This essay is part of a series called The Big Ideas, in which writers respond to a single question: What do we fear? You can read more by visiting The Big Ideas series page.
I don’t hate fear; it’s a part of life. I grew up in the Mexican countryside and quickly understood that fear was watching over me. It warned me not to climb decayed and unstable trees. It cautioned me not to enter the river when I could see clouds at the top of the mountain, hinting that a distant storm could cause the current to rise and drag me into the undertow.
I think there is a primal fear that allows us to understand our place in nature and in the world. It gives us boundaries and lets us inherit a very ancient wisdom that stays with us across generations. I am deeply grateful to my ancestors for this gift, but knowledge alone is not infallible.
That wise fear of the countryside did not save me during my childhood when I was walking by a nearby waterfall, and a group of men threw me to the ground, kicked me and stole my belongings. The men only got a bottle of water and an old cellphone.
Since that day, I have not gone back to the waterfall. My walks in the countryside now come with a feeling of liminal anguish that does not leave me until I’m safely home. Stories of violence in public areas have become bloodier and more frequent. Spaces that were once sites of leisure and contemplation for me, my family and the community have become something dark.
I do not despise fear. I despise the subjugation and violence that take away our freedom, self-determination and innocence.
I remember being very fearful as a child. I was terrified of nighttime darkness, silence, loneliness, storms, monsters and misfortune. I experienced childhood insomnia and chronic anxiety, which made me work in extreme, almost physical ways to control and minimize my worries.
To counter darkness, I learned to read since reading under the light of a small lamp made fear lay beside me like a tired dog. To counter silence, I learned to sing and make sounds with my mouth that covered the quiet spaces with song. To counter loneliness, I learned to imagine, to fill myself with stories and words. To counter storms, I learned to sit next to my mom and wait for them to pass. To counter monsters (a fear that eventually went away when I grew up), I asked for help from my family and friends. To counter misfortune, I learned to fight, not lose hope and take refuge in tenderness, skills I continue to practice.
But the fear that oppresses us is different. Facing this fear is a painful and complicated task, but one that’s extremely important.
As a woman, my relationship with fear is close and suffocating. I live and grew up in a country where, on average, 10 women are murdered every day. The courage I had to build in my early years in order to live a relatively normal childhood has not saved me from gender violence, misogyny or helplessness. It has not shielded me from sexual abuse and grief.
However, thanks to the courage that women in Mexico must assume, I began writing songs, telling my stories and traveling the country alone and at night.
For me, singing is how I save myself from fear. Writing songs helps me build my door to freedom and live the life I want. Performing my music gives me the joy of creating a space where violence is outside, far away.
During a concert, musicians and the audience are free to be who we really are. I always imagine that cruelty runs away as soon as it hears us singing together. When our voices are united, they blend in a choir of immense and incalculable strength. It reminds me of when caterpillars band together to look like a huge snake, preventing predators from getting close to them. When we are united, we can keep violence at bay. I wish that every woman in the world knew that this is how we deserve to live: full and free as we sing our stories.
Trying to live without fear does not save us from having some fears, but hopefully, it takes us away from that disabling fear we are taught to internalize as part of our narrative. Freeing ourselves from this fear shows us a different path, makes us more empathetic and reminds us of our value and the value of community. It gives us back our capacity for movement and our strength to live life as we want, not just to settle for what is imposed on us. We are allowed to question ourselves, change, improve, make mistakes, even start over.
What really scares me is not death — it is the life that is not lived because of so much terror, so much violence, so much hatred.
I am not afraid of silence; I am afraid of being silenced, of not being able to sing and say what I think, that words will not save me from being alone. I am not afraid of pain; I am afraid of living in a world that does not feel pity or compassion. I am not afraid of fear; I am afraid of living in a society that uses it to subjugate us.
I separate the wise fear — the inherited knowledge that cautions us against misguided impulses — from all the tragedy and blood.
Despite everything, I plan to go back to the waterfall and continue living and singing freely. That will be my little revolution. My fear will not belong to those who want to see us subjugated and silent. My fear is mine, just like my love, my hope and my freedom.
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