The question I am asking myself as a writer and teacher of spirituality these days is “What do I know that could help? What lives in my practice that could support others? What larger patterns are also the ones I know well?” I can only ever teach what I know, what I have lived experience of. Other fantastic folks are creating wonderful lists of actions that can be taken (I’m going to keep directing you to 5calls.org as a good place to start), resistance efforts to join, and organizations to donate to and support if possible. You should read those suggestions too and act on the ones that you can.
But what do I know?
I know fear.
Sounds strange, doesn’t it? I’m a performer, a leader of rituals, a teacher, and a dyed-in-the-wool extrovert. I’m an explorer of dangerous magical and transcendental practices. I’m a former Marine, an occupation that proclaims it doesn’t have a margin for fear.
And yet. The other thing I am is the owner-operator of an anxiety disorder. I don’t know what it’s like to not be afraid. I haven’t known what that feels like since I was around 13, long enough ago that true fearlessness may as well be something that never happened in the first place. I don’t remember what it feels like to not be afraid.
I’ve spent years learning ways to sit with fear, to dance with her, to hear her out without letting her run away with me. Some of those techniques are practical, some are more mystical, some are a fusion of the two. Maybe some of them will help you if you are experiencing more fear right now.
One thing I find useful to remember is what fear truly is. Fear is a survival instinct, a deeply embedded warning system that allowed our species to continue to this present moment. Fear is one of the tools of durability, of continuance. Fear is what saved our ancestors from countless potentially fatal encounters. Fear is one of the reasons we are here at all. Without it, our species never would have made it this far. This world is as much one of darkness as of light.
For me, fear is a fairly specific voice: one of the many internal narrators that occupy my inner landscape. And in my experience, it was helpful to give my fear a face so I could speak with it, with her, more directly.
My fear is a frightened child in need of comfort. Her world is unpredictable, uncontrollable, as the world of children always is. She doesn’t understand the things that are happening around her, these threats in the darkness. She is all the frightened children my ancestors have been, their own struggles and trauma as much a part of my DNA as their bravery is. She races up to me, bare feet scratched and dirty from running over the hard-packed earth. She barrels into my chest. “Danger is coming! We must hide! We must run!” She holds onto my heart, her terrified presence almost a palpable pressure in my chest.
Years ago, before I learned to talk with her, her grip was strong enough that she was often in control. The child behind the wheel of an adult vehicle, her bottomless fears governing my choices.
Now, when I feel her crashing into me, we talk.
I start by saying thank you. I know that sounds strange, but remember who she is: the warning system. A good one. A warning system that sustained our species for 300,000 years or so.
I imagine bundling her into my arms. “Thank you sweetheart. I know you’re frightened. Tell me what’s wrong.”
I let her speak, her words tumbling out so quickly that the sentences eventually become meaningless, dissolving into a repetition of “and then, and then, and then.”
I hold her close. “I know. I’m so glad you told me. I know it’s scary right now. But you know what? We’re an adult. We have wonderful friends and community. We’re going to figure this out together. We’ve survived so many other things and we will find a way to survive this too. We’ll get through this somehow. We always do.”
I can feel the grip on my heart ease, feel her soften against my chest, my adult self cradling my frightened child self in my arms. We talk about who we are now, how strong we’ve become, how much we trust the other people in my life and how wonderful they are.
She never completely fades. There’s always a pale shiver in my heart. But she is the frightened child sitting next to me now, and not the one at the driver’s wheel.
I learned that for me, being afraid is not a good reason to stop. For me, fear is often an indicator of exactly where I should be going and what I should be leaning into. Every time I pass through another gateway of fear, she learns that the experience is something we survive. Every new moment of survival is another deep breath she can take.
If you are sitting with fear, what does it look like? What form does it take? What voice does it use? Thank it for warning you. See if it has anything else to say. Have a conversation with that piece of Self. All of us are a collective of different voices and bits of personality and qualities and shadows. If you acknowledge this one and talk to it, what changes?
Another thing that helps me is doing something physical. My fear often needs an outlet, and if that outlet is the creation of a gift to my future self, even better. Sometimes that outlet is garden work. I’m really into permaculture and growing a lot of my own food. So, when the fear is bad, I spend half an hour digging a new pollinator patch or pulling weeds or filling another keyhole bed so I can plant it later. Sometimes that outlet is house work. I thrive in clean, ordered environments, so I pick a spot and make one for me. Sometimes that outlet is food preparation. I make and then can or freeze a big batch of food for later when I need it. I allow the fear to work itself out, and make that work an investment – a gift for myself and my family further down the line. More flowers. A clean living room. A hearty stew.
Sometimes my fear needs to know she is not alone. When her anxious litany features a sense of isolation, I plug in. I engage with community, and specifically with community who are working to build the world to come. I make phone calls and write emails, I coordinate events or answer questions in forums. I prove to my fear that we are many, and that our collective labor is impactful. As Rev. Carl Gregg is fond of saying, “If you feel like one person alone, stop being one person alone.”
The beings I work with most closely in my spiritual practice are also helpful guides for managing fear. My main guide takes the form of one of the largest and most terrifying mammals on this earth. The deity I primarily serve is a battle queen and sorceress, a wanderer in the wild, and as sovereign and independent as they come. The ancestors I interact with most closely are obstreperous and tenacious. If your spiritual path includes work with entities beyond the physical plane, seek the fierce spirits and let them teach you.
On a practical level, sometimes my fear needs to be reminded of what’s real. So much of what she speaks of is possibilities, dark dreams that have yet to manifest. A teacher and friend phrases it as a question: “What do I know right now?” When I awaken from nightmares, I ask myself “What is real right now?” What is real is the arms of my beloved, the soft bed, the weight of the cat on my feet. What I know right now is that I am writing to you, that my community is working to build a better world, that helpers are everywhere, and that I am warm enough and have enough to eat.
Lastly, my fear sometimes needs to be reminded of what we’re striving for and where we’re going. I use affirmations for this. Affirmations take a lot of kicking around because they get co-opted and used poorly, or in support of spiritual bypassing, but I don’t know a single talented practitioner who doesn’t use them. An affirmation is simply an I-am statement designed to shift your mindset. Repetition of the affirmation helps plant a different internal narrative that is more aligned with your goals. For example, one of mine is: “I am breathing deeply and feel my feet firmly planted on the earth.” I’m not promising myself sparkly unicorns farting rainbows. I’m simply reminding myself to breathe and feel rooted. I am shifting my headspace to where I wish to be by changing the narrative. I am breathing. I am grounded.
As someone who lives with the constant presence of fear, I hope these tools will help you. Thank your fear, and speak with it. Give it something to do and somewhere to go. Remind it that you are not alone. Connect with spiritual practices and presences that inspire determination. Remember what is real. Shift the narrative.
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So, those are my techniques for managing fear and anxiety. What are yours? Hit me up in the comments. You never know when your ideas are exactly what another witch needs to read.
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