My climbing this season was crippled by fear. No matter what I did, it just kept growing from week to week. By the end I didn't even want to go out any more. I was secretly relieved whenever it rained.
The most frustrating part was that I couldn't figure out what I suddenly so afraid of.
There's obviously fear of injury and fear of not being able to control your own trajectory. But I trust my partner to catch me softly, and I trust my own judgement of risk and my reactions on impact. The most dangerous part of my climbing day is probably the drive to the crag.
Fear of falling itself is deeply hard-wired, even absent the risk of injury. Knowing intellectually that a given fall is safe doesn't override that instinct. But years of deliberate exposure therapy does weaken it substantially. Practicing falls in isolation doesn't bother me.
There's also fear of failure, which I certainly don't have mastered. As much as I tell myself that sending or falling doesn't impact my worth as a human being, I still have an unhealthy amount of ego tied up in these arbitrary grades. But while fear of failure might make me get nervous and blow a good attempt, it's never made me not want to climb at all.
Eventually I figured out that my problem was fear of fear.
After spending so much time and energy on training over the off-season, and lacking any loud signals of self-esteem in other parts of my life at the time, I put a huge amount of pressure on myself to perform. And so the usual early season jitters became an obstable rather than a speed bump, and I started to fear that my bad head-game was going to tank the whole season. And so it did.
As soon as I approached a climb I'd start worrying that I was going to get scared, and that's a scary thought, and suddenly I'm feeling the first stirrings of fear, just like I feared. Round and round we go.
Weirdly, the main thing that has helped me since then is just repeating to myself that "it's ok to be afraid".
Fear is a warning about possible consequences. If I try to shut it out then it just gets louder and louder. But if I acknowledge the warning then it quiets down and moves to the background.
If I think it's not ok to be afraid, then the fear itself is something to be afraid of. But if I actually pay attention to the physical sensations of being afraid, it's very hard to distinguish from excitement. It's not unpleasant in itself. It's only the meaning that I attach to it that is upsetting.
And if I expect fear, if it's just a normal component of doing hard things, then it's not a big deal when it shows up. Just a few butterflies, right on schedule.
I keep finding that lessons from climbing help with the rest of my life. It contains all the same challenges, but condensed into short, controlled, repeatable problems with clear and immediate feedback.
My work lately is taking me well outside of my comfort zone. Cold-emailing people I respect to ask for favors. Reacting to public criticism and judgement. Recording an interview with a stranger.
A few years ago these would have left me riddled with anxiety. Today they still give me butterflies, but it's ok to be afraid.