The Fear Is In Our Head

We’ve all heard it at some point in our lives—
“You’re probably making it worse than it is.”
“Don’t worry, it can’t be that big of a deal.”

And yet, fear is real. No matter how much we know this to be true, sometimes it feels nearly impossible to believe it—especially when the thing we are afraid to share is who we truly are.

For several years, I had been terrified to share my journey of discovering myself with my closest childhood friend—my ride or die. Even though we had only seen each other a handful of times over the last twenty years, he was that person. That one I knew would always be there for me, just as I would always be there for him.

But this was news I was terrified would impact our friendship.

Despite many friends being accepting of me, I had been wrestling with the distancing of my family and some friends, and the very real possibility of ultimate rejection. Coming out to those closest to me about being transgender has been one of the greatest challenges of my journey. 

It’s relatively easy to share with acquaintances or people with whom you don’t have deep emotional ties. Mentally, it’s easier to say, “It’s okay if they don’t accept me—it’s their loss.”  But sharing with those you love and care about? That fear is monumental as is the very real threat of rejection.

The closer the relationship, the harder it is. The fear of rejection—of losing someone who matters deeply—can be nearly paralyzing. Often, that fear becomes is a projection: the very thing we hope others won’t do to us. Yet we are doing it to them instead of allowing them to meet and see us for who we are.  It leads to avoidance, rumination, and the inability to believe that things might be okay… or even better than okay.

There’s no roadmap for how or when to tell someone you love that you’re trans or to come out in other ways.  The personal struggles and journey of self-acceptance can take years and often comes with immense pain, so it’s completely rational to be afraid of how the news will be received, especially by those who mean the most to us.

I found this especially true as the weight of hiding who I am grew heavier over time. Having previously not handled sharing with my family well—and hurting them in the process—I reached a point where I knew I couldn’t keep carrying the burden. No matter how scared I was, I had to share, even if it meant risking the loss of another person who meant the world to me.

When we get stuck in our own heads, projecting worst-case outcomes, we blind ourselves to other possibilities, even if we have examples that disprove our fear. The thought that sharing might strengthen a relationship often doesn’t even enter our minds. We brace ourselves for rejection and tell ourselves in advance, “It will be their loss. I’ll be okay.”  I, mean after all, I had convinced myself for most of my life that okay was good enough, but the last few years I have come to appreciate that just ok is not good enough anymore.

Deep down, I doubted whether I would truly be okay if the rejection I feared became real. And if you had told me, it could be better than okay, I would have laughed. 

Why do we or anyone for that matter assume rejection is inevitable? Why do we frame conversations with “I’m afraid” and “this might cost us our relationship”?

If someone loves us, why are we so afraid?

The fear lives within us—but it’s also shaped by the world around us, by countless examples of rejection and misunderstanding, but at the end of the day at some point we all have to be able to be and share who we are.

Then the text came…

“Whatever your worries about telling me, just stop worrying. It’s me. Outside of my wife and kids, you’re one of the few people I love in this world. You tell me when you’re ready. I’m here.”

I had been scared for years. I had hinted that I needed to talk, that there was something big I needed to share—but I couldn’t move past the fear until that message arrived.

“Just stop worrying. I love you. I’m here.”

Several days later, after several hours on the phone, I said goodbye with, “Love you, buddy.” A phrase I had said thousands of times over nearly five decades of friendship. As kids, we wore a path through the bushes between our houses. We were inseparable, yet independent. We grew up together, lived life side by side for nearly twenty years, and even when distance separated us, we always knew one call was all it took.

Still, when I hung up that night—despite the laughter, the tears, and the hours of conversation—I was terrified. Had I crossed an invisible line? Had I pushed our friendship beyond what it could withstand?

That night, I replayed the conversation over and over, especially his reaction—or rather, his lack of reaction. In his uniquely calm way, he simply said, “Okay.” Not dismissively, but affirmatively. It was going to be okay. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Three things he said will stay with me forever.

The first was:
“I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you—and I don’t mean the last few years. I mean your entire life.”

The second was simply:
“Why wouldn’t I want you to be happy?”

He had walked alongside me through some of my hardest childhood moments, including when I was hospitalized during my freshman year of high school. In fact, he was the one who pushed me to try out for the soccer team on my first day back after nearly three months away—helping me re-enter life gently, yet confidently.

And here he was again, more than thirty-five years later, offering that same soft landing.

The third  brought both laughter and tears:   For years, whenever we saw each other, we shared what we jokingly called a “Mosey hug”—a hug complete with grabbing each other’s bums and shouting “Mosey!” As he asked questions and we talked through my journey, he paused and said, “Wait… so top surgery means you want a boob job?” 

I said yes.

He replied, “Well then… can I grab them?”

I laughed and cried at the same time. It was the most perfect response full of his humor, love, and normalcy wrapped into one. With the caveat of his wife’s permission (which she granted, as long as they’re not bigger than hers).  I now look forward to a future upgraded hug, maybe it will be dubbed the Dolly hug, in honor of Mrs. Parton herself.

After two hours, we had said goodbye. Even though a massive weight had been lifted, the fear still lingered.  

Emotionally exhausted that night, I went to bed nervous but slept well.   The next morning, before I even had time to spiral in fear or overanalyzing the impact on our friendship another text came through:
“Great talking to you. I’m here for you.”

Over the coming days, we fell back into our friendship—sharing our days, checking in on one another, and betting on English Premier League matches. Even if my beloved Manchester United finishes behind his Liverpool, I’ll gladly buy him a deep-dish pizza in Chicago. Sharing that pie with my best friend will still make me a winner.

Our fears in life are valid and real, but often, they are just that—ours.  Often, they are fueled by self-doubt and past experiences, that cause us to build walls that prevent us from moving forward. Yes, it is highly likely that for every response filled with care and love, there will be others that are not—and that will be okay.

Because it’s the loving responses we must hold onto.

The journey of finding oneself is never easy. It’s full of twists, setbacks, and uncertainty. For those of us who are trans, the journey comes with unique challenges—and unexpected gifts. I’m learning that some of the hardest obstacles aren’t actually the fears of others, but those which I project onto others.

Yes, people may look at me differently. Yes, they may judge. But that happens and will happen regardless. What matters are the people like my ride-or-die—those who fill me with strength, courage, and love, reminding me that I won’t just be okay.

They remind me that I will be better than ok, that I will thrive.

It’s the friends like this, that enable me to each day step out into the world and overcome my fear, knowing that I’m not alone and that I will not be just ok but better than ok.   

 And if I do loose the bet, well that will be ok, because I cannot wait for my pizza and my Dolly hug—they won’t come soon enough.