Do It Anyway.

“Feel the fear and do it anyway.”
I’ve said this to others countless times—but recently, I realized I’ve needed to say it to myself.

This theme—fear, and doing it anyway—has come up in so many conversations lately. I find myself asking:

• What are you willing to sacrifice by not doing it?
  
• What about the fear of not doing it at all—is that worse than the fear of doing it?
  
• What don’t others get to experience because you’re afraid to start?
  
• What are you telling yourself based on fear—and what is actually real?
  

When I get into these conversations, something in me lights up. I feel energized. I feel passionate. I want the people I’m talking to—to feel it and do it anyway.

And, of course, I know: the thing I’m telling them is something I’ve needed to hear for myself.

Years ago, I bought a moss-green bandana from a market in Brevard. It had a thunderbird printed across the front. What I didn’t notice until later was the small writing: “Feel the fear and do it anyway.”

I remember thinking at the time: I really need to hear this. But hearing it isn’t the same as doing it.

I had been in tech sales for some time and knew—deep down—that it wasn’t it. There was something more aligned, more connected, more me out there. I got clear on this after a deep, introspective week out in Arizona. That time cracked something open. I came back with a stronger sense of what I wanted to create: a business of my own. One that felt grounded and true to who I am.

That was over six years ago.

I’ve wanted to begin ever since—but I couldn’t see the full picture. I didn’t know how I would make it work. I was raising two teenage boys on my own income. I didn’t have a model to follow. In the spare moments I did have, I wrote about it. I walked in the woods to get quiet enough to hear more of it. I talked to people I trusted and shared little bits of the idea.

I had a strong knowing… but it didn’t feel tangible. I’d say, “It feels like a camp, or a space for exploration, learning, and curiosity.” But when people asked me to explain what “Seneca” (my early name for it) was, I stumbled. I felt uncertain. Disconnected. Fearful—not just that I didn’t have it figured out, but that it was a dumb idea to begin with.

And then there was a bigger fear: that it would all be just talk. 

That I would get to the end of my life and never actually trust myself enough to start.
 

That I would miss the chance to know what it felt like to do something that was truly mine.

What a shame that would be. What a loss.

My dad faced fear with a grounded mindset. My mom, on the other hand, is a worrier. I remember her saying to my dad once, “Troy, what if we can’t afford the house we just built?” His response: “Then we sell it.”

I don’t know if you can inherit the worry gene—but I grew up in a household where fear often overrode logic. I saw my mom stay stuck after my dad died. She became complacent. Paralyzed. A victim to her circumstances. I call it the ditch of pity.

Worry, after all, is just fear. And what about the fear of staying the same?
What about the fear of not living the life you know you’re meant to?
What about the fear of being unhappy, indefinitely?

Those are the fears I am no longer willing to live with.

Those are the fears I challenge others on when they come to me for support.

Those are the fears I don’t entertain anymore—not for the life I want to live.

So no, I still don’t have all the answers. But I’m no longer waiting for certainty to begin.

I’m choosing movement over fear.
I’m choosing to trust the knowing.
I’m choosing to do it anyway.