I found my old college application, which required a personal statement. I totally forgot about this, but I wrote about "that time I thought I was going to be kidnapped but actually wasn't", as relayed to some friends at dinner a couple weeks ago. The story hasn't changed much, and apparently neither has my writing style - I was 17ish when I wrote this.
As my grandfather taught me to ride a bike he put his steadying hand on the frame—balancing while I pedaled. Unstable and uncertain, I was terrified that at any moment I might be flung from my seat, over the handlebars, and onto the car-torn pavement. But I wasn't. There were falls, of course, and a fair share of scraped and scabbed knees and hands, but I soon felt like a master atop those two white rubber tires.
My character was irrevocably shaped by this early experience. I truly believe in the duality of fear—in its ability to compel or cripple—and that the experience of overcoming fear is empowering. I believe in the fear of learning to ride a bicycle, of danger; of new experiences, people, change, ideas, and the dark and mysterious unknown. And I also believe that fear challenges me to confront such uncertainties: I can grasp it to strike down the things that twist my stomach into knots, or I can fretfully render myself powerless.
I learned this days after my hard-earned achievement, soaring down the licorice-scented tarmac of our new Cincinnati home. I flew—and then came to a shocked and sudden, skidding halt. My path was blocked by a sputtering truck, and out of it leaned a dangerous man, tattoos stretched across his arms and threatening smoke furling from an angry cigarette.
I was frozen—body braced against bike frame, feet glued to the ground. But I broke my paralysis, and, with my will pounding in my veins, sprinted up the driveway, slid into the garage, and slapped a button to close the door. Swinging into the laundry room, flipping the deadbolt, and slamming the windows, I secured my house against the danger.
Skidding into the entryway, my feet brought me to another abrupt halt: my mom stood at the front door, speaking with the cigarette-tattoo man. He was there to mow our lawn.
Even though this danger was misperceived, I came to understand that fear is a fundamental part of life. Regardless of its legitimacy, I learned that it may drive, or inspire, or limit me, but with knowledge, and independence, and powerful motivation, I can conquer the things that strike dread into my soul.
Viewing the world with refreshed clarity, each new experience of mastery ignited in me a passionate desire to put to rest those old foes lurking in my mind's shadows. Of course it is not my belief that every fear will be conquered, but I know that only by placing myself in new, unfamiliar situations have I gained confidence, maturity, and passion.
At my first volunteer event, I stood lost amidst a vivid Farmer's Market crowd—clipboard and pen anchoring me to the ground. Shakily, I approached one person, and another, and then two at a time. My tremulous voice, at first giving little testament to my cause, strengthened with resolve; my hands steadied, and I was filled with verve. In a moment of determination the meekly uncertain petition-girl blossomed into a self-assured activist.
Without someone to steady me I launched myself into an abyss of uncertainty, and only by confronting my hesitations did I become a strong and outspoken individual. I gained not only the courage to face my doubt and fear, but also the introspection necessary to look upon such situations with objectivity and explore their potential to invigorate me. In the people I met that volunteer day, I discovered heartfelt camaraderie.
I would not wish to have gained my inspired resolve or passionate ardor in any other way. Though I will never be able to face a spider with composure, I face new fears—of adulthood, of true independence and responsibility—and I know that they can be conquered. There may be scraped knees and falls, but it's a matter of balance, really—just like riding a bike.
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