Notes on Fear: Unlearning the Lesson of Correctness

It has been over thirty years since I first stepped onto a stage to tell a story and into a classroom to teach. Three decades of practicing these sister arts, of wrestling with words, and of guiding others to find their own. Yet, after all this time, I find myself reflecting not on what I have mastered, but on what I am still learning.

When I speak with fellow writers, storytellers, and students, one shadow looms larger than any other: fear.

We talk about writer’s block, stage fright, or the anxiety of the blank page. But we rarely look upstream to find the source. Where did we actually learn to fear? And why do we allow it to drive our creative decisions?

The Architecture of the Desk

Unfortunately, we learn fear very early. If it doesn't take root at home, it almost certainly begins in our schools.

Please don't misunderstand me: I am an educator, and I believe teachers possess some of the greatest hearts in the world. They see the raw promise in their students. But teachers are also human beings who were raised within a system of fear, and without conscious intervention, they put that system on repeat.

Think back to early childhood. Educators of young children understand the sacred magic of the story rug. On the rug, we sit in a circle. It is a space designed for listening just as much as sharing. On the rug, dragons fly with us. It is a landscape of pure discovery.

But as we get older, we are moved from the rug to the desk.

[The Story Rug] ---------> [The Desk]
Circle of Discovery        Rows of Correctness
Dragons fly with us        Speak only with evidence
Listening & Sharing        Silence is an emergency

At the desk, the rules change. We are told to speak only when we have something "right" to say. We learn that answers belong exclusively in books, and that our own inner worlds require external evidence to be valid. We transition from a point of wild discovery to a point of rigid correctness.

The Fear of the Silence

In this transition, we also learn to fear the quiet.

Teachers, generally speaking, do not like silence. At a very young age, we are incentivized to go first, to shout out, to fill the room. We are told there are rewards if we speak first, not realizing speaking is the reward.

Speaking and sharing is a gift and we need not use language that sharing out loud is a fearful action. Instead, it is a gift no one else can give in the same way.

Silence is treated like a failure of instruction.

Yet, cognitive research tells us the exact opposite: it is in active rest and reflection that meaning is made.

As an educator, I must make a conscious, daily effort to remind myself of this truth. Today, however, I watch future teachers resign themselves to commercialized, rigid curriculums. They rush through lessons, completely ignoring "wait time." They treat a pause not as an invitation for curiosity, but as a vacuum that must be filled.

They miss the rich joy and value in the space between the notes.

Still, I also see the teachers and pre-service teachers filled with wonder.

Proceed with Wonder

Fear is a highly effective short-term motivator, which is why the roots of competition and classroom management grip it so tightly. I have spoken with well-meaning educators who genuinely believe they must build a baseline of fear so students will "do the work." Learning can be work, but should it not have more value than to avoid consequence?

To them, and to myself when I feel that impulse, I say: Pause.

I am reminded of what the philosopher Albert Camus once wrote:

"Nothing is more despicable than respect based on fear."

When we motivate through fear, we encourage people to stop listening. We kill the joy of discovery. Instead of manufacturing panic, we must ask: What can I do right now to help my students build a sense of wonder?

We must pause, then proceed with interest and care—not fear.

New Eyes

The French novelist Marcel Proust famously noted:

"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes."

As a storyteller, I am constantly working to look for the story I am not seeking—the one hiding in the margins. As an educator, I must remember that while there are thousands of ways to teach a single lesson, my true job is to attract students to see it in a way that ignites their curiosity.

Fear is a learned behavior. Because it is taught, it can also be unlearned. If we can find the courage to grant our children—and ourselves—more wait time and more space to breathe, we will naturally fear less.

And we will discover so much more.

What's Next: In my next post, I want to dive deeper into what fear actually has to teach us when it does show up. If you know me, you know I can't stay in the dark for too long—so we will also talk about the radical value of play. Fear is often temporal, but play might just be the exact release we need to become new, while finally valuing who we have always been.

I invite you to this discussion.

Where did you first learn creative fear, and how do you fight your way back to the story rug? Let me know in the comments below.

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