Life was war these last eight years. Acceptance to medical school, grinding through exams, and graduating from residency were all proxy conflicts; the true battle pitted me against fear. The territory in question was wholeness.
When I resigned from medicine, I figured the war would be over, that fear would surrender and providence would be mine.
How mistaken I was.
The war imparted purpose and meaning to my existence; I had an enemy and sought means to defeat the enemy. It went something like this: I do not want to be a doctor, but I’m here, so how do I figure this out? The first battles were on the hillsides of acceptance and personal sacrifice (where I tried to find myself in medicine), then it transformed onto the beaches of escape (I looked for any means of safe retreat and rescue) and finally culminated with my storming of the gates. There, on the other side of those gates, awaited… more of me.
The person defined and created inside of the war, was the person who seized power after the war. This created a challenging dynamic: how do I build a life I want while knowing the life I’ve had?
Inside of battle, I adapted to the environment, becoming emotionally leaner and comfortable inside limitation. I rationed my happiness for so long, it became customary (if not preferred) to set aside autonomy. It’s sad, but I became used to the rule of the tyrant (fear). I became the fight against the tyrant.
I know well that fractured, war-torn state of being. So well, it’s proved hard to leave that known, although hellish, war behind.
Last week, I did the unthinkable; I rebooted the war.
My wife and I opened Pandora’s box of possibility last month, after her saying, “You know, I’d like the opportunity for us to choose where we live next and maybe it’s not here.” I was surprised but giddy. After that first conversation, a course was set; it was time to check out of Hotel California. We wondered if this was pure escape, if we were running from our problems, etc.—tactics I know well—but assigned this as building, not escaping.
Leaving stepped us closer to what we wanted, and that’s all the permission we needed. And go after it we did for the last month, matching locations to our priorities—community, outdoors, and proximity to family—leading us to North Carolina.
Yet, on the eve of hitting “Full Send” on our next chapter of life, my internal war fired back up. Doubts returned. Perfectionism filtered every option. I felt immense fear at making the wrong choice, of fucking it all up. I was convincing myself out of our designed, heartfelt choice. What was happening?
Then it clicked: I was comfortable being unhappy and limited, so I was recreating it. If I couldn’t identify a perfect solution, without risk, my war-torn eyes deemed it not worth pursuing. Choosing what I wanted (what we, here and now, wanted) and being happy, was novel and terrifying.
Where was the enemy? Where was the known terrain? Where was my footing?
Notice the absolutes. Absolutes are the hallmark of a fear-aligned thought process. Life is uncertain, unpredictable, and beautiful, but fear was shutting off that tap, again.
For many years, I was content with forfeiting, thereby controlling the outcome, instead of giving it everything I had and living with the results, whatever they be.
Thanks to the lessons (and scars) of that eight-year warpath, I was able to choose life, not fear, and we’re risking what we know for what we dream, narrowly dodging a rebooted battle with fear and limitation.
With a battle dodged, I’m slowly accepting the war will live on, following me to my grave. Graciously, I submit to that battle and know that I’m best equipped when fighting for the dream (not fear).
Just know you are helping do many by sharing this journey, Ryan.
Nancy, Thank you! Gotta trust in sharing the journey.