When I went back to work after my second daughter was born, I had a constant fear like an ache in my stomach. 

Shannon was six months old and Liz was two and a half. I had to get them out of bed in the morning, dress and feed them, and take them to the sitter’s house. After I finished work for the day, I would bring them home, cook supper, and feed them. My husband was a terrific partner and parent when he was home, but he had a long commute into Chicago from the suburbs, and he worked late and traveled often.

I was terribly afraid, afraid that I wouldn’t have the stamina to work fulltime while caring for very two young children. Plenty of times, I was so tired when I got to work in the morning that the day ahead seemed overwhelming.

During those years, I kept a meditation book in the glove compartment of my car. (It was my only way to get in a morning quiet time, with two young children in the house.)

In the parking lot, before I started work, I would read a meditation and say a prayer. One morning in my meditation book I found the following quotation: “Courage is fear that has said its prayers.”

I started claiming that as my promise, every morning.

I treated it like an algebra equation.  A = B + C.  I knew I was afraid, and I had just said a prayer, so, therefore, A was true.  I had courage.

I would walk through the doors at work, telling myself that I had courage, because I was afraid, and I had just said a prayer.

Eventually, that fear diminished. 

And somehow, day after day, week after week, year after year, I managed to have enough energy to both mother my children and work fulltime.

When I was a little girl, I thought of myself as a coward, because I was so often afraid.  I didn’t know that everyone is afraid, sometimes.

That’s why I love “Courage is fear that has said its prayers.” It’s a way of acknowledging one’s fear and doing the job anyway. 

For me, Fear is like a little worrywart with a perpetual wrinkle between his eyes and extra-long arms, who chatters at me as I stand in the doorway of life, hesitating to take that first step.  The longer I wait, the more frantic he gets. He reaches out his long arms and tries to keep me where I am.  He’s fond of saying things like “You will fail abysmally” and “That will ruin your life forever.”

What I have learned about Courage is that he shows up in the doing.  And he shows up a little late, like a shy visitor who waits outside until the party has really started.

Courage shows up after I have stepped through the doorway and taken a couple of steps into the unknown.  Then Courage appears, like a big strong man reaching down to take my hand, and saying “Now that you’ve started, we’ll go together. I’ll walk beside you.”

Then Courage and I go on, taking one step after another. One step at a time, I’ve learned, the journey is manageable.

The worrywart comes along too, in the shadows.

I’ve learned to love the worrywart.  I used to be so afraid of him that I would try to push him out of my life.  But I’ve learned that he’s just a scared part of me.

I love the worrywart, but I don’t take his advice anymore.

I used to think that if I was really scared about doing something, it was a sign that I shouldn’t do it.  I held back time after time, waiting for the fear to go away.  

But it never did.  I missed opportunity after opportunity, in this grand melee called life. And the worrywart in my head just got louder and louder.

The worrywart still tries to convince me, when I’m scared, that because I’m scared, I should freeze like a rabbit and stay in the shadows.

But I know better now.

My friend Courage and I have walked through many challenges and emerged either unscathed or stronger on the other side of them.

All I have to do is take that first step or two and reach up to take Courage’s hand.