By Ross Hendrickson
Fear is a full-time DJ in your brain, spinning the same greatest hits on repeat. You know the ones:
“You’re Not Enough” (feat. Self-Doubt)
“This is All Going to Fall Apart” (remix by Catastrophic Thinking)
“If They Really Knew You…” (acoustic version)
And just when you think you’ve turned the volume down, fear grabs the aux cord again. It shows up in parenting. It shows up in marriage. It shows up when you’re trying to fall asleep, but your brain decides it’s time to rehearse every worst-case scenario you’ve ever imagined.
We like to think fear is something we can outgrow or outsmart. But the truth is, fear doesn’t care how mature you are. It just wants to run the show.
I learned that the hard way at 13 year old, on a basketball court, with sweaty palms and two missed free throws that somehow spiraled into a full-on identity crisis.
In 8th grade, I played competitive basketball. I wasn’t the star, but I could shoot and hustle. I had heart. I also had a tournament semifinal game where we were down by one, and I got fouled with seconds left.
Two free throws.
I missed them both.
At first, it was just disappointment. Then a few teammates started in with the jokes. One said, “Bro, even my grandma could’ve made those!” Another chimed in, “Next time, try opening your eyes!” And as I was walking off the court, someone shouted, “Were you aiming for the mascot?” I laughed too, because that’s what you do when you’re 13 and your soul is quietly crumbling.
But later that night, lying in bed, that tiny moment cracked something open. I started thinking, what if I’m not actually good under pressure? What if I’m just pretending to be good at this sport? What if everyone’s going to figure that out soon?
That fear didn’t stay in the gym. It followed me to practice, where I hesitated to shoot. It showed up in class, where I started second-guessing my answers. It showed up at home, where I got snappy with my siblings for no reason, or sat silently at the dinner table, swirling mashed potatoes around like I was conducting a sadness experiment.
My coach noticed. My parents noticed. I think even my cat noticed.
That’s how fear works. It doesn’t just mess with your performance. It gets personal. It changes the way you see yourself.
The older I get, the more I realize fear rarely kicks down the door. It sneaks in quietly. It whispers instead of shouts. And the whispers can sound eerily reasonable.
Maybe I’m too much for them.
Maybe I’ll mess up my kids forever.
Maybe I missed my window to become who I was supposed to be.
Fear grows like a spark in dry grass. And if you don’t catch it early, it doesn’t just light up your brain. It starts burning through your marriage, your parenting, your health, and your identity.
I’ve watched couples stop speaking honestly because fear told them honesty was too risky. I’ve seen parents spiral into burnout because fear said if you rest, everything will fall apart. I’ve counseled people who were so afraid of failing that they stopped trying altogether and called it wisdom.
Fear doesn’t just steal joy. It rewrites your story. It turns I’m tired into I’m failing. It turns we’re struggling into we’re broken. And maybe worst of all, it turns this is hard into I’m not enough.
The most destructive fears aren’t about the things around us. They’re about us.
Fear that says
I’m not a good enough spouse
I’m not cut out to be a parent
I’m too broken to be loved
I’ll always be the one who lets people down
These aren’t just anxious thoughts. These are identity-shaping beliefs. If we sit with them too long, they stop sounding like lies and start sounding like truth.
That’s when fear gets dangerous.
Because once fear becomes the narrator of your story, it doesn’t just affect your behavior. It changes how you see yourself. And when you start living from a place of fear instead of love, everyone around you feels it.
The Bible isn’t silent on fear. In fact, some form of “Do not be afraid” shows up over 300 times. Not because God expects us to be fearless robots, but because He knows how quickly fear takes over.
But here’s the good news. Scripture doesn’t just say “Don’t fear.” It tells us why we don’t have to.
“Do not fear, for I am with you.” (Isaiah 41:10)
“When I am afraid, I put my trust in You.” (Psalm 56:3)
“Perfect love drives out fear.” (1 John 4:18)
The antidote to fear isn’t control. Its presence. God’s presence.
When we remember that He is with us, for us, and not surprised by anything we’re walking through, fear loses some of its power. It doesn’t disappear completely. But it doesn’t get to be in charge anymore.
- Call it out: Name the fear. Out loud. Write it down. Bring it into the light. Fear thrives in silence and shame. You don’t have to let it.
- Interrupt the soundtrack: When fear starts spinning its favorite hits, hit pause. Ask yourself if this fear is telling you the truth or just a scary possibility.
- Anchor in truth: What does God say about you? Go back to Scripture. You are chosen. You are loved. You are not forsaken. That identity is unshakable even when life feels shaky.
- Let people in: Whether it’s your spouse, a friend, or a therapist, don’t fight fear alone. It gets a lot smaller when it’s shared.
- Give yourself grace: Fear doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. Jesus didn’t roll His eyes at people who were afraid. He moved toward them. He does the same with you.
I never became a basketball star. The Spurs haven’t called. But that 8th grade moment stuck with me for a reason. It was the first time I realized how quickly a little fear can turn into a wildfire when I let it name me.
Since then, I’ve had other fears. Bigger ones. More grown-up ones. And while I don’t have a perfect track record of handling them, I’ve learned this.
Fear doesn’t get to define me. God does.
So if fear has been running the show in your life lately, maybe it’s time to change the soundtrack. Maybe it’s time to remember that fear is a terrible boss, a manipulative narrator, and an absolutely useless motivator.
You are more than what fear says about you.
You are loved. Chosen. Held.
And most of all, you’re not alone.
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