What a borrowed truck taught me about moving through fear instead of around it
It always amazes me how experiences, big or small, either grow us or shrink us. Let me explain.
First, it’s all about noticing. We either turn on the personal notifications of our life that say, “you’re here, in this moment,” or we don’t. There’s really not a lot in between. You’re paying attention to the small details of your life, or you’re not. It’s pretty simple.
When your personal notifications are on, the ones that say “hey, this is a good time to notice yourself doing what you’re doing,” the learning is primed and ready to go. Otherwise, it’s just another moment in a long line of unnoticed moments. Boring.
So last week I was headed to the Brimfield Antique Fair with some girlfriends, to scout out treasures. I’ve been many times over the last 30 years, but not for a while, and I’d forgotten how much it asks of you. Fields and fields of tables, the good stuff always three rows past where your feet want to stop. In planning for the adventure I realized a truck would be needed, and the only one available to us was David’s Rivian, an electric truck.
The night before our two day excursion, I found myself anxious. Not the loud kind, just a low hum underneath everything. I went down the list of possible reasons and landed on my limited experience driving an electric vehicle. The number one culprit was range anxiety, which is a real thing for people who’ve made the switch from gas to electric, that small persistent worry about the number on the dash ticking down with nowhere to plug in. So I told the girls, and we set off anyway.
Giving voice to the trepidation helped a lot. Something about saying it out loud took the edge off before we’d even left the driveway. But I didn’t want to make them feel uneasy, so once I’d said my piece, I assured them I had enough experience with the truck to get us there safely. The second concern was the one-pedal acceleration and braking system, which turned out to be nothing more than easing off the accelerator and finding a smooth rhythm, more feel than skill.
Two and a half hours later, we arrived at Brimfield safe and sound. My shoulders dropped from somewhere up near my ears. I felt huge relief, the kind that lives in the body before it ever reaches the mind.
The next hurdle was charging, because to feel completely at ease for the ride home, we’d need some juice. It turned out our hotel had an EV station, and all was well.
So back to noticing the anxiety, and doing it anyway. When we returned the next day, I had some time to settle into the experience. The trip to Brimfield had felt like a huge success. Yes, we found some great pieces, a few things I’m still turning over in my hands at home. But there was more to it than that. The “more to it” was that I noticed the concern and the trepidation, and I did it anyway. I moved through the fear instead of letting it stop me in my tracks, the way it stops so many of us.
That’s the whole practice, really. Not the absence of anxiety, but the noticing of it, the naming of it out loud, and the choosing to keep going anyway. Every time we do that, even over something as small as a borrowed truck, we’re casting a vote for the version of ourselves who expands rather than the version who shrinks. And the more we practice with the small things, the more available we are when life hands us the bigger ones.
So here’s my invitation to you. Where is your own range anxiety showing up this week? What’s the truck you’ve been putting off driving? Notice it, say it out loud to someone, and set off anyway. You might just surprise yourself with how far you get.
With love, from my corner by the sea, Sarah.
