Personal Reflection:
Fear is persuasive because it sounds like reason. Because sometimes it is… but this isn’t what we’re going to talk about today.
Most days, fear wears the face of logic. It tells us not to risk too much, not to look foolish, not to try again. It dresses itself in memory—every failure, every misstep, every scar that whispers don’t you dare. And we listen, because falling is familiar. Pain has always been the more reliable teacher.
But Hanson’s words cut through that lie with something simple, almost childlike in its daring: what if you fly? It’s not optimism; it’s defiance. It’s a quiet middle finger to the voice that says “stay small.” Because fear isn’t the enemy—it’s the inertia that follows it. We let the fear calcify until even the idea of trying feels foreign.
Freedom doesn’t arrive as a grand revelation; it comes in tremors. In the moment you stop asking permission to exist. In the tiny decision to move anyway—shaking, doubting, breath caught in your throat—but moving.
Maybe the point isn’t to silence the fear. Maybe the point is to carry it to the edge with you, acknowledge its weight, and jump anyway. Because at some point, the ache of staying grounded becomes heavier than the risk of falling. And when that happens, when you finally step off the ledge—that’s not the sound of fear breaking.
That’s the sound of your wings remembering what they were built for.
Reflective Prompt for Readers:
What fear have you mistaken for reason?
When was the last time you stopped arguing with it long enough to hear what it was really saying?
And if you carried that fear with you to the edge—not to silence it, but to show it the view—what might happen if you jumped anyway?
Memoirs of Madness 