I can’t meet expectations? What if my inexperience betrays me?
Adult love feels heavier, carrying unspoken rules and milestones. The idea of physical closeness feels daunting. I’ve only ever kissed — what if they expect more? What if I’m clumsy, unsure, or not enough? These thoughts spiral into a fear that I’m unprepared for the realities of adult relationships, and that I’ll fail before I even begin.
Yet, a part of me still craves that connection. I long for the beauty of love without its weight, to find someone patient enough to understand my hesitations. I want to trust again, to believe that love can heal rather than harm. But standing on the edge of this emotional cliff, I find myself paralyzed, torn between jumping into the unknown and retreating to safety.
I’m doing so many things, what if I end up with nothing?
I’ve always thrown myself completely into my pursuits — whether it was music, sports, art, or even capturing fleeting moments on video. Yet, there’s an ever-present fear that gnaws at me in the stillness: What if none of it matters?
It feels like constructing a sandcastle, knowing a wave might erase it. I pour my energy into building something beautiful, but doubt whispers that my efforts might be insignificant.
I’ve had so many fleeting passions:
Playing the flute.
Volleyball.
Painting.
Vlogging.
None stuck, and sometimes it feels like a reflection of me — half-formed and wavering, unable to hold steady in the tide of life.
The fear isn’t just about failure. It’s about investing in something deeply and still feeling empty when it’s over. Life’s unpredictability, its tides, make me question if I’ll ever find something that truly lasts.
Giving love in all the wrong places.
I know my heart is vast and brimming with love, but the fear that it might never find its true home haunts me. What if I give it to people who take it for granted or, worse, keep it locked away out of fear of rejection? Love is meant to be given, to flourish in connection, but the possibility of it being wasted or unreturned feels unbearable.
Even after heartbreaks, my heart has a way of replenishing itself — somehow fuller, more eager to love than before. It’s almost defiant in its capacity to give. I don’t want to love quietly, hesitantly, or in shadows. I want to love boldly, unapologetically, and to be met with that same passion.
But what if it’s not enough? Or too much? These questions keep me restless, yet they also remind me of my resilience — of how much I’m still willing to give despite the risk.
