Your post, Peter, is so meaningful to me, so special, it’s difficult for me to put it to rest till the morrow.

You wrote, “I see I have named a fear – to be misunderstood… I have named other fears, to be lost and alone… the tension of feeling separate from the world I know I’m not separate from.”-

A lost and alone boy, misunderstood (your shyness misunderstood as being conceited, I remember from what you shared July 3, 2018). I get a glimpse of how it was for you, way back then.

And I feel honored that you shared this with me.

Anita

Dear Peter:

“I may still scream… just not in desperation… a holy scream. Not a scream of ‘save me!’, but the scream ‘I am here!’ Not desperation, but declaration. Not collapse, but liberation. Not trying to flee the fire but becoming the flame.”-

I’m in awe of these words—they’re so powerful. My scream has long been “save me!” Oh, how much trouble that cry has brought me.

I was desperate. For a long, long… long time.

But now—not fleeing the fire but becoming the flame—this is what’s beginning to take place within me. I’m open to more of it. More of becoming the flame.

I’ll be back in the morning to continue the conversation. Looking forward to it.

And thank you, Peter.

Warmly, Anita 🤍

Dear Emma, Thank you for your empathy and support—it means so much. It’s nighttime here, and I’ll need the focus I hope to have in the morning to reply to you with the care your message deserves.

Wishing you all the best, Anita

Dear Peter:

“The pull between detachment and engagement, between Yes and No to Life as it is. (common theme to my posts)… How do we remain present in the fire that is Life without being consumed?… Not seeking to silence the tension, but to let it sing through us.”-

These words struck something deep in me. They made me wonder:

How do we stay present with emotion—without clinging to it, numbing ourselves, or rushing to fix it? How do we let difficult feelings sing through us… instead of scream “Danger! Danger!” at every turn?

My earliest memory of fear came when I was five or six. It was the middle of the night, and I heard my mother scream at my father that she was going to kill herself. Then she left—into the dark. I believed her. I didn’t yet have the tools to understand whether it was a threat or a certainty.

What was objectively dangerous was the possibility of her death. But the fear of that danger became my constant companion. That fear grew too big to hold, too loud to hear clearly, so I did what many do—I tried to detach from it, numb it, or fix it. And I carried that habit with me for decades.

What I’m trying to say is: for some of us, especially when we’re young and vulnerable, emotion itself—especially fear—becomes what we fear. It becomes the danger. When it starts too early and lasts too long, we internalize that fear as something unbearable. And we spend our lives trying to outrun it.

Your words made me wonder whether you’ve ever written anything on July 2nd (I have a thing for numbers). I found a post from July 3, 2018:

“I was very shy and fearful growing up.”-

Like me, you were a fearful child. And from what I’ve lived, we don’t simply outgrow fear—we learn to dress it differently. Sometimes in intellectual clothing. Sometimes in silence.

Also, while scrolling through your posts, I noticed you’re a couple years younger than me 🙂

Back to that same post, you wrote: “The anxiety we feel is of our own making and all of it based on illusion.”-

I understand the illusion piece. But sometimes, the origin of anxiety isn’t illusion—especially when it’s rooted in real moments that overwhelmed a young nervous system. The loss of a parent—whether through abandonment, threat, or emotional absence—is biologically coded as dangerous. A child can’t be expected to sort imagined threat from actual danger.

You also wrote back then: “Every moment… every breath every moment a reincarnation.”- That line made me pause. I may not be able to kill the old fear, but maybe I can live beside it. Maybe I can make peace with it.

Your meditative practice offered a structure I want to try—not to silence the fear, but to witness it. Maybe I’ll meditate on it and let it sing rather than scream. I’d love to share what comes up here in your thread, if that’s okay with you. And if not, I completely understand—I’ll find space for it elsewhere.

I wonder, too: have you named your own fear—the one born in your own childhood? Might it help to let that voice be heard?

And before I close: congratulations on doing something new. Sharing a practice like this is a beautiful step forward—not just as a writer, but as someone living through the tension, rather than standing outside it.

Warmly, Anita 🤍

Dear CinCin:

You’re very welcome—and thank you for your kind words.

I really hear what you’re saying about the difference between simply being invited and feeling truly included. It’s not just about the plans—it’s about feeling wanted from the beginning, not added at the last minute. That’s a very real and important difference.

I admire how openly you’ve spoken with your wife, even when the answers aren’t clear. That kind of honesty takes courage. So does continuing to search for understanding instead of burying the pain.

You deserve to feel considered and included—not just invited. I hope this helps affirm that your feelings truly matter.

If it feels okay to ask, I wonder if this experience stirred up something even older—maybe from earlier in life? It’s so common for past hurts to echo through present moments, especially when they involve feeling unseen or left out. That kind of pain has deep roots, and if it ever feels right to explore it, I’d be here with care.

🤍 Anita