Too afraid to fly

This has nothing to do with planes.

Although the thought of getting on one makes me cringe.

Not out of fear. That’s another story.

This has a bit to do about writing.

It has a lot to do with photography.

But you’ll see no pictures here. They’re over there, on my other website.

This has everything to do with the lack of confidence I have in myself.

A fear of taking off from a life of security and flying into the great unknown.

You see, I do fancy myself a half-decent photographer. Friends and family tell me I’m better than that. My husband, a.k.a. My American, thinks I should be selling my work.

Yet I can’t bring myself to do that.

I become gripped with fear.

Fear that I will be rejected.


Or worse even than that.


Fear that no one will see the beauty in my pictures, my sometimes stark pictures of abandoned farms and monochromatic fields of wheat.

Fear that putting my soul — the piece of me that brings me joy and calm and escape from the mundane busy, the busy mundane — won’t stir anyone else’s soul.

And the effort will be for naught.

This is a journey into my fear, with a goal to guide myself out.

Where the path takes us, I don’t know, but the only way I know to travel is to write.

I hope creative friends will share their own stories, maybe confess to some fears, and we can help each other get there.


  1. Dear Angela, I’ve suffered from this kind of anxiety my entire life, which means I’ve wasted years and years of what could have been joyful creative work. That’s not a road I’d recommend taking; it goes nowhere, and not in a good way. Take your photos, live your joy, leave the world more beautiful than the way you found it. And, for what it’s worth, I love your photographs, and *especially* those of the abandoned farms. My own extended family has left a few of those across Saskatchewan and Alberta and they really speak to me of everything we’ve left behind. I would happily have one of your photos on my wall.

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