I’ve never been afraid to travel – not really, anyway. I’ve travelled solo, crossed borders without blinking, and taken off on long-haul adventures with nothing but excitement (and maybe a well-packed suitcase). I remember standing at the airport before a six-month trip, crying ugly tears – not because I didn’t want to go, but because I was going to miss my family. The fear of actual travel has never been there. Maybe a little nervousness about the unknown, but honestly, who doesn’t feel that? And the unknown is where I’ve always felt the most alive.
From confident traveller to unexpected fear
But a few days ago, fear snuck up on me in the least adventurous place imaginable: the pavement. And quite honestly, it knocked me for six.
One moment I was walking along minding my own business, the next I was sprawled out on the concrete wailing like a banshee. Cue: one cut and swollen knee, two grazed hands, and my first-ever black eye – the kind that made people wonder if I’d gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson. Not exactly the travel aesthetic I was going for…
The fear that had nothing to do with travel
And for the first time in a long time, I felt afraid. Not of the world out there, but of the body I live in. Afraid that this simple, silly accident could be a reminder of how fragile we all are. Afraid of what it might mean if I didn’t heal properly. Afraid of the what-ifs that keep parents awake at night – what if I couldn’t be there to watch my little boy grow up? What if I didn’t get to finish this beautiful life I’m still so busy building?
It’s funny, isn’t it? I’ve crossed borders without blinking, but a bruised body made me feel small. Vulnerable. Human.
I won’t lie – I wallowed in this feeling for a couple of days. I was angry at myself and also strangely emotional. (And yes, I did a lot of fear-Googling to convince myself I hadn’t done permanent damage.)
What bravery really looks like
But here’s what I’m learning: bravery doesn’t mean never being scared. It just means walking forward anyway, even when fear tags along beside you. I used to think courage was all about bold steps and fearless leaps. But maybe sometimes it’s just getting up off the pavement, dusting yourself off, and deciding to try again tomorrow.
Still in the story
So, what do I do with that fear now?
I sit with it. I let it remind me to slow down — not forever, but for now. I ice my knee, rest my body, and hug my little boy for that extra bit longer (until he wriggles away – cuddles are on his terms, guys!).
And soon enough, when the swelling goes down and the bruises fade, I’ll step back out into the world. Because I still want to see everything. I still want to go everywhere. I want to climb mountains, swim in oceans, and get lost in cities where I can’t read the signs. I want to tell my little boy stories of far-off places and show him what it looks like to live boldly – even when you’re a little bit scared.
Underneath the fear, there’s gratitude. Gratitude that I get to be here, banged up and bruised, but still in the story. Still making memories, still holding hands, still dreaming of what comes next.
Keep going – a little slower, a little braver
And this little interlude has reminded me: bruises fade. Fear softens. And the world will still be waiting when I’m ready to meet it again.
So to my fellow travellers, dreamers, and parents: may we all keep going – a little slower some days, a little braver on others, but always forward.
In the meantime, I’ll be over here… icing my knee, dodging mirrors, and trying to figure out how to be a little less clumsy (wish me luck!).
Ever had one of those moments (clumsy or otherwise) that totally threw you off? Please share your story and tell me I’m not the only one!
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