April 2021
Three years ago, my friend asked me to babysit. At the time her two kids were little, just four and two years old, respectively. I enthusiastically agreed. After all, I love her kids and am always down to hang out with them.
I went to her house early that morning, listened as she told me emergency contacts and the location of diapers, then bid her adieu. Neither of her kids were awake, so I settled into the couch and waited for the sound of little feet. Around thirty minutes later, the elder of the two woke up. I told him good morning, let him choose what he wanted to watch on the television, and got him a cup of juice and some cereal. This noise woke his sister, who then emerged from the other room, hair messy, wearing a concerned look on her face. Fortunately, I had spent time with the family before and knew that this look of concern was simply due to the fact that breakfast was not immediately available upon awakening. So, I took it upon myself to procure a second juice and bowl of cereal as fast as I could.
With their bellies full and an engaging show on television, I again settled into the couch, congratulating myself for being such a great babysitter. I may have been 21 at the time, but with no younger siblings and my niece growing up hours away, I was still inexperienced when it came to watching kids.
This feeling of fulfillment stayed with me all morning as I played cars, watched television, played dress up and listened to the fascinating stories that emanate from the mouths of babes. Then, it happened. “I’m hungry,” he said. Uh oh. I checked the clock. 12:30. I looked down at their little faces and saw the hunger plastered there like a sign: dreary eyes and slight frowns, a distraction from their usual demeanor.
“Ok buddy,” I said, hiding my panic. “Chicken nuggets and fries is what mom said is for lunch today!” Their eyes lit up and I told them to play as I went into the kitchen to make lunch.
If you have followed to this point you may be wondering: why is lunch such a big deal? The unfortunate truth is that, once again at the age of 21, I had never used an oven on my own. And the fries and the nuggets both sat in the freezer bearing the instructions, “Bake at 400 F for 15 minutes.” So, I marched ahead. I preheated the oven, got out the fries and nuggets, found the baking sheet and popped them in. Miraculously, around 15 minutes later, the ordeal was over. I blew on the fries to cool them off (and make the kiddos laugh), and everyone was fed and happy. I had used the oven. I had looked directly at a fear of mine and conquered it.
The point of this rather drawn-out vignette is not to congratulate myself for using an oven. Yes, it was a nice accomplishment, and three years later I can attest to being able to bake very simple things with ease. But the bigger part of this story lies in the way that I felt about using the oven and the way this feeling had a hold on my life for so long.
The deeper feeling behind the fear was not that the oven would burn me or that I would do it wrong. The fear lay in the idea that I had to try something new, with no guidance or recourse whatsoever. Now, again, with the oven the stakes were small––the worst thing I could have done was underheat some food. However, the more I age, the higher the stakes become, and this fear of doing the unknown continues to pop up.
The most recent example of this fear came when I was taking care of my partner last week after her wisdom teeth surgery. The surgery went well, and everything proceeded relatively as planned. Yet the fear surrounded me for the first day I was with her.
What if she trips walking up the stairs?
What if she does not get enough to eat?
What if she is in pain, but I don’t know?
What if she needs something, and I am not there?
What if a tornado strikes in southern Texas, and I have to get both of us into the bathroom under a giant mattress?
What if there is a robbery attempt in the middle of the day?
My very real, relevant fears harshly dissolved into an unending stream of anxious thoughts, revealing yet another unsavory truth about myself. Rarely, if ever, have the fears in my life been as simple as someone tripping up the stairs or a toddler eating cold chicken nuggets. No, the core of my fear lies again in the unknown gray area of decision fatigue and an unshakeable feeling that nothing I ever do will be good enough.
These big, wide, overarching life themes are not things I have to face head-on every day. Instead, they sit beneath the surface, instilling in me a fear of the ordinary. They give me a feeling of dread that I know is not about the one typo in my paper but actually about my identity as a worthy human being.
The two stories I highlighted before, about chicken nuggets and wisdom teeth, brought me anxiety because they made me question my role as caregiver. Which in turn made me question my role as a partner or potential mother. Which made me question why I feel so bad at things other women seem to just know how to do. Which made me question my gender identity. Which picks at the core of my existence and presentation each and every day in the world.
Do I think I can be a loving partner? Absolutely. A caring mother? Definitely. Would I have that confidence without having to look deep down and come to terms with who I am, what I want and what I am capable of? Not a chance. Fear is scary. That logic is circular and irrefutable. What comes from fear is beautiful, if you have the bravery to see it.
Delaney Couri is a master's student in the Department of Teaching, Learning and Culture.
I went to her house early that morning, listened as she told me emergency contacts and the location of diapers, then bid her adieu. Neither of her kids were awake, so I settled into the couch and waited for the sound of little feet. Around thirty minutes later, the elder of the two woke up. I told him good morning, let him choose what he wanted to watch on the television, and got him a cup of juice and some cereal. This noise woke his sister, who then emerged from the other room, hair messy, wearing a concerned look on her face. Fortunately, I had spent time with the family before and knew that this look of concern was simply due to the fact that breakfast was not immediately available upon awakening. So, I took it upon myself to procure a second juice and bowl of cereal as fast as I could.
With their bellies full and an engaging show on television, I again settled into the couch, congratulating myself for being such a great babysitter. I may have been 21 at the time, but with no younger siblings and my niece growing up hours away, I was still inexperienced when it came to watching kids.
This feeling of fulfillment stayed with me all morning as I played cars, watched television, played dress up and listened to the fascinating stories that emanate from the mouths of babes. Then, it happened. “I’m hungry,” he said. Uh oh. I checked the clock. 12:30. I looked down at their little faces and saw the hunger plastered there like a sign: dreary eyes and slight frowns, a distraction from their usual demeanor.
“Ok buddy,” I said, hiding my panic. “Chicken nuggets and fries is what mom said is for lunch today!” Their eyes lit up and I told them to play as I went into the kitchen to make lunch.
If you have followed to this point you may be wondering: why is lunch such a big deal? The unfortunate truth is that, once again at the age of 21, I had never used an oven on my own. And the fries and the nuggets both sat in the freezer bearing the instructions, “Bake at 400 F for 15 minutes.” So, I marched ahead. I preheated the oven, got out the fries and nuggets, found the baking sheet and popped them in. Miraculously, around 15 minutes later, the ordeal was over. I blew on the fries to cool them off (and make the kiddos laugh), and everyone was fed and happy. I had used the oven. I had looked directly at a fear of mine and conquered it.
The point of this rather drawn-out vignette is not to congratulate myself for using an oven. Yes, it was a nice accomplishment, and three years later I can attest to being able to bake very simple things with ease. But the bigger part of this story lies in the way that I felt about using the oven and the way this feeling had a hold on my life for so long.
The deeper feeling behind the fear was not that the oven would burn me or that I would do it wrong. The fear lay in the idea that I had to try something new, with no guidance or recourse whatsoever. Now, again, with the oven the stakes were small––the worst thing I could have done was underheat some food. However, the more I age, the higher the stakes become, and this fear of doing the unknown continues to pop up.
The most recent example of this fear came when I was taking care of my partner last week after her wisdom teeth surgery. The surgery went well, and everything proceeded relatively as planned. Yet the fear surrounded me for the first day I was with her.
What if she trips walking up the stairs?
What if she does not get enough to eat?
What if she is in pain, but I don’t know?
What if she needs something, and I am not there?
What if a tornado strikes in southern Texas, and I have to get both of us into the bathroom under a giant mattress?
What if there is a robbery attempt in the middle of the day?
My very real, relevant fears harshly dissolved into an unending stream of anxious thoughts, revealing yet another unsavory truth about myself. Rarely, if ever, have the fears in my life been as simple as someone tripping up the stairs or a toddler eating cold chicken nuggets. No, the core of my fear lies again in the unknown gray area of decision fatigue and an unshakeable feeling that nothing I ever do will be good enough.
These big, wide, overarching life themes are not things I have to face head-on every day. Instead, they sit beneath the surface, instilling in me a fear of the ordinary. They give me a feeling of dread that I know is not about the one typo in my paper but actually about my identity as a worthy human being.
The two stories I highlighted before, about chicken nuggets and wisdom teeth, brought me anxiety because they made me question my role as caregiver. Which in turn made me question my role as a partner or potential mother. Which made me question why I feel so bad at things other women seem to just know how to do. Which made me question my gender identity. Which picks at the core of my existence and presentation each and every day in the world.
Do I think I can be a loving partner? Absolutely. A caring mother? Definitely. Would I have that confidence without having to look deep down and come to terms with who I am, what I want and what I am capable of? Not a chance. Fear is scary. That logic is circular and irrefutable. What comes from fear is beautiful, if you have the bravery to see it.
Delaney Couri is a master's student in the Department of Teaching, Learning and Culture.