I keep my fear in a desk drawer.
It is not a dramatic hiding place. There are no locks, no secret compartments—just a wooden space beneath my desk, where I place the things I do not want to be scattered across the surface of my life. My fear sits inside, folded and organized, tucked between responsibilities and routines. It waits quietly while I move through the day.
I used to believe that courage meant having no fear at all. I admired those who seemed unshaken—the people who spoke without hesitation, who walked into rooms as if they owned them. I mistook their composure for the absence of doubt, so I learned to imitate it. I learned to steady my voice, to fix my hands, to keep my anxieties out of sight.
Each fear has its own place, and mine just happens to be in my drawer. Perhaps it could be the fear of failing, the fear of being misunderstood, and the fear of not being enough despite trying everything I have. I file them carefully, as if labeling them makes them less overwhelming. And because of that, order gives me the illusion of control.
But here is what I have come to understand: the drawer does not make my fear disappear at all. It simply gives it shape, and there is something quietly powerful about that.
When fear runs loose, it becomes a loud, chaotic, and paralyzing storm. Fear tells me what I value: I fear failing because I care about doing well. I fear being misunderstood because I yearn to be known. I fear not being enough because I want to matter. Each trembling thought reveals a desire that is deeply human.
The drawer, then, is not a symbol of denial, but a symbol of discernment.
I do not open it in every moment. I can’t. Life requires presence, work demands attention. The people around me deserve my stability. There is dignity in choosing when and how to confront what unsettles me. Composure is not deception; it is discipline.
Yet I have learned that the drawer must be opened sometimes.
Late at night, when the world grows quiet, I pull it open—taking out one fear at a time. I examine it gently. I ask what it is trying to protect. I remind myself that feeling afraid does not make me incapable, but alive.
And actually, the truth is, everyone carries a drawer. Some keep it locked, some pretend it doesn’t exist. But the presence of fear is not evidence of weakness; it is evidence of depth. Only those who risk something meaningful have something to fear.
And I no longer wish to be fearless. Fearlessness can be reckless, even empty. What I seek for instead is courage—the decision to move forward even when I falter. Courage is reaching for the handle, opening the drawer, and always choosing to stand.
I keep my fear in a drawer, yes, but it does not rule me from within it; it is contained, and I am not.
