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"Aita, you're the best Aita in the world," my daughters told me last week — Father's Day — while handing me their handmade creations they had done for me.
"Not the best. Sixth. I've dropped two places this year. Hopefully I'll recover next year," I replied.
My partner often tells me that a message without example is just noise. "How can you ask them to be tidy when what they see at home is chaos?" This conversation usually follows one of my "oversights." She has a point.
One of the things I repeat most to my daughters is that fear isn't bad in itself — it's natural — but you have to learn to control it. That when a human being is controlled by fear, they become the most dangerous animal there is, capable of justifying the unjustifiable.
"I like a boy in my class and I'm scared to tell him because the whole class will find out and laugh at me," my 10-year-old daughter told me a while ago. Ten years old! At that age I was playing with GI Joes and my biggest fear was someone breaking my favourite spinning top.
I was tempted to brush it off. The subject didn't exactly thrill me, and I didn't think it was the age for any of that. But her worry was real, and she was looking for my advice. So I put on the cape and explained my view on fear once more — on the danger of making decisions based on what others might think.
"Be careful about letting fear run your decisions, bruja. Fear creeps in quietly, fills you with shame, with reasons, and before you know it, it's in control. If you want to tell him, go ahead. Let him and everyone else think what they want. You decide what you do — don't let fear decide for you."
That week, she told the boy she liked him. He said he didn't feel the same. She was a little sad, but very proud of herself for doing it. I told her I was very proud of her too. And I meant it — I still struggled well into my thirties when faced with similar situations, but I thought she did not need to know that yet…
"When you're a grown-up, are you still scared? Or does it go away when you grow up?" she asked me.
On Sundays, as the working week approached, I felt uneasy, restless, tense. It was unfamiliar. I knew it had to do with a job I wasn't enjoying, one that didn't feel right — and that had never happened to me before.
Work had become a source of inner conflict. At first I told myself I just needed time to adapt. Then I convinced myself it was just a job, and that my happiness came from what the job allowed me to do outside of it. It paid very well. The role was one I had worked towards and where I believed I could add value. What was I complaining about? I don't have much patience for people who complain without doing anything about it.
Time passed. The feeling didn't improve. The excuses became less convincing. And still I waited.
Deep down, despite what I kept telling myself, I knew it was fear.
After a particularly intense summer, I decided my chapter had ended. I wrote a message thanking the company for the opportunity but explaining that the time had come to part ways. I offered to help with the transition and suggested we reach a mutually beneficial agreement.
Before sending it, I shared it with a trusted colleague. She asked me if I was sure. We both knew that once I hit send, there would be no going back.
I hesitated. I was living in a glass cage. Two daughters, a good salary, a prestigious role. Did it really make sense to leave without something concrete to jump to? Isn't it better to look for a job while you still have one? What if things got better? What if…?
All questions. All very convincing, very logical, very rational. Maybe I was being irresponsible.
"When you're a grown-up, are you still scared? Or does it go away when you grow up?"
"A message without example is just noise."
Send.
Three months later I left the company. I have never regretted it. I still have that email.
And I keep it so that when my daughters are old enough to understand, they can see that fear is a companion that stays with you always, at every age. And like any companion, it has its role. It can be useful. But don't give it the wheel. Because once you do, it's very hard to take it back.
I'm not the best Aita in the world. Not even sixth. But this year my eldest daughter gave me a great gift: she didn't let her fear dictate her actions. And without knowing it, she inspired me not to let mine dictate my own.
Thank you, bruja.
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And your fear — is it driving, or just along for the ride?
I'm listening,
Santi
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