When I was younger, I thought politics was just a bunch of boring people in suits sitting around a conference table talking on C-Span for hours. Being political involved the option of agreeing to disagree. Right now, I miss those days. I used to be able to go for weeks and months without needing to pay attention to the latest news. But, now, every hour is Breaking News.
My original plan for this week was a Flashback article I wrote about a restaurant in 2012. Then, I came home to find out, yet another person was gunned down in the Minneapolis. Within minutes, excuses were made by politicians about why Alex Pretti was murdered. This, only weeks after the deaths of Renee Good and Keith Porter. They could have been any of us.
Excuses cannot be made anymore. You can’t say “They only go after criminals” when children are being kidnapped from school. You can’t say, “It’s about safety,” when the people causing the fear are ICE agents.
A year ago, I was told that if I had the means I should leave the country, because it’s getting worse. Truthfully, I love my country. When I say I love my country, I do not mean it in a strange, worshipful way. Nor, do I remotely like anything about the current so- called leadership.
I love the beauty of different climates, landmarks, quaint little towns, the creativity, and the quirkiness of people from all 50 states. I love communities that will help each other during disasters. Most of all, I love family, friends, acquaintances, and strangers who deserve to live lives free of fear. This is why I stay. Because, we all deserve better.
I never wanted to be political. And, I’m not. Because, this isn’t about policies. This isn’t about negotiation. This is the difference between Loving Your Neighbor and cheering for harm against someone because they don’t look or think exactly like you.
No matter who you are, my main concern isn’t about your physical appearance, language, or gender. All I want to know is, are you kind? All the hero stories taught me that in the end, good does prevail. Which side are you on?
Fear sustains me. I am an anxious mess of convoluted worries and scattered priorities, sprinkled on a heaping mound of tangled nerves, and plated beside a trauma en cocotte. Fear has been the guiding motivator in my life for several years now, and my nervous system is requesting a sabbatical. Fortunately, I’ve been lucky enough to travel to magnificent places, try outlandish foods, and participate in inspiring spectacles that changed the lives of hundreds. I’ve eaten sun-dried river shrimp in an isolated village in Nicaragua, infiltrated the gated aquifer in Oaxaca wherein Nacho Libre first encountered his sidekick, Eskeleto, and slurped down raw quail eggs on the banks of the Payette Lake. I’ve fled from javelina and law enforcement while riding a bike, been held-up at gunpoint, rode in a malfunctioning plane over a mountain to the only lake on the planet with fresh water sharks, and buried myself alive.
Oaxaca, MX
I imagine you and I drinking our favorite coffees and talking at a table with our favorite song bumping lightly in the background. We’ve been discussing our dreams and goals for 2026. I just rattled off the bonkers list above, and you’d shake your head at me.
“How, Nate?” you would ask. “How do I put aside my fear and do the hard thing?” I’d snort and shrug. My face would twist into an expression of comical uncertainty.
“I don’t know,” I’d confess. “I just do it afraid.” Ultimately, you’d be unsatisfied with that answer, but it’s the truth.
Hot take: fear is underrated. Fear is the great innate motivator for all self-care decisions. We fill up our gas tank before a trip, so we aren’t stranded in the high desert in July. We pack an extra change of clothes “just in case” we are delayed a day or drop ceviche on our white linen pants. We pay for better insurance, pursue preventative care, and even choose to watch the news, all in the name of being prepared for “the worst” in all its ambiguity. Fear keeps us from high-fiving rattlesnakes and from sitting on splintery logs. Unfortunately, fear also prevents us from progressing.
Oaxaca, MX
Since I was a tiny Tucson tyke, I’d always dreamed of writing a book and becoming a published author. I’d started a bajillion stories and some even got shut down. In August 2023, I began typing up the draft of a manuscript that I had every intention of publishing. It was a vulnerable and dramatic tale of families struggling to survive the Wild West, and I poured my soul into the characters. Some weeks, when I couldn’t think of what to write, I felt it: fear. What if I’m actually a bad writer? What if this story makes people angry? What if I never finish and just quit?What if I never achieve my dream? It was sobering and paralyzing. In the fight-flight-or-freeze scenario, I had become a fainting goat, bouncing down a flight of stairs.
I believe that every creature on Earth is born with their most important survival skill; minutes after birth, giraffes can stand and run; baby vipers can kill a man with a single bite; baby turtles complete an epic race to the sea moments after they’ve hatched. Human beings are no different. While we may lack flippers, venom, and those little knobby-things giraffes have, infant humans have their single most important survival skill at their disposal: they can call for help. Humans are social beasts, and our greatest power is each other. When I was afraid, I asked someone to help.
I asked my brother to help me edit my manuscript. I told him my fears, gave him context, and he agreed to do his best. When I was in Nicaragua, I had my traveler-guru sister with me. When I was breaking rules in Mexico, I had my local besties pressuring me the whole time. I never would have taken those quail egg shots unless I was sharing one with my wife. I’ve often heard how fear always precedes bravery, and how bravery is accomplished by the overcoming of fear, but maybe the bravest thing you can muster is to tell someone you’re afraid. There’s something empowering about being afraid with someone else.
If you’re waiting for the moment you feel ready or postponing a milestone for fear of failure, you’ve chosen the path of the popsicle. Find a fearful friend to carry you, like a frightened Scooby and Shaggy. Reach out a clammy, trembling hand and tell someone how afraid you are of not taking the next step. Don’t wait to feel brave; do it afraid.
What does “doing it afraid” look like for you? Share your thoughts in the comments below and support writing like this through Buy Me a Coffee.
“You were already more beautiful than anything I dared to dream. In our years apart, my imaginings did their best to improve your perfection. At night, your face was forever behind my eyes. And now I see that that vision who kept me company in my loneliness was a hag compared to the beauty now before me.”
These were the words of Westley in William Goldberg’s The Princess Bride when he saw Princess Buttercup after five years apart. Few quotes so perfectly encapsulate my feelings each time I return to Oregon. I’ve visited this awe-inspiring state five times in the last ten years, and each time, it’s a new experience. Each time I want to stay. Each time, leaving feels like heartbreak, and I feel silly crying during take-off.
It’s been three years since my last time back; three years since I’ve seen the world in amazing technicolor, stood in the warmth of the waters at Sunset Bay, seen a cranberry bog, or walked through the radiant gardens of Shore Acres.
My last day in Oregon was the morning of August 27, 2023. Before returning my rental car to the Rogue Valley Airport, I took one more detour down Hwy 99 so I could take the long route from Central Point to Ashland. Ashland, Oregon has always been my magical playground. That morning, it became its own love letter.
Walking through Lithia Park that morning, beneath the lingering haze from the California fires, I walked to the pond and realized– I needed coffee. Unlike my first visit to Ashland in 2016, I was simultaneously much more adventurous and a smidgen more lazy. I had only walked a block before I discovered the tiny Handlebar Bike and Coffee Shop with its scrumptious selection of sweeties, coffee, and a community art wall.
Walking back through Lithia Park with a coffee in hand, I heard music. At first, I couldn’t find the source. Following a path through the park felt like following the sound of my life’s soundtrack, and I wanted to know what the next scene would look like. At the end of the path sat a man wearing a red hat, playing a cello. This was the defining moment when I not only fell in love with the sound of the cello, but also with the spiritual joy of impromptu live music. His name was Daniel Austin Sperry. The song he played I remembered best wasButter Yellow Lullaby Dance for Carol. He said it was a song he wrote for a lady who liked to paint every home she lived in yellow.
“I’m done with the game, the Queen of Hearts called, Crying for past illusion’s abyss Of a home of butter yellow And memories not her own. Life turned its corner Once the strings were cut. A card of music was turned; The Ace wore red While drinking from a turquoise cup. The trees coughed and whispered their applause.”
As Daniel played, I scrawled out some poetic nonsense that only I would understand. Reading it now, I captured a description of the moment in all its ephemeral sanctity.
That moment encapsulated everything I love about Oregon; the literature-inspired architecture of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival overlooking the park, the colorful yoga mats waiting for the morning class as a student who looked like Gandalf warmed up nearby, a doe and her fawn strolling along the lawn and past the stores as if going school shopping, an outdoor market set up nearby with artists who enjoy taking a moment to share about their creative journeys and beam with happiness when their work was discovered and cherished.
Oregon is where I first noticed the main character vibes of the world. A place where the scenery and atmosphere flirt with the senses, making the moment feel like a movie and the main character (you) feel alive. It’s beautiful and tragic all at once, fulfilling and fleeting.
This is my love letter to you, Oregon. We’ll be together soon.
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