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Write about a fear you’ve overcome.
Content warning: SA
I could start this blog by explaining how I overcame my fear of spiders—which has now amusingly been replaced by a deep disgust for cockroaches. Not fear, just pure disgust.
But today I want to talk about a different fear, one I may not be the only person to experience.
And it’s actually a fear I’ve been avoiding writing about, one I don’t want to touch because it’s still fresh on the canvas of my experiences.
So today, I’m going to write about my fear of going outside.
Yes, just like that.
I want to take any excuse to distract myself and not talk about this, but I’m gently pushing myself to write, since part of my therapy includes letting go of the things that no longer serve me or bring me joy.
My fear of going outside didn’t exist before the pandemic. I was a normal person, probably spending more time out than at home when I wanted to. I used to go out at night, traveling for over an hour and a half just to enjoy the bustling life of downtown Buenos Aires, feeling enchanted by the billboard lights, the cold, the calm, or the laughter shared with friends on walks.
It wasn’t until I was abused that this fear crept in—at first, seemingly unrelated.
My abuse, that wound which bleeds and will likely bleed eternally, happened in an enclosed space. At a shop I worked in, where my boss used it as the setting for such an atrocity.
But I remember other things, even though my mind remains blurry about that day. I remember going outside. I remember how everything felt off. Maybe it was the shock. I walked several blocks—the same streets I used to joyfully stroll, with or without friends. In that town, which was more dangerous than the capital and yet never used to worry me.
I walked in silence, toward where my ex was waiting for me, as he always did after my work hours. I remember arriving and breaking down in tears.
Same with the second time I was abused.
A “friend” decided to touch me when I went to visit him after he attempted suicide. My other friends were there, but they didn’t notice I was the last one he hugged while everyone was leaving. It happened in the closed room of a hospital. And still, I cried when I stepped outside—feeling powerless, utterly incapable of stopping again that kind of situation. Blaming my body, my soul, my very existence for still being alive.
The third time I was abused was again while job hunting. That boss was looking for a domestic worker—someone to clean his apartment since he had no time. An ideal excuse to trap someone in a locked apartment and not let them leave.
I was lucky that this stranger didn’t try to use force, since I told him my ex was waiting downstairs. Even then, he escorted me to the door to check that I wasn’t lying. (And luckily, thanks to my past experiences, my ex was there). Otherwise… who knows what might’ve happened.
The pandemic was like a blessing in disguise for me. At that time, I had family issues—pressured either to study (which I felt incapable of) or to work (when both of my past jobs in 2018 and almost 2019 had gone catastrophically wrong for who I was back then: a poor and vulnerable woman).
For some reason, the trauma took hold whenever I stepped outside. And again, when I returned.
The fear always came before going to a place. Anxiety would crawl through my body, making me shake and rely on calming pills and the phrase “everything’s okay” repeated endlessly before heading out. I’d send constant messages to my partner or friends, scanning everywhere around me, not listening to music, thinking how to use my keys, what I’d yell if someone tried to kidnap me. And the guilt.
The guilt eats you alive when you’ve been abused.
—You didn’t scream, you didn’t scream loud enough, you let them touch you, you let them lock you in, you froze, you knew this person had a weapon and still your “better dead than assaulted” motto went down the drain. You nearly fell into a trafficking ring, you almost got kidnapped, you let a suicidal man’s vulnerability mark your body forever, and all you could do was cry, weak, weak, idiot…— etc.
The moment I step outside, the anxiety returns.
What if it happens again?
What if I can’t prevent it?
After the pandemic, going out meant always having company, always asking for it. From the outside, it might have looked like I depended on my partner—which was true. But not for the reasons one might assume (like a jealous boyfriend or clingy partner), but because of a raw fear, stuck to the skin like a burn that aches in the soul even now as I write these words.
Counterbalancing helped me a lot in therapy. And only now, in 2025, this is the year I’ve gone out alone the most. To run errands, to the library to study, even riding a bike again—something I hadn’t done since childhood. I’ve even gone back to a hospital, willingly entered a closed room with doctors to care for my health. I’ve taken a car home after a long day when I didn’t want to ride public transport. I’ve learned to ask my partner to wait at the bus stop or in front of our house when the anxiety felt too heavy or when I thought I might faint.
And yesterday, despite all my anxiety, I went to an “Art Criticism” course by myself. 100% alone, on a rainy day. The streets were empty, I was scared, it was almost dark… and still.
I traveled, walked through unfamiliar streets, and came home at 10 PM—safe, and even happy.
To me, that is an achievement my self from three years ago would’ve thought unreachable.
I have finally overcome my fear of going outside. I’ve finally overcome that fear and that urge to scream “I’ll stay home today” and instead allow myself to enjoy the beautiful things life has to offer.
Rain is no longer an excuse, but rather a companion.
Neither are time constraints—rather, they’re necessary for me to learn that as an adult, I can take care of myself. Yes, I’ve been through terrible situations, but I’ve learned to keep walking and found strength in protecting myself. And while nothing can guarantee it won’t happen again, at least I’ve done everything within my power to be safe.
Besides, I’m no longer a weak girl.
I’m a strong boy. A strong man.
And a brave one, who is gradually facing his fears.
The fear of going outside is a victory I’ve earned little by little, and now the idea of riding a bike again, even working out in the world once more—without fear of being robbed or assaulted—feels more and more tangible each day.
And for that, I’m proud and confident enough to share it with others.
You can overcome your fears, even your traumas, little by little.
Every step you take one day leads you to the finish line.
You’ll feel fear, you’ll want to cry, scream, stomp your feet, run back—but you’ll keep going, because life will show you that you can do it.
I believe in you. Keep going.
✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *:･ﾟ✧
Thank you for reading till here… 🖤✨
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