Someone once asked me a question that cracked my life wide open:
Molly, what are you so afraid of?

At the time, my answer was instant and raw:
“I think about killing myself all the time.”

That was my secret. My shame. My undoing. And yet, when I spoke it aloud, it loosened its grip. I learned something about shame that day — it needs judgment and secrecy to survive. Once you bring it into the light, love can finally reach it.

That moment was many years ago. I am in a very different place now. But lately, I’ve been asking myself that question again:
Molly, what are you so afraid of?

Today, the answer is this:
I’m afraid of not being prepared. Of not having what I need.

That fear has turned me into a master of hypervigilance. I pack like an Olympic sport. I carry a little survival kit everywhere I go — gum, fingernail clippers, a Band-Aid. (Thank you, Mom, for the perfect bag!) I never run out of gas, milk, or anything really. On the surface, it feels amazing. Responsible. Competent.

But underneath? There’s a current I can’t ignore:
I don’t trust I’ll be okay if I don’t have it.
I don’t trust I can get it when I need it.
I don’t trust I can ask for it.

It’s a kind of dysfunctional independence that keeps me living in the future, scanning for danger, spending my energy preparing instead of living.

And here’s the root: I’m afraid of being a hassle.
I’m afraid if I ask for help, someone will feel put out. That they’ll resent me. That they’ll reject me. And rejection — losing love — is my deepest fear.

So I say, “I got it.” “No, I’m good.” “I’ll drive.” “I can carry it.” “I’ll pay.”
I say no to the help that comes — the boat, the helicopter, the plane — and then wonder why I feel so alone.

Somewhere along the way, I swallowed this belief that it’s better to give than to receive. That taking is taking away from someone else.

If I always have everything, I never get to receive.

And receiving — real, open-hearted receiving — is not taking.
Receiving is trusting.
Receiving is allowing.
Receiving is opening myself to the love and abundance of the universe.

It’s like food.
I love food — tasting it, eating it, sharing it. But what if I was always full? The second I digested something, I ate more. I’d never be hungry. Never have room for the anticipation, the desire, the joy of that first bite.

That’s what my hyper-preparedness does — it keeps me “full” all the time. So full, there’s no space for surprise. No room for someone else to show up with the thing I’ve been craving. No hunger for life to feed me.

I want that hunger back — the kind that opens the door to delight. I want to risk being surprised, supported, gifted. I want to take a walk at sunset without my backpack of “just in case.” I want to leave the house in a carefree state, to say yes to the help offered, to let life meet me where I am.

Because maybe this is the fun part — not just the buying, but the selling; not just the earning, but the paying; not just the giving, but the receiving. Maybe this is where trust grows, in the ordinary exchanges where love has room to get in.

So I’m asking myself — and maybe you, too —
What are you so afraid of?