For some reason—okay, maybe because I’m working on a big, scary goal—I got the image of me and fear sitting on a park bench.

Or should I say Fear?

Anyway, we sat down on this park bench together to talk. The sky was full of angry, dark clouds roiling in the gusty wind.

“So, Fear,” I said, “what do you want to say?”

“Don’t do it!” Fear shrieked, wringing her hands. (Fear looks a lot like Gollum, one of the creepiest creatures ever written into being, in my opinion.)

“I knew you’d say that,” I said, as calmly as I could. I consciously took slow, deep breaths.

“Why did you tell anyone you’d do it?” Fear whined. “Now they’re expecting you to actually do it.

“I told them exactly because of that reason,” I said. “I know you don’t want me to, but I’m doing this.”

“Why?” Fear asked, now holding his face with both hands.

“Because you’re not in charge of me,” I said. “I get to decide what I’m doing—even if I’m scared.”

“Scared means ‘don’t do it!’”

“No, scared means ‘think about it,’ and I have thought about it. I want to do this. I appreciate your input, but I’ve got this.”

“But what if people don’t like it?” Fear moaned.

“I’ll survive,” I said. “Besides, I don’t think that will happen.”

“You can’t guarantee it!”

“No, but I can’t guarantee anything. That’s life.” I looked up and saw the clouds weren’t as dark as they’d been. The wind had died down, too.

“You’ll regret this,” Fear said.

“Not as much as I’ll regret it if I don’t do it.” I got up from the bench. “See you later, Fear.”

“I’ll find you,” Fear whispered.

“You always do. As I walked away I noticed the clouds were now white and drifting.

Have you and Fear talked lately?