Are you afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? 

What are you afraid of?
I’d love to know.
No one is fearless.
I’m certainly not. 
Oh, I can stomp my own spiders if they invade my home. Even collected a brown recluse or two to study their physiology. And I’m the one who captured the snake when my neighbor came shrieking up to our door one morning looking for my husband. It was a garter snake. Like the fish that got away, her telling of the story cast the poor creature as a post-atomic Godzilla. I brought him inside to let my son observe him before we rehomed him on more hospitable turf. I have even been known to swim with sharks. ­­­Little ones. Not sure they even have teeth. But some activities bring out the poultry in me. 
Bwawk! Bwawk! Bwawk!
Perhaps irrationally so. 
Whatevs. I know my emotional limits and honor them. 
For example, there’s a bridge over I-70 that has plexiglass inserts in geometric shapes, so that you can observe the traffic beneath as it passes. Kinda cool to look at, but I will not stand on those inserts. It’s not even will not, more like cannot. These inserts are maybe a foot square, the triangle far less. Even if one of them popped out like a champagne cork, my hide will not fit through that opening. Yet the idea of standing on one of them gives me a serious case of the willies. 
Irrational. I know. 
Don’t care.
Another time, on a fishing outing with friends, we went to catch some lingcod along the California coast. Delicious to eat. Their flesh is a translucent blue until it oxidizes. And they have teeth.
Gorgeous morning for a hike, we trekked along the rocky edge of the Pacific toward a spot where the lingcod routinely gathered at the shoreline. I was in high spirits until the trail came to a gap in the cliff. Beneath us, mighty waves crashed onto the rocks.
With fishing gear in tow, my companions deftly leapt the minor chasm in the escarpment while I stood immobilized by the churning ocean forty feet below. It took my friends a moment to realize I hadn’t followed them. 
“Just jump.”
The thought of jumping across made me lightheaded. “Uh. No.”
“It’s easy. It’s like three feet.” 
Three feet. True. I could easily clear that distance. But jumping wasn’t an option.
“No. I’m good here.”
They attempted to encourage me, but I refused to budge. When I finally convinced them to continue without me, I relaxed and enjoyed my side of the cliff.
I wrote the section above in late June before an upcoming trip to California. Ironically, while there, I encountered another personal barrier.
We were in town to visit family, but my husband and I decided to rent a place in the Oakland hills to hang out for a few days. We looked forward to beautiful views of the bay and surrounding cities, deer grazing beneath our balcony, and sipping hot coffee amid the crisp morning fog. I drove as we meandered the winding roads toward our hillside retreat. 
“Turn here,” he said.
“Turn?” I looked around for a road.
“Onto what?” 
“This is our road. Turn right.”
From the left side of the car, where I was driving, a high spot at the top obscured the view of any pavement. Our rental, along with all the other homes, cling to the hills like mountain goats. There’s no way those roads would get built today, but here in the hills, they had tenure. 
“I don’t see a road.”
“I can see it,” he said. “Just turn here.”
Whatever was there, it was the width of a narrow driveway and as steep as a drop ride at Six Flags.
“Turn here? You’re kidding?”
“This is our road.”
I inched closer, but still couldn’t perceive any pavement. The view made me dizzy, and I started to shake. “No. I’m not driving down that.” To punctuate my refusal, I idled away from the invisible street. 
My husband patiently looked at the map and directed me to the other end of that same street. This entrance was strictly single file, but I could at least see the terra firma. I crept up the incline, praying that no one would come from the other direction. Mercifully, about halfway, I found a proper driveway in which to turn around. Maneuvering in reverse up the steep hill accelerated my shaking, but once I parked on the narrow shoulder, I finally exhaled. 
We spent four nights in that rental, and I refused to drive down that road.
At least I’m consistent.
Please tell me, what are you afraid of? It’s a question I intentionally examine when writing, and one that occasionally seizes me with an icy fist. We all meet our moments. While I like to push my personal limits, in some situations, well, I’m happy to stay on my side of the chasm.