Doing It Scared

They never tell you that most good things start in fear. And that is the problem.
Not the dramatic, life-or-death kind of fear, but the quiet, shaky, what-if-I’m-wrong kind. The fear that sits in your stomach when you try to do something bigger than yourself, something uncertain, something uninvited. The fear that lives inside every leap of faith that hasn’t yet landed.

When I started a student publication at my university, I didn’t have a manifesto. No strategic plan. No five-year vision with bullet points and bold headings. Just a sentence scribbled in the margin of my notes: We need a space for student voices. That was it. A baby idea. A seed. And I watered it. Every day.
Even when I didn’t know what kind of tree it would become.

I didn’t have the right words for it then, but now I think I do. I was doing it scared. Not “in spite of the fear,” but with it. With it sitting beside me as I wrote late at night, as I organized meetings, as I watched my team grow from a loose collection of names into something resembling a newsroom. The fear never left. But neither did the idea.

There’s a kind of quiet pride that comes from watching something imaginary take shape in the real world. From seeing a blank Google Drive folder bloom into a daily rhythm: pitches being sent, edits going back and forth, headlines sharpening, voices finding themselves. LU.Chronicles wasn’t just an idea anymore. It had structure. It had momentum. It had people who cared.

There are mornings when I open my inbox and see article drafts waiting to be read. Pieces about politics, campus life, history, queerness, protest, identity. That feeling never gets old. Because this wasn’t just about publishing articles. It was about building a system that worked. Something that began to look and feel, dare I say it, like a newsroom. And I was proud of that. Not in the loud, social-media way. In the quiet, this-is-mine way. The kind of pride you don’t post about, because it’s too sacred to reduce.

We love stories that begin with confidence. People who know what they want. Who charge ahead with mission statements and marching bands. But some of us make spaces before we fully know what they’re for. We learn what we’re doing by doing it. And yes, it’s vulnerable. Especially when you’re leading something that isn’t finished yet. And neither are you. Especially when the world around you believes that leadership looks like the loudest voice in the room, like dominance, like always knowing the next step.

History, if you look closely, isn’t some grand parade of the fearless. It’s quieter than that. It’s Rosa Parks, exhausted from a long day, choosing , not with a speech, but with a seat , to stay where she was. It’s Maya Angelou, nerves jangling before every performance, standing anyway, spine straight, voice steady, carrying generations in her throat. It’s Steve Jobs, bruised from being fired by the company he built, starting over , with less confidence than curiosity. Sylvia Plath wrote through storms she couldn’t escape, her words still glowing like stained glass. Frida Kahlo painted strapped to a hospital bed, turning pain into something that outlived it. None of them waited to feel ready. They simply kept going, fear in one hand, paintbrush or pen or idea in the other.

 They weren’t fearless. They were faithful , to the work, to the voice, to the vision only they could see.

At some point, someone said I wasn’t “fit” to lead what I had built. That I had no vision , no idea what I was doing. And for a moment , just one , I believed them. Because doubt loves a wound to crawl into. Because when you’re already scared, a little criticism sounds like prophecy.

There’s a kind of ache that comes from being misunderstood in the early stages of something. When the scaffolding is still visible. When your vision isn’t polished enough to impress, but it’s real enough to keep you up at night. And when people question your leadership not because you lack conviction, but because you refuse to pretend you have all the answers.

The people who refuse to make space ; in their minds, in their systems, in their imaginations. People so tightly wedded to their own ideologies, they treat anything different as incompetent by default. If it doesn’t look like their version of order, it must be a disorder. And so, instead of listening, they dismiss. Instead of engaging, they retreat into the comfort of what they already know. It’s not that they don’t understand you; it’s that they’ve decided not to. Their version of leadership leaves no room for experimentation, no room for the unfinished, the evolving, the real. And if you don’t fit neatly into their template, they try to erase you. But I’ve learned this, too: just because someone can’t see your vision doesn’t mean it’s not there. Sometimes, the truest work lives outside their understanding , not beneath it.

Maybe it’s how the world loves to over-romanticize everything , dressing it up in tidy arcs and poetic gloss , that when they see something raw and real, they’re just uncomfortable with it. A work-in-progress isn’t marketable. Vulnerability makes people itch. So they mistake your honesty for incompetence. But raw isn’t wrong. It’s just unfiltered. And that makes some people nervous. Maybe even insecure, because it triggers some part of them that needed to be loud and ostentatious to prove they mattered. Because if you can build something real without pretending to have it all figured out, then what excuse do they have?

But here’s what I’ve learned : a vision isn’t something you download. It’s something you live into. It unfolds. It grows roots. And often, it grows in the dark. So I tell myself — I’m 20. I’m not supposed to have all the answers. And maybe that’s not a weakness. I’ve seen people years older speak in absolutes, mistaking their rigidity for wisdom. Recycling the same two takes as if life always fits into neat little boxes. 

Some of the most important things I’ve done , in love, in work, in art , I’ve done while unsure. I’ve done them while grieving. I’ve done them while feeling like I wasn’t ready. The regret that stays with me isn’t from the times I leapt and stumbled. It’s from the moments I stayed frozen, waiting to be “sure.”

I think what I learn from this is I’m going to take more leaps of faith. Not because I suddenly feel brave, but because I’ve realized waiting to feel “ready” is just another way of stalling. And yes, I screw up. I over-apologize. I freeze. I fumble. But I’d rather be remembered for the things I tried , not the things I avoided. I don’t want to be the person who sat out their own life waiting for the perfect timing, the right title, the certainty that never came. I’d rather be in the mess of it all ; scared, imperfect, but in motion , than standing on the sidelines, pristine and untouched. I want to keep moving. Keep making. Keep building. Even when my hands shake. Especially then.

The world makes it easy to worship certainty. To celebrate boldness, clarity, the loudest voice in the room. But I think there’s a quieter kind of courage. The kind that builds while afraid. That keeps showing up, even when no one’s watching. That waters an idea day after day, even when it’s just a sapling and everyone else is planting fast-growing trees.

Doing it scared isn’t a flaw. It’s a form of faith.

And maybe, more than anything, that’s what this article is. A love letter to people who are still building. Still becoming. Still figuring it out as they go. A love letter to the saplings. To the rough drafts. To the leaders who keep going anyway , who keep going despite of.

You don’t need to have all the answers to start. You don’t need to know the ending to begin.
All you need is a reason. A tremble. A spark.
Start there.
And keep going, scared, but certain that it matters.