I’m learning to drive all over again in Ireland.  This doesn’t sound like a big deal, I know, but it feels death defying.  Most of the time, I pretty much want to scream and cry, or blame my misery on horrible Walt. Smug Walt. Gasp-y Walt.

The Irish, for whatever reason, drive on the left hand side of the road.  It’s not so much the stick shift on the wrong freaking side that throws me, but the rural roads: two tire tracks that weave circuitously between 5-foot-tall hedgerows.  I have to drive with the windows open in order to hear, because I can’t SEE the speeding tractors–no doubt driven by farmers who’ve been drinking Guinness in the fields all morning— barreling down the hill until they’re right up on me.  I’ve got to stop and pull over, providing there’s a break in the growth, or back up the quarter mile until I find a driveway, because no two vehicles, regardless of how small, can fit in the provided space side by side.

The problem with learning to drive on the wrong side of a ridiculously narrow road, while shifting with your left hand, in a fucking corn maze, is that, at the age of 50, you KNOW all the shit that can go wrong.  You know how easy it is to get snuffed out, how much it costs to replace a set of tires AND a bumper, and the lifelong guilt you’ll feel if you inadvertently pick off a berry-picking pedestrian. At sixteen, by contrast, you’re completely oblivious, and invincible.

I’d weasel my way out of learning to drive, but for one reason alone: I don’t want to be one of those helpless women who need her (smug) husband to drive her to the store.

I’ve done ultra dependent before, and I’m not going there again.

I’ve handed the car keys of my life over to a man in order to avoid the discomfort of making mistakes, of taking the wrong turn, of tapping around blindly for a sense of purpose. In my quest for security, I ended up with an insecure, claustrophobic life in Iran.

The fear of being helpless is a remarkable motivator. It gets me behind the wheel for my white-knuckle practice sessions every single time.

It’s the reasoning behind a lot of things I do: climbing Denali, running ultra marathons, walking on hot coals, scuba diving (to the theme song from Jaws), ice-climbing, interacting with sullen teenagers…  Fear of the unknown, and the seemingly impossible, are how great things start.  I’m proud of myself when I live to tell the tale. When I overcome my natural reluctance, endure the process, and come out whole on the other side; I like myself more.

Have you read Feel the Fear And Do It Anyway?  I can picture it on my bookshelf in Connecticut. I know I underlined the crap out of it  It starts this way:

What is it for you?

Fear of…

Public speaking

Asserting yourself

Making decisions

Intimacy

Changing jobs

Being alone

Aging

Driving

Losing a loved one

Ending a relationship?

Like me, I bet you can circle at least 3 of these.

Here’s the thing. We all cling to comfort, to the familiar; to the tasks we already know how to perform. We all avoid the unpleasantness of learning new tricks, of forming fresh relationships, and of traveling uncharted routes.

We stick to what we know, even when we don’t like where we are. Certainty, after all, is one of the six human needs.

But so is Growth: the expansion of capacity, capability or understanding.

So, let me ask you this.

What challenge have you been avoiding because it’s really uncomfortable?

What stands to change when you make it through to the other side?

Maybe it’s time YOU quit being Miss Daisy.