Do it scared. Do it anyway.

What’s something that scares you but also makes you feel alive? For me, it’s singing, sharing my music and the words I scribble down in private, and throwing them into the air, showing them to the world. There’s nothing like connecting with people through something I love—it’s always brought me joy. But love like that is complicated; it carries both the terror of being seen and the exhilaration of being heard. On stage, it’s the moment I stop pretending, letting strangers see who I really am, singing the words I would never have said out loud to anyone.

Somewhere between work and everyday chaos, I stopped making time to sing and write. So I made myself a promise: show up to open mic every week, write new songs, and perform. I can't let this passion die out. The funny thing is, five-year-old me could sing in front of anyone without a second thought. Now, as an adult, it terrifies me.

Me, as a kid, singing shamelessly at my grandpa's birthday party

Maybe that’s the thing about fear—it changes as we do. When you’re a kid, fear is simpler. It’s the monster under the bed. Your buddy’s flashlight-lit chin whispering ghost stories at a sleepover. The shadow in the corner that looks like the boogeyman, until you flick on the light.

As a teenager, fear takes on a new shape. Being brave and fearless is all about being bold and reckless. Jump out of a plane (in a parachute). Hop on the Yukon Striker without flinching. Skip sports day just to grab a McDonald’s breakfast before the cutoff. And above all—don’t cry. That’s what makes you cool. And I wanted to be cool.

Until the day Mr. Tang caught us sneaking back into school. His whistle bouncing against his chest, his voice cracking, his nose flaring—and there I was, bursting into ugly tears in front of what felt like thousands of eyes. That moment carved itself into a core memory. And as I stood there sobbing, I thought, yeah, that McGriddle was definitely not worth all this.

It took me years to realize what that moment was really showing me: fear grows up with you. I’m no longer scared of monsters under the bed (joke’s on you, I don’t even have a bed frame anymore). Or even Mr. Tang’s booming voice (okay, maybe still a little). But fear hasn’t gone anywhere; it’s just grown subtler, sneakier.

Now it waits until I’m standing in front of a microphone with thirty strangers staring at me. Then it slithers up my throat, presses down on my chest, and screams: WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?

The lights dim. The mic suddenly feels ginormous. My thoughts spiral: What if they hate my music? What if I forget the lyrics? What if my voice cracks?

I’ve learned that fear shows up when something matters. It’s proof that you care. Bravery isn’t about making that fear disappear. It’s about stepping forward with it rattling inside you.

Sometimes courage looks like skydiving or making drastic moves. But often it’s much smaller—choosing to stay on stage when everything in you wants to run. Singing even when your voice trembles with every note.

If you’ve been waiting for fear to disappear before you start, I hope you know that it might not. And that’s okay. You don’t need to be fearless to begin. You just need to begin.

Take the first step. Sing the first note. Write the first line. Apply. Show up. Start.

I’m still scared of plenty of things. But I’ve learned this: if it makes you feel alive, it’s worth doing. Shake if you have to. Tremble through it. But do it anyway.

You’re braver than you think.