The Bug, the Rollerblades, and the Big What-If
What Fear Teaches Us About the Stories We Believe
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Hey friend.
Welcome back to Running to Myself.
I’m your host, Trisha Stanton.
Today I want to tell you a simple story.
It’s about rollerblades.
And bugs.
And fear.
And even though it starts with my granddaughter, this is really a story about all of us.
A few weeks ago, my granddaughter asked me to take her to a local park so she could practice rollerblading.
It was one of those Texas winter days that feels like a gift. Sunshine. Blue sky. Comfortable air. The kind of day that invites you outside without effort.
She had her helmet on. Her pads strapped tight. And she was doing great.
She was finding her balance. Getting steadier. Gaining confidence with every lap.
And then something shifted.
Not because she fell.
Not because she got hurt.
But because she saw a bug.
Just one.
It didn’t land on her.
It didn’t bite her.
It didn’t sting her.
It didn’t even slow down.
It flew by, completely focused on its own bug business.
But in that moment, everything changed.
Her body tensed.
Her eyes darted around.
Her attention left her feet and locked onto the air around her.
And suddenly, rollerblading didn’t feel fun anymore.
What struck me was how quickly the fear grew.
One bug turned into the belief that more were coming.
That they were hiding just out of sight.
That they might swarm her at any second.
The fear wasn’t about what was happening.
It was about what might happen.
And before long, she was ready to be done.
Nothing had actually gone wrong.
But the fear had taken over.
As I watched her, I realized how physical fear is.
Her shoulders crept up.
Her movements got smaller.
Her focus narrowed.
Fear didn’t just live in her thoughts.
It lived in her body.
And that’s important.
Because fear doesn’t usually announce itself as fear.
It shows up as tension.
As urgency.
As distraction.
As the sudden urge to quit.
And that’s when it hit me.
I see this exact same pattern all the time in adults.
We do this too.
We start something new.
We feel a little momentum.
We gain some confidence.
And then a thought shows up.
What if I fail.
What if people don’t like me.
What if I look foolish.
What if I get hurt.
What if this costs me more than I expected.
Nothing has actually happened yet.
But our bodies respond as if it already has.
Our shoulders tense.
Our breathing changes.
Our world gets smaller.
And slowly, the thing that once felt exciting starts to feel heavy.
This is what I call “what if fear.”
Fear that lives entirely in the future.
Fear based on possibility, not reality.
And here’s the tricky part.
What if fear feels reasonable.
It sounds responsible.
Protective.
Even wise.
But most of the time, it isn’t keeping us safe.
It’s keeping us stuck.
What if fear asks questions that can’t be answered in the present.
And because they can’t be answered, your nervous system stays on high alert.
Your brain keeps scanning for danger.
Your body stays braced.
And eventually, you decide it’s easier to stop than to stay.
We don’t usually quit because something bad happened.
We quit because we’re exhausted from managing everything that might happen.
Here’s something I want you to hear clearly.
Fear is not a sign that something is wrong with you.
Fear is a sign that you’re standing at the edge of growth.
When my granddaughter was afraid, the work wasn’t convincing her that bugs don’t exist. They do.
The work wasn’t promising her that nothing uncomfortable would ever happen. That wouldn’t be honest.
The work was helping her stay grounded in what was actually happening in the moment.
She was upright.
She was safe.
She was learning.
She was capable.
Fear was loud.
But it wasn’t true.
And this is where I want to slow us down.
Because most of us are trying to solve fear the wrong way.
We try to eliminate it.
Outthink it.
Wait until it goes away.
But fear doesn’t work like that.
Fear isn’t something you defeat.
It’s something you learn to relate to differently.
Fear says, “What if this goes badly?”
Presence says, “What is actually happening right now?”
Fear pulls you forward into imagined pain.
Presence brings you back into your body.
And this is where real courage lives.
Not in being fearless.
But in being present.
Courage is the willingness to stay with reality instead of racing ahead into imagination.
And that’s a skill.
A practice.
One you can learn.
Here’s what I want you to notice.
Fear always speaks in stories.
Stories about rejection.
Failure.
Loss.
Embarrassment.
Regret.
But those stories are predictions.
Not facts.
And your brain is very good at confusing the two.
So here’s a powerful question to ask yourself when fear shows up.
“What is actually happening right now?”
Not what might happen.
Not what could happen.
Not what once happened.
Right now.
Right now, are you safe.
Right now, are you capable.
Right now, are you breathing.
Fear hates that question.
Because it pulls you out of the future and back into the present.
And when you’re present, fear loses some of its power.
Another thing I want you to notice.
Fear narrows your focus.
My granddaughter stopped focusing on her feet, her balance, her movement.
All her attention went to the sky.
And adults do this too.
We stop focusing on the next small step.
And start scanning for everything that could go wrong.
That’s when progress stalls.
Growth doesn’t require certainty.
It requires attention.
Attention to what you’re doing.
Where you are.
What’s working.
Fear says, “Zoom out and panic.”
Growth says, “Zoom in and stay.”
And here’s something else.
Fear often convinces us that quitting is relief.
But quitting doesn’t actually resolve fear.
It just reinforces it.
Every time you stop because of what if fear, your brain learns:
Avoidance works.
And then fear shows up faster next time.
Stronger next time.
This is why so many people feel like their world is shrinking.
They aren’t weaker.
They’re just practicing avoidance.
The good news is, the opposite is also true.
Every time you stay present, even briefly, you teach your brain something new.
“I can handle this.”
Not perfectly.
Not forever.
Just this moment.
You don’t need to take the whole lap.
You just need to take the next few feet.
That’s it.
Courage is rarely loud.
It’s quiet.
Steady.
Often unnoticed.
It looks like staying in the park a little longer.
It looks like sending the message even though your stomach tightens.
It looks like taking the step without needing guarantees.
And this matters, friend.
Because I know how many dreams never make it past the “what if” stage.
How many conversations never happen.
How many opportunities never get explored.
How many versions of you never get lived.
Not because you aren’t capable.
But because fear convinced you that certainty was required.
It isn’t.
Presence is.
So here’s a gentle practice you can try this week.
When fear shows up, don’t argue with it.
Don’t shame it.
Don’t rush to fix it.
Just pause and ask:
What am I afraid might happen?
And what is actually happening right now?
Then bring your attention back to your body.
Your breath.
Your feet.
Your surroundings.
And take one small, grounded step.
Not to get rid of fear.
But to remind yourself that fear doesn’t get to decide.
You do.
And maybe today, the brave thing isn’t doing something big or bold.
Maybe it’s staying present.
Taking one more lap.
Letting fear ride along without letting it steer.
Thanks for being here, friend.
I’m really glad you are.
