What fear leaves behind

When times get tough, the only way out is through.

I positioned myself to relive it: the room, the woman, the sound. The scream that tore from my own throat. Alien.

“They made me watch a video in the first session. Everything was right in front of me, everything I was afraid of. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t cope.” I stuttered.

“Tell me about the others.” He followed.

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“I’ve tried them all—a celebrity hypnotist, two tapping ‘experts,’ which I guess I should be honest about, right?”

He nodded opposite me, so I continued:

“EFT, CBT…DBT. CAT. Too many T’s to count.” I tried to laugh, but it caught in my throat, sharp and awkward.

Then there was silence—a pressure to say something, to fill the air with the next part of the story. He wasn’t to be bullshitted. The silence taunted me a little more, then I gave in:

“I tried exposure therapy, too. Disaster. I wouldn’t do that again.”

My eyes darted around the room, landing on each motivational quote scrawled on tiny whiteboards. “Whether you think you can or you think you can't – you're right,” sat by my feet, offering a pep-talk from the side of the sofa.

And then he spoke:

“Well, I hope to be your last.”

“I hope so too,” I forced casually. Once again, I’d pinned my hopes on another stranger’s promise. God, I hoped I could kick it.

My journey here started on a train. One moment, I was living the good life at 20, and then...the sound, the smell, the feeling of being trapped. It was December, and the train was cold. At first, I thought someone was squeezing a ketchup bottle over post-Christmas party chips. And then, “We have to move”, said the person beside me. It’s a blur after that, but I remember when the smell began to spread.

I got off the train but couldn’t get it to leave. That was the first time.

It kept happening, each time piling up, hammering the fear deeper. Emetophobia —a sophisticated name for a grotty phobia. I was scared of people vomiting.

Since then, I’ve lived in the prison of a fear I can’t understand. Transport was hell. I’d avoid travel at night, especially on weekends.

The fear had become uncontrollable, but what was I scared of? I didn’t know. Not being able to cope? Perhaps. The fear didn’t just visit—it lingered. Sneaking into decisions, relationships, and identity. I lived under its rule, letting it dictate where I went, what I did, and who I became. The fear whispered just enough to keep me stuck, lying into my ear, “I’ll keep you safe.”

Back in the therapy room, my eyes started to dart, searching for an anchor to sink into. These places were all the same – an opportunity to be ‘fixed’ before inevitable disappointment. I’d start with a new person, therapist, saviour, and then I’d leave – with less money and hope than I’d arrived with.

I’d ravaged the phobia-cure circuit, trying everything from fool’s gold to dancing monkeys and snake oil. One hypnotherapist used our sessions to write his book. Charming. But I deserved it. I was expecting each of these people to change me, for them to do something to me. And that’s how I ended up—facing the truth I’d been running from.

“I need to be clear. There’s nothing here that I’m going to do to you. All I will do is support you in making positive changes yourself. The action is on you,” he said from across the room.

I didn’t want to go through the pain. I wanted something to be done to me. I wanted the easy way out – and he knew it.

As I stood up to leave, he placed a book in my hand. “Read this,” he said.

“It’s important. I think you’ll like it.”

And with that, I walked out, heading down the stairs to see what all the fuss was about.

On the street, I looked down at the book,, wedged awkwardly into a bag that was never meant for it. A bland cover with a title that begged for judgement. ‘The Power of TED.’

TED—was it connected to TED Talks? God, I hoped not. Had I really forked over half a mortgage payment to see someone who’d hand me a glorified TEDx reading list?

But later, as I opened it, things started to click. This wasn’t trendy, surface-level fluff. There was a reason he’d given me this book. Everything he’d said to me in that room was echoed here, each line nudging me toward what I’d stubbornly avoided for so long. And, for once, I was going to listen.

The Empowerment Dynamic (this TED) doesn’t sugarcoat change. In its pages, change is less a gentle nudge and more a teardown of spirit—a call to self-responsibility that cuts through the noise.

‘You always have a choice,’ the book says. The choice towards a lifetime of hard, unglamorous work that eventually stops being so painful. No one wants to choose pain – and that’s why so many of us are left suffering. Real transformation is choosing to confront the pain that the fear brings. It’s walking headfirst into that fire when it’s easier to turn away and then to keep doing it over and over again. Deep down, I already knew this—and that’s why I’d chosen to flee.

I avoided the work because I didn’t believe I could face the pain of it. It felt easier to sit on the sidelines, waiting for a cure, hoping change would be “done to me.” But somewhere between sitting in that room and reading that book, I realised that this was my chance. If not now, then when?

Every challenge comes with a choice – face discomfort or run away. Charles Bukowski wrote, “What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.” And nothing makes that truer than facing real change – which is just a short walk to the other side of fear. No one is coming to fix you.

The weeks and months were gruelling—watching videos and listening to playlists. I’d found a website for emetophobia exposure with photos, sounds, and videos of my nemesis – and I was there to listen to them all. Sitting in the office, I stood as far away from the speakers as possible. I wanted to jump out of the window and feel the escapism of dropping eight floors – away from the fear, to crawl out of the prison of my body. I wanted out. But, still, I kept going, each video, each sound checked off the list—progress at last.

And I continued, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do. Some days, I’d play the intro to “Puke” by Eminem five times in a row, my palms sweating, ears burning, stomach churning. Yet, despite the inner chaos, I coped. Walking through the fire meant facing what terrified me and celebrating every step forward.

Fear moves quietly, stealing moments, opportunities, and years. It convinces you that avoiding discomfort is survival, but the truth is that nothing grows in the safety of avoidance.

Changing this mindset demands everything you’ve been running from—every scream you’ve stifled, every instinct you’ve avoided. It doesn’t coddle or wait; it drags you forward or leaves you behind. The fire you fear isn’t the enemy. It’s the path through. And here, today, I’m far from finished.

My life hasn’t transformed overnight. The fear still lingers, ready to claw at me, but I don’t run as often. I sit with it—and survive.

Because the only way to change is to keep going, keep walking through the fire, until one day you notice—finally, mercifully—you don’t feel the burn in the same way you used to. And when you look back, you realise it wasn’t the fire that destroyed you. It was the fear of facing it.

A huge thank you to the friends who read an early draft.

Matt Kramer

, Becky at

Beck At It

, and Josh Burgener. This was a tough one to write, forever grateful for the comments.