safety first (but at what cost?) / #12
on reclaiming design control from fear's tight grip
Earlier this month in Sichuan, I hiked down a mountain, and… I kept my eyes locked on my feet, one cautious step after another — a design optimized for not falling, not for seeing.
In focusing so intently on not falling, I missed the waterfalls cascading between moss-covered rocks; ancient trees stretching skyward; the lush, green scenery that smelled like earth.
I made it down fine, but remained tense the entire way: shoulders hunched, jaw grinding, breath shallow; fingers tightly wrapped around a bamboo stick wearing thin at its tip.
Fear led the way.
This pattern started early.
I was the child frozen atop the monkey bars while other kids swung past me — not for lack of strength, but because I couldn’t bring myself to let go.
At home, there is an insidious kind of fear — the kind that has shaped me from the inside out. I became attuned to predicting storms behind slammed doors, and the weight of heavy footsteps in the doorway.
It taught me to make myself smaller, and quieter, and perfectly calibrated to someone else’s reality and needs.
As I grew older, that fear materialized as hyper-vigilance, and disguised itself with a coat of people pleasing: thoroughness, responsibility, prudence, and common sense — all good words.
The physical toll was unmistakable, even if my brain hadn’t caught up.
My jaw clenched so persistently that I fractured a molar at 20, and the rest of my teeth are ground so straight that a new dentist laughed at them last year.
Sleep was shallow and fragmented, interrupted by 3 AM dreams of actually navigating around a Figma board, trying to solve problems that rarely materialized.
Fear announced itself in other ways too, like panic attacks during the flight to that impromptu ski trip in March. It kept me awake in the middle of the night, heart racing, breath shallow, certain in that moment that something terrible was about to happen.
(We didn’t even have much turbulence in that flight.)
These episodes are both physical and existential, a full-body alarm system with no actual emergency.
Fear designed my career choices; the pursuit of good work, too.
For years, I expanded my role, shifted teams, took on new responsibilities, within the same company's walls. I was growing, yes — but only within fear’s constraints. Safety was always the core user need.
It wasn't until I had exhausted every possible internal path that I finally faced the question of leaving altogether.
And even then, the questions began their relentless cycle: What would I be without this identity? What if I couldn't find something better? What if I ran out of money? What if—?
But the greater cost was in everything I missed while staring at my feet, taking motion for progress. Opportunities passed by. Risks not taken. Days—weeks—years, spent optimizing for security rather than possibility.
Two months ago, I finally left my job.
Not because the fear disappeared, or because all my questions were answered. But because I finally recognized that fear was designing my life — and doing a terrible job of it.
I expected panic after leaving. An identity crisis that I eagerly dove into unpacking; a void where my professional self had been.
But I also found space. The strange luxury of mornings without adrenaline, and days shaped by curiosity and exploration, rather than obligation.
This isn't to say the fear has vanished. I still catch myself running unnecessary calculations, and I still wake up occasionally at 3 AM wondering if I've made a catastrophic mistake. Old systems don't disappear overnight.
But something has shifted. There's more room now to notice when fear is speaking, to question its authority, to choose differently.
Here’s what I’m learning: Working through fear isn't about eliminating it.
It's about recognizing its voice, questioning its conclusions, and sometimes choosing to act despite its warnings.
Other times it's about intentionally stepping into the deep end… maybe literally. I recently signed up for scuba diving lessons — something I've always wanted to try but kept putting off.
There’s still that part of me that worries that I'll have a panic attack underwater when it really matters.
See? I’m already catastrophizing before I even step foot in the water.
But I'm going anyway. Not because I’ve suddenly discarded the fear, but because I'm tired of letting it make my decisions.
Learning how to scuba dive isn’t just a bucket-list activity; it’s a new kind of experiment. One where I notice fear, but don’t hand it the blueprint.
The mountain showed me something important. When I finally looked up from my feet, even briefly, I saw what I'd been missing. The expanse of the misty nature; the beauty that I had been actively seeking.
This certainly isn't a triumphant story of conquering fear. I'm still working on it every day, and still looking down at my feet more often than I want to admit.
But I’m also hellbent on demonstrating that fear doesn't have to be the designer of my life.
I want to look up more often now. There’s so much to see.
Other things
This week’s experiment: operating on my anti-schedule — sleeping past my alarm, pushing the gym to the evening, and shifting all my creative work to night. Spoiler: I really don’t like the anti-schedule
Morning workouts have become the anchor that kicks off my day with momentum; the work happened in spite of, not because of it.
I’m starting to post more regularly on LinkedIn — if Substack is where I figure things out in public, then LinkedIn is where I’ll try to translate that into something more actionable. I hope I’ll see you there!
Until next time,
Jalyn