I have a quiet relationship with fear.

It doesn’t shout at me like you might think, instead it lingers. More often than not, when it comes it makes a home in my chest in the early morning hours and follows me into the spaces where things feel uncertain. I’ve learned to recognize it—not as something to run from, but as something that’s trying to tell me where growth lives.

This is one of the reasons why I love adventure racing so deeply.

Every race brings something that scares me. Sometimes it’s the length. Sometimes it’s a skill I’m not fully confident in yet. Sometimes it’s the weather, the navigation, or the simple reality of moving forward when I’m already tired and sore. Often, it’s all of it at once.

My fear doesn’t wait for the starting line. It arrives early. It shows up in training, in restless nights, in quiet moments when doubt feels louder than confidence. It makes me question myself. It slows me down. And sometimes—if I’m being honest—it stops me in my tracks.

But eventually, It begins to move.

Not with bravado. Not with certainty. Just with willingness. I take one step. I make one small decision. I show up, even when I don’t feel fully ready (is there such a feeling!?)

While it doesn’t fully disappear once I am in motion, it starts to change shape. It surfaces when things get uncomfortable—when I’m cold, lost, hurting, or depleted. But it no longer feels like an obstacle to get over or through, because I’m finally facing it head on. And this is my favorite part of it all because it becomes a companion and a guide who is reminding me to stay present, to listen and to keep going.

I felt this so clearly at last years La Ruta Madre, a 7 day expedition race in Punto Leon, Mexico.

Before that race, fear wrapped itself tightly around me. I had heard over and over again how technical the course was. The steep ascending, the canyoneering and the ropes all were on the tip of everyone’s tongue. Other teams had gotten stuck, and had to get rescued I was told. There was a massive canyon with sections where you had to rappel into giant pools and some where you just leapt into big pools. Every detail sent shivers of both excitement and fear down my spine. The night before the race, sleep came in fragments, if at all.

But then the starting gun blew.

And suddenly, I was moving with a huge smile on my face.

I was running hard with my team, relieved to finally be in motion instead of stuck in my thoughts. When the feared sections arrived—the ropes, the exposure, the technical work—I met them one by one. Not with panic, but with breath. With trust. I did exactly what I had practiced. I stayed present. I focused on the next small task instead of the entire canyon below.

And step by step, I moved through.

Each race, each experience that has a hint of fear in it, I come out the other side and I feel changed.

There’s a softness to the accomplishment—something deeper than relief or pride. It’s a quiet confidence that settles in my body. A knowing that I faced something hard and honored myself through it. That feeling lingers long after the race ends. It finds its way into motherhood, into daily life, into the moments that ask me to show up with patience and trust.

What I’ve learned is this:

You don’t have to be fearless to choose things that scare you.

You may stumble. You may hurt. You may feel unsure.

And still, you can move forward.

The version of yourself that emerges on the other side will be different. Not hardened, but shaped. More trusting. More grounded. More aware of your own resilience.

As mothers, we’re often encouraged to choose safety, predictability, and control. And while those things matter, I don’t believe fear is something to eliminate. I believe it can be a guide.

Fear points toward expansion.

Not recklessness. Not unnecessary risk. But the kind of edge that invites you to grow gently into who you’re becoming.

So if something is calling to you and it brings a flutter of fear with it, pause and listen.

You don’t need to leap. You don’t need to have it all figured out.

But you do need to begin.

One small step at a time.