8th January- Day 8
Facing fear has always been the central theme of my work. When fear is intense, it almost has a smell. In my first professional role as a dentist, the shift towards therapy began before I was even consciously aware of it. I naturally gravitated towards seeing disproportionately more frightened clients. For those of you with dental anxiety, you’ll understand this isn’t a peripheral fear. With some regularity, I’d hear women declare they’d rather give birth again than sit in the dental chair. It was sobering to hear, and for those not saying it outright, their fear was palpable.
This may sound dramatic, but when fear is so dense, it almost takes on a form. As a psychotherapist, I continued helping people confront fear—fear of the past, fear of trauma, and specifically, using exposure therapy to desensitise them to their fear triggers incrementally and voluntarily.
Now, as a creative coach, fear remains front and centre. Out of all the fears I’ve encountered, the biggest for creatives is fear of the future—of their own potential. Strangely, the unknown of success is often scarier than their psychological past or even the immediate present, like sitting in the dentist’s chair. It might sound counterintuitive, but many people are more frightened of their own success than of failure.
As I dive deeper into exclusive creative coaching, the hunt for fear continues. Fear acts as an inverse compass. Together, my clients and I brainstorm all their creative projects. We put them on a board and create a fear podium: gold, silver, and bronze. I ask them, “Which of these projects scares you the most?” That’s the one they must tackle.
However, not many people can go straight for the gold medal fear. Most start with the bronze. This isn’t an insult to them—it’s a compliment. Even in the room, when we name their fears and put them on the board, you can feel the fear physically manifest. Naming fear, calling it into existence, is terrifying but necessary. The unspeakable act, the uncreated work, the art bursting to come forth—it’s almost always the most frightening thing on their list. Otherwise, they’d have done it already.
I’ve faced fear myself, as we all have. In Greek mythology, fear was personified by two brothers: Deimos (dread or terror) and Phobos (panic or fear), the sons of Ares, the god of war. They accompanied him into battle, and it’s easy to imagine them roaming among the troops on the eve of combat. Together, they represent the complexity of fear: Deimos, the paralysing anticipation of what might happen, and Phobos, the visceral, immediate reaction to danger.
Phobos gives us the word "phobia," and exposure therapy works well for this type of fear. But Deimos is harder to confront. Phobos is the fear you feel when you're in the thick of it, but Deimos stops you before you even start. He freezes you in place, paralyses you, and whispers your worst fears in your ear—especially fear of the unknown.
This is why fear of success is so prevalent for creatives. Success brings unknown territory: attention, responsibility, and visibility. The frustrated creative might rationalise their inaction as staying true to their values, but often it’s a deeper fear—putting themselves out there and bearing their soul in public.
There’s a strong connection between creative blocks and adverse childhood experiences. Many of my clients have histories of neglect, abuse, or other traumas. These experiences often shape a fear of success. For example, the overweight woman who avoids singing lessons may have gained weight to escape the attention of a narcissistic father or abusive uncle. The talented athlete might suppress creativity on the field because, as a child, they were beaten or humiliated by a parent or coach. The creative entrepreneur might avoid taking risks because bootstrapping feels too much like the deprivation of their childhood. These fears often translate into a fear of the unknown and, ultimately, a fear of success.
This poem is dedicated to all of my clients whose inner artists were neglected, abused, unseen, avoided, envied, humiliated, sabotaged, instead of what should have happened—to be celebrated as the most integral and beautiful part of them.
I delight in your success—big and small. If you can’t yet believe in yourself, you can hotspot off my belief until yours grows stronger.
I absolutely cannot wait to see what comes of your creative recovery. It is not about reach or influence or talent or followers or money or status or any of that—although abundant and good things will flow into your lives and the lives of your friends, families, and children (and this has already started in earnest). This is really just scratching the surface of what I believe you to be capable of.
We live in the belly of a paradox, and we know two things in a generic sense:
Your parents did the best they could.
In service of your inner creative, it was not good enough.
We do not need to point fingers or throw them under the bus. I say this not as a coach or therapist but as a parent myself. Dropped balls are part of the process. In some cases, these balls are a handful of pool cues; in others—let’s be honest—it’s a shitload of Swiss balls. Nobody gets a hundred percent.
Sometimes, though, Deimos will line you up for a fight that isn’t yours. Maybe you wake up in a life that doesn’t feel like your own. Deimos will tell you you’re trapped, but every decent myth has someone slipping away on the eve of battle to fight a more important one. It’s not cowardice—it’s wisdom.
Never underestimate how much impact your creative output will have on the world. It might just show someone else that this fight is also not their own, and what seems like an impasse might just be a rough-hewn wall or thorny hedge.
There is no shortage of underwhelming and totally blocked people who will tell you that you are crazy, malignant, too much, irresponsible, or whatever. But jump forward with the sure-footedness of a child who knows the way better than you do. The view from the top is worth the climb.
Quick Lime
Deimos roams the ranks of men,
Demarcates their holding pen.
Stakes in mud on battle’s edge,
A rough-hewn wall,
A thorny hedge.
He scatters quicklime round their heads,
Then - slaked with rain,
They’re good as dead.
Faceless now.
The same.
This Knoll of corpses
(boys can climb it).
surefooted and unseen.
Hand emerge,
with this ascension.
Caustic couloirs,
beneath comprehension.
Rags torn from limbs
nothing sacred
and summit now,
completely naked.
Niall Campbell