Facing Fear, Breaking the Cycle

by Shred Shreedhar

I was new to this place—an old, cramped shanty in Chennai. A turning point in my life, I found myself there after a painful failure that shattered my confidence and disappointed those around me. The future felt uncertain, and each decision felt heavier than the last.

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On my first morning in the city, I made no grand plans. I simply needed to find a temple and get some breakfast. A man selling pirated audio cassettes smiled kindly, sensing my confusion, and pointed me toward a narrow lane that led to a temple. It was a small gesture, but I clung to it like a lifeline. As I inhaled deeply and took my first steps down the unfamiliar street, I knew I was stepping into more than just a new neighbourhood—I was stepping into a new chapter of my life.

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But life, as it often does, had other plans.

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Out of nowhere, a scruffy brown dog darted toward me, teeth bared, eyes locked on me with territorial aggression. Panic surged through me. I had heard all the advice: "Don't run, don't react—just stay still." It was something my parents and elders drilled into me during childhood. So, I froze. I planted my feet and tried to stand firm, but every muscle screamed at me to flee. The dog snarled and barked, inching closer. My heart pounded, my breath was shallow. Just when I thought I couldn’t stand it any longer, a man appeared and shooed the dog away.

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Relief washed over me, but it was short-lived. The next morning, the same thing happened. And then again, the next. Each day, the brown dog awaited me, ready to charge, and each day I froze, powerless in the face of his aggression. The man would shoo him away, but the dog seemed to enjoy this twisted ritual. He sensed my fear—no, he thrived on it. Fear became a cycle, a routine we both played out. And it consumed me. Every morning, I dreaded that walk, trapped in a prison of my own making, not realising that it was my reaction—or lack thereof—that fed the dog’s dominance.

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Why did I keep freezing? Why didn’t I fight back? Looking back, I realise that fear doesn’t just paralyse—it conditions us. We start to believe that confronting the problem head-on will only escalate things, make them worse. So, we shrink. We hide behind passivity, convinced it’s the safest option. But is it?

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Then one morning, something changed. The man who usually saved me wasn’t there. As the dog charged, I felt the familiar spike of fear, but I also sensed something different in myself. I was tired—tired of this routine, tired of giving him control over my mornings, tired of being scared. So, I did something radical. Instead of freezing, I stepped forward. My heart was racing, but I raised my voice, shouting, "Stop!" I moved toward him, accepting that he might bite, but something strange happened. He hesitated. Confused. The power dynamics had shifted. I yelled again, louder this time, "Back off!"

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He blinked, visibly startled, and retreated. For the first time, I saw fear in his eyes. I kept advancing, feeling stronger with each step. The dog turned and trotted away, no longer the aggressor but the defeated. And just like that, the cycle was broken. From that day on, he never bothered me again.

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What changed? It wasn’t the dog; it was me.

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Fear is a tricky beast. It conditions us to avoid confrontation, reinforcing the belief that inaction is safer. But by doing nothing, we allow the situation to persist and even worsen. Fear thrives on avoidance, gaining strength with each instance we step back. The dog, much like life’s challenges, fed on my passivity because it made him feel powerful.

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When I finally chose to confront the fear, to take control instead of being controlled, the dynamics flipped. The key wasn’t in aggression—it was in assertion. I didn't need to fight the dog; I needed to reclaim my power. When we face our fears head-on, they often retreat, not because they’ve changed but because we have.

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Life works similarly. Problems, like that dog, will often charge at us when we feel our most vulnerable. And the more we shrink from them, the more we feed them. But when we step forward, meet them halfway, and assert our right to move forward—suddenly, the fears lose their teeth.

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That dog taught me something profound: Fear only holds as much power as we allow it. And once you take that first step forward, you realise—you had the upper hand all along.

THE END