My Letter to Fear (Essays on life, love and the search for Prince Charming)

By Patricia Steffy

From the author about My Letter to Fear (Essays on life, love and the search for Prince Charming):
Over the course of two years, I conducted interviews with the fabulous women around me and their equally fantastic friends. I put no restrictions on age, or ethnicity. They just needed to be willing to answer some questions. I asked them about the expectations they had for their lives when they were very young versus their current realities as adults. I asked them to tell me the best things about themselves (a question which was surprisingly difficult for people to answer) and the worst things. Those answers—the sad, the ridiculous, and the hysterical—and my own experiences became the basis for these essays.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patricia Steffy
• Release date: Feb 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310581915

Patricia Steffy

Patricia Steffy attended Kenyon College and American University. She is a recent refugee from the corporate world where she worked as an analyst for a law firm for more than 16 years. An escape plan started to develop as she pursued her interests as a writer and producer through Circe’s World Films. She has been involved in co- and exec-producing a number of feature and short films ranging from broad comedy to psychological drama, including the award-winning short "Touch." She is currently developing "Dating in LA and Other Urban Myths" as a web series. When she isn't working on creative writing projects, Steffy works as a freelance travel writer. She has crafted 400+ travel articles for USAToday.com, AZCentral.com, Examiner.com, CruiseVoyant.com, eHow.com and TravelingWithoutANet.com.

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My Letter to Fear

Dear Fear,

Is it possible that I became so used to you being part of my life that you were actually the comfortable, safe choice? This tug of war you played with hope, with me in the middle, kept me stagnating—constantly choosing to stay unhappily put rather than taking any risk whatsoever.

I was paralyzed by you; never making the leap for a better future. I told myself I should be grateful for what I had when so many go without.

I allowed myself to not count. I allowed myself to subsume the things I wanted for my life to the point that I couldn't begin to explain what would make me happy when someone did finally ask. How could I allow you to so thoroughly disconnect me from me?

How could someone as opinionated as I am about everything else stop having an opinion about me? I told myself it didn't matter—don't rock the boat, you need a … (fill in the blank with paycheck, job, structure, plan). I tried to ignore the sick feeling for years. But now I can't. I won't.

The breaking point was something so minor: a look, a tone, another stupid decision. Perhaps you, too, had become complacent about your role in my life. Are you surprised that I'm walking away now? I know exactly what my life will be if I stay. I want to believe that it can be so much better.

I have no doubt that on occasion you will still be with me. In the dark of night…at the first and forty-fifth rejections, I'm sure I'll see your shadow. But for the first time in so many years, I don't work for you anymore.

Lost Folk Hero

I quit my job. In the worst economy since the Great Depression, I quit my job. I have no idea what I was thinking.

Wait, that's not true. I absolutely believed that my job was making me miserable and standing in the way of actual achievement. I wasn't gunning for happiness—I wasn't that unrealistic. No, I was going for value. I wanted to feel like what I was doing was held in some sort of positive regard again. I wanted to feel like I was invested in what I was doing and integral to the process.

I began to build the plan: I would give myself a year. Finances were in place. Vision board had been completed. It was only a matter of time before opportunity would be outside my door (and it would have to be outside my door because I don't like leaving my apartment).

There was a heady rush after the initial break. People took me to lunch. The waiters at Craft sprung for my congratulatory drinks. Over and over again I heard: I wish I could do that. I felt like a folk hero. You may have seen my t-shirts. If they weren't so expensive, there would have been billboards erected in my honor. I had struck a blow for the disgruntled workforce. I was the girl who quit.

I haven't sat on my couch over the last nine months—though someone should have warned me about how addicting House Hunters was going to be. I've traveled. I've had great food, wine and seen a sunset or two. I've taken classes from Renaissance Painting to Screenwriting. I did some extra work (cheers to Mike & Molly for paying my health insurance that month), basked in some brilliant theater, and spent countless hours enjoying live chamber music—something I hadn't taken the time for in more than 20 years. It has been a tremendous gift to be able to have this time.

BUT

Time (and money) is running short. All that navel gazing I was doing was supposed to lead me to the next phase. Everyone told me that once I set my goals, basic life skills would help me map the actual steps toward achieving them. That's what they told me. I'm sure that's what they believed. No one counted on me being my own worst enemy. I have second-guessed every opportunity from avoiding actual networking events (I can't approach strangers) to after-parties (Everyone will be drunk, and I'll never get legit contacts out of it). It's almost as though that one huge leap negated any possibility for additional risk.

Just today someone congratulated me for taking such a huge step: It's the ultimate sink or swim. You have no other choice but to swim. I suggested to him that drowning was a very real possibility that no one wanted to talk about.

I'm no more certain of my path now than I was when I quit. Everyone is waiting for my movie moment—the one where the girl who quit conquers all and takes the world by storm. What if I let them all down? Because it's not opportunity I see on the horizon. It's panic.

Wanted: One job opening for a folk hero who has lost her way.

What did I do?

Expectations

Dear Diary,

I was reading you today; an older version of you, of course, containing a much younger version of me. Without a doubt, I was the most certain 12-year old who ever lived. While I had no idea what I wanted to do as a career (and still don't, thank you very much), I had such certainty about what life would be like, what I would have and what I would achieve.

Flipping back through your pages and my years, I wasn't really a planner. I see no detailed accounts of weddings—no endless recitations about my wedding dress, bridesmaids or party plans that a young, somewhat romantic-minded girl might have. But I had no doubt there would be one. I don't see any contemplation on the page of the 2.3 kids, or possible names. But I had no doubt that I would have them.

I recognize that some of my life theories might have been slightly off-target. For instance, on page 62 where I mention that my mother told me I wouldn't be able to date until I turned 16, and I quite imperiously complained, 16? I won't even be living at home at 16! I'd like to believe I imagined that I had skipped several grades and would already be in college at 16, but I have a sneaking suspicion my independent streak had just gotten ahead of my good sense.

Still, I could do anything (or so I was repeatedly told), and I wanted to do it all. Your lines (and the in-between) reveal the me who would most definitely become a detective, a doctor, a spy and a writer—all at the same time, thank you very much. I was at the top of my class, had never failed at anything, and I had every assurance in the world that not only would I succeed, but that the success would bring great happiness. It was expected.

People would want to know me—not just because they wanted something from me, but because I would become awesome and wise. It was a given.

I'm not sure when the expectations started to drop away. Was it the first time I was made painfully aware of my fallibility? When the would-be husband wandered off to fulfill his own certain path? When success became narrowly defined and ringed with more wry awareness than satisfaction?

I look at the world around me, and the proper PC voice comes on inside my head and says: Be grateful for what you do have, and who you are. Naturally, I want to tell the PC voice inside my head to shut the hell up because it's entirely useless and not motivating in the least.

I'm not ungrateful, but I do miss having an expectation that life would unfold favorably if I worked hard and treated people well. I miss my expectations, even if reading the old ones in you is disheartening now. Is it possible to take a 12-year old's expectations and turn them into a 42-year old's goals? I guess I'll see.

Blackberry

When I