Be Afraid. Do It Anyway.

I’ve been afraid most of my life. Not in a cowardly way, just in a very human way. Most of the things I’ve done that mattered, I did while afraid. Traveling to South America at the age of 19 with my buddy Mike W, not really knowing what we were getting into or speaking a lick of Spanish. Moving out to Vancouver Island and living in a crawlspace just to make ends meet. Joining the military. Deploying overseas. Policing and all of it's hidden fears. All of it started with fear in my gut, but I did it anyway.

Early on, it was probably just the ignorance of youth that made it easier to pull the trigger on bold adventures. I didn’t know enough to be scared of the consequences. But as time went on and my life filled up with more experiences, I started to understand fear better. I learned how to trust myself. I learned that I could figure shit out under pressure. And eventually, through the military and policing, I was given the kind of focused, high-stakes training that made it possible to take on even the hardest things, deliberately, methodically, and still have fear.

I remember being a kid, maybe 12 or 13, and watching my older brother Dave jump off the power dam at the end of Moon River. If you’ve ever been there, you know what I’m talking about. That dam is massive, easily 50 feet high. And the space you had to hit in the water? Maybe ten feet wide. Miss it, and you weren’t hitting water, you were hitting concrete. That terrified me. I’d jumped off cliffs and bridges before. It wasn’t only the height that scared me. It was the risk of missing, the very real possibility that I’d fuck it up and pay the price in broken bones or worse. So I stood at the top and stayed put, I didn’t jump. I just didn't trust myself enough. Dave jumped. Right into the center of that slim patch of safety. And everything was fine. I watched him surface, hooting and laughing, totally alive. And I stayed behind.

That moment stuck with me. For years, maybe decades. I didn’t have the words for it then, but something shifted inside me. I realized I didn’t want to be the guy who missed out because he was afraid. I didn’t want to stay on the edge my whole life, watching someone else live their lives in front of me.

Fast forward a few years, I found myself doubled over with the straps of my parachute as tight as they could possibly be, painfully tight in fact, in the C-130 for our first jump, of my basic parachutist course in Trenton. I was going to be first in our stick if I had the chance, I wanted to be the first one out that door. Not because I wasn’t scared, I was, but because I didn’t want fear to stop me. I didn’t want to hesitate. I didn’t want to wait. I didn't want to get left behind.

We had just completed tough, high-pressure training, being pushed mentally and physically, drilled on procedures, tested constantly. And when it came time to jump, I wasn’t scared because something might go wrong, because the parachutes had been packed by experts. The pilots were the best in the business. The instructors, seasoned, sharp, and steady, had rehearsed every contingency. Every safety briefing, every check, every control was in place. I was afraid I would freeze. I was afraid I wouldn't jump.

I understood the risks. I accepted them. Not recklessly, but with trust. In the training, in the systems, and in the people around me. I believed the juice was going to be worth the squeeze.

My fear wasn’t always just about danger. It was about failing. That’s the one that’s always followed me around, quietly, consistently. I was afraid I wouldn’t measure up. That I’d try and come up short. That I’d get found out as someone who didn't deserve to be there. That I was a loser.

Attending any training, whether it was military training, my time at the Ontario Police College, or other physically and mentally demanding challenges like CIOR, I carried that fear. The fear of failure. Of not being enough. But I tried anyway, in spite of the fear. Every time. I trained. I toughed it out. I endured. I committed. I bet on myself, not because I was sure I’d win, but because I refused to let fear make the decision for me. I refused to quit.

Standing in the doorway, waiting for the green light, I couldn’t believe how low we were flying. The trees were so close. Everything inside me was telling me I wasn't good enough. That I can't do this. That I was going to fuck it up again.

Then the light turned green. And I jumped.

That first moment outside the aircraft was violent, chaotic winds thrashed my body, deafening engine noise, total sensory overload. And then... silence. The chute opened and it was peace like I’d never known before. Suspended in stillness. Absolute clarity and calm. The landing sucked mind you.

That contrast burned itself into my brain. That the most chaotic, fear-filled leap could lead to the most peaceful moment of your life.

Looking back now, on the dam, the jump, the years between, I’m starting to realize something or maybe just finally accepting it:

Being afraid and doing it anyway is the real victory.

Not eliminating fear. Not pretending it isn’t there. But acknowledging it, accepting the fear, and choosing to move forward in spite of it. That’s the shift. That’s the muscle we're training and building.

And it doesn’t mean throwing yourself into chaos blindly. Courage isn’t recklessness. It’s calculated. It’s trained. It’s leaning on the systems, the people, the preparation and then taking one more step, even with your heart in your throat. Because the goal isn’t to eliminate fear. It’s to live your life so fully that fear is just another emotion. Just like happiness and joy.

So yeah, be afraid. But don’t stay stuck. Move anyway. Speak anyway. Try anyway. Because on the other side of fear might just be the peace you’ve been chasing all along.

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This reflection draws on my experiences growing up on the lakes and rivers of Muskoka, leading countless self-directed wilderness excursions, and later retiring as a Sergeant in the Canadian Armed Forces and in law enforcement as a Tactical Officer. The Tactical Camper philosophy is built from a lifetime of outdoor exploration, operational deployments, specialized tactical training during 22 years of uniformed service, and years of PTSD recovery — adapted to guide resilience, preparedness, and leadership in everyday life.