Dancing with fear and perspective

and loosening the grip of certainty

A few weeks ago, soon after the new year, I went to my first dance in a long time. There had been other dances, but I had been tethered elsewhere: family, community, obligations. It was with great gratitude that I stepped onto the floor, my body aching for the freedom it promised. The room buzzed with collective joy.

I began to move, but I kept finding myself holding back—in small movements, in stillness. The room erupted, but I felt like a stone rooted to the corner, not able to join. Frustration bubbled up: I don’t get this space often enough. This moment is fleeting, and I’m missing it. What is wrong with me?

Instead of amplifying that frustration, I chose to be curious. What was there? I felt worn down. I didn’t have the reserves for the kind of wild expression I so enjoy. I wanted to curl inward and save what precious energy I had for the long winter ahead. Deep down, I felt fear: fear that I didn’t have it in me, fear that I wouldn’t be able to keep going. Beneath that fear was exhaustion—a deep truth within me that I couldn’t ignore.

That morning, I let my guide be the same in-breath and out-breath that sustains all things. I honored the part of me that was tired, in need of rest and care, and used the space for small movements, stretching and releasing. I kept my eyes open for occasional invitations to remain with the community of dancers. I didn’t spiral into shame (why is there always something wrong with me?) but instead accepted that this too shall pass. At that moment, I wasn't ready to shine. I felt protective of my inner flame and I curled inward around its warmth.

Photo by Mateusz Grabowski on Unsplash

Fear, Impermanence, and Perspective

That morning stayed with me because it revealed something deeper about fear and perspective. Fear often emerges in moments of transition or uncertainty, urging us to play small, to hold back, to try to control what we can. It thrives on our need for stability and predictability when life feels chaotic. Perspective allows us to listen for the truth in that fear without becoming too attached and to release into life’s impermanence.

I’ve been thinking about impermanence and how much it aligns with the universal triggers of stress—uncertainty, lack of control, and lack of information. These conditions can send us scrambling to create anchors. For those of us whose bodies have been sensitized by trauma, impermanence can feel deeply unsafe. If this too shall pass, what is next? How can I make sense of it? How do I get my hands on the wheel to make sure the next thing is something I can handle?

In those moments, we often tighten our grip. We map out scenarios, prepare for the worst, and try to steer toward a sense of control. Often, for me it can mean spinning up an old story of not being good enough. This creates its own kind of predictability. But this approach can keep us from noticing the beauty in impermanence itself. If we’re always bracing for what’s next, we miss the gifts of the present moment—even if those gifts are small, like the chance to rest, reflect, or simply be.

I learned this lesson vividly during a season of my life spent on the Big Island of Hawaii. At 21, I’d gone there to work on an organic farm, only to discover it was a tax scam. I decided to leave. Suddenly untethered, I set out on my own, thumbing my way around the island with little more than a backpack and a sense of adventure. What followed was one of the most terrifying and electrifying chapters of my life.

I quickly discovered that there were many dangers to navigate in a location which harbored some of the best and worst parts of humanity. I had to rely on the kindness of strangers to keep me safe, and I had to stay both vigilant and open to what comes next. I’d jettison from one extreme to another: camping alone in the jungle, afraid of the wild pigs rummaging nearby, and then my luck would change and I’d be basking in natural hot springs, eating mangos, and listening to musician’s soundtrack the steamy jungle. One day felt like pure survival; the next, like paradise. I took to saying, “This is your life right now,” as a way of grounding myself in the stream of impermanence. I needed to approach each day with a sense of possibility and not stay stuck in an impossible story. I remembered to savor the wonderful moments and tolerate the terrible. It was a reminder that life’s current would carry me forward, no matter how turbulent the water seemed.

Photo by Keegan Houser on Unsplash

I am grateful that I moved through that chapter of my life with some good stories and a deeper understanding of my own resilience. I wish I could say that mantra seamlessly carried into the rest of my life, but it didn’t. Even now, I catch myself wanting to stay in the frightening jungle, bracing for disaster, clinging to a certainty that feels safer than the vulnerability of staying open to what comes next. But I keep trying. I keep saying, “This is your life right now,” trusting that as the hard moments pass, so too will the good ones. The trick is to hold them lightly, to breathe them in deeply, without trying to control their lifespan.

Learning to Dance with Impermanence

That morning on the dance floor, I felt the same lesson unfold. By leaning into the truth of where I was—exhausted, protective, and not yet ready to shine—I found a different kind of grace. I didn’t need to push myself into the wild expression I’d imagined. I could let my movements be small, my presence quiet, and still belong to the shared joy of the room.

Learning to live with impermanence means finding balance between surrender and participation. It means trusting that moments of fear, resistance, or exhaustion aren’t permanent and also hold deeper truths about boundaries and limits. Neither are moments of ease and elation permanent. This realization isn’t about defeat; it’s about grace—the grace to flow with life’s changes, to honor where we are, and to stay open to the gifts hidden in each season of our lives.

As I step into the new year, I’m carrying this lesson with me: This is your life right now. Whether I’m dancing wildly or curling inward around a small, flickering flame, I’m learning to trust that each moment is part of the larger rhythm. And that rhythm, messy and unpredictable as it may be, is its own kind of beauty.

Thanks friends, as always for being with me. Its good to be back. I am trying to hold these notes lightly too, and allow for this weekly ritual to be a place of gentle connection. As always I love to hear from you.

With love and appreciation,

Hannah Rae