Irrational Fears — October 2025

Irrational Fears

Fear is a funny thing. As a child, it’s usually grounded in the world around you—or so you think. I can’t recall many irrational fears when I was very young. Back then, fear was rational: the dog that might bite, the stove that might burn, the dark corners of the house that hid unknown shapes. But looking back, I can pick out moments where my little mind strayed into what I now recognize as irrational territory.

One of my earliest memories of irrational fear? Parades. Specifically, parades with Turkish musicians and men wielding shining scimitars. I was convinced—completely, utterly convinced—that one of those swords would find its way to me. Today, I can laugh at it. The men were just playing a part, performing for a crowd, the scimitars harmless. But to my four-year-old self, it was a matter of life and death.

As I’ve grown, irrational fears have multiplied, quietly nesting among the rational ones. Some are trivial, even laughable. Others… linger in a corner of my mind like shadows that refuse to be ignored. I fear, irrationally, that I will be forgotten. That my existence, my voice, my actions, will vanish without a trace. Perhaps that’s why I write. Perhaps that’s why I pour pieces of myself into these books—to leave a trace, a memory, a flicker of who I am for someone else to notice.

Rational fear has a clear purpose: it warns, it protects, it guides. If I weren’t afraid of fire, I might play with matches, burn the house down. Irrational fears? They’re untethered, free-floating, almost absurd. Afraid of clowns, afraid of mirrors at night, afraid that someone will remember a conversation I wish they wouldn’t. No real consequence exists—except in the mind. And yet, their power can be just as strong as any rational fear, shaping behavior, twisting thought, whispering doubts.

Irrational Fears in writing

 Just like real people, the characters I write carry fears—some rational, some completely irrational. David, for example, in A Mother’s Sins, wrestles with fears that make no logical sense, yet shape everything he does. He becomes paranoid, protective, jealous—not because reality demands it, but because his mind twists perception into threat.

I think that’s the beauty of fiction. It allows you to take irrational fears, lay them bare, and examine how they shape behavior. A character can act in ways that are self-sabotaging, defensive, or even destructive, and we can understand why—even if the reasoning is flawed. That’s how life works, too. The fears we cannot justify can be the ones that hold the most sway over us.

And maybe that’s why writing helps. It’s a way to confront fears in a controlled space. To name them. To see them clearly and understand them. Sometimes, seeing them on the page is enough to lessen their power. Other times, it’s a way to share them, to let someone else see that they’re not alone in fearing something that “makes no sense.”

Conclusion

Irrational fears are strange companions. They linger in the shadows of our minds, often unacknowledged, yet they influence our choices, our words, and our actions. Some are small, almost laughable in hindsight—a parade of men with shining swords—but others cut deeper, shaping the way we approach love, trust, and life itself.

Writing gives me a way to meet those fears head-on. To name them, to examine them, and sometimes to give them form in the characters I create. In their struggles, I see reflections of my own; in their triumphs, I find hope. Perhaps, through the pages of a book, readers can see their own irrational fears mirrored back and feel less alone.

Fears don’t have to make sense to matter. They exist because we exist, because we feel, because we care. And acknowledging them—whether on the page or in life—is the first step toward understanding them, and maybe, just maybe, setting them free.