There’s a rustle in the bushes.

Your heart speeds up. You freeze. Your brain lights up like a Vegas marquee screaming one thing: danger. Only this isn’t a prehistoric savanna, and there’s no saber-toothed tiger about to pounce. It’s just the wind. Or maybe a raccoon. Or, more likely, absolutely nothing.

Still, your body doesn’t know that. Because evolution doesn’t get software updates.

We’re all walking around with survival algorithms coded thousands of years ago. Our nervous system is tuned to a version of the world that doesn’t exist anymore. It’s like trying to stream Netflix on a Nokia 3310. The interface is wrong. The threat detection is… buggy.

And yet, fear persists. Loud. Fast. Heavy.

The same system that kept your ancestors alive is now telling you that speaking up in a meeting is a life-or-death situation. That applying for a new job is dangerous. That asking someone out or starting something new might lead to exile, humiliation, or worse. And when we buy into those stories—when we treat discomfort like danger—we don’t just play it safe. We stay small.

We avoid the bush entirely.

This is where fear stops being useful and starts being expensive. Not in dollars, but in experience. Growth. Possibility. Because when we avoid fear, we also avoid the things it stands in front of. Things like connection. Ambition. Impact.

Here’s the glitch: fear isn’t always wrong. But it is outdated.

Evolution gave us a smoke alarm with no off switch. One that beeps for burnt toast and house fires with the same urgency. And because we don’t like the noise, we start building our lives around avoiding it. Skipping the situations. Saying no to the chances. Convincing ourselves that the lion is still in the bush, even if we’ve never actually seen one.

The wild thing is, the more we avoid what we fear, the bigger that fear gets. Not because it’s real, but because we haven’t tested it. Our brains are wired to fill in the blanks with worst-case scenarios. And without evidence to the contrary, those fictional outcomes become truth. The monster grows in the shadows.

But here’s the good news. Fear is hackable.

Not with brute force, but with curiosity. Small steps. Gentle pushes. When we do the thing we’re scared of, even just a little, we start to collect new data. Real data. Like “Huh, I didn’t actually die when I said that out loud.” Or “That presentation wasn’t perfect, but people clapped anyway.” That feedback loop starts to rewire the system. The false positives lose power.

One of the most useful tricks I’ve learned is to treat fear like an app notification. You don’t ignore it, but you don’t assume it’s urgent either. You check it. Ask, “What are you really trying to tell me?” Sometimes, fear is just excitement with bad posture. Other times, it’s your ego trying to protect you from embarrassment, not danger.

I remember this moment a few years ago where I had to speak in front of a crowd of people I really respected. My stomach was folding in on itself. My brain was producing worst-case scenarios like it was trying to win an Oscar. But I’d read somewhere that fear and excitement trigger almost the exact same physiological response. Heart racing. Short breaths. Butterflies. So I tried something. I told myself, this is excitement. Just adrenaline prepping me to perform.

It worked.

Not magically. Not instantly. But enough. I spoke. I stumbled a bit. People nodded. A few laughed at my jokes. And afterwards, I was buzzing—not with shame, but with pride. I had walked through the bush. And it wasn’t a lion. It was just a leaf.

The thing about fear is, it’s often directional. If something scares you and excites you, it probably matters. It’s worth exploring. Because fear is usually standing in front of something meaningful. Not always safe. But real.

Take startups. The ones that make it aren’t run by fearless people. They’re run by people who act despite fear. Who try weird ideas. Who launch before they’re fully ready. Not because they’re confident, but because they’ve made peace with uncertainty. And yes, sometimes they fail. But other times, they make something new. Something better.

The fear doesn’t go away. But they move anyway.

Pop culture gets this. Look at Frodo. Classic anxious introvert with hairy feet. Zero interest in adventure. But he steps out anyway. Not because he’s brave at the start, but because the journey makes him brave. If he’d stayed in the Shire, safe and comfy, the ring wouldn’t have been destroyed. And we’d be dealing with a whole lot more orcs.

Fear is a compass. It’s not always pointing to doom. Sometimes, it’s just showing you the edges of your comfort zone. And what’s beyond those edges is usually where the good stuff is.

There’s a reason our favorite stories are full of scared characters doing bold things. Not superheroes, but regular people. Messy people. Who flinch. Who doubt. But still say yes. Because saying yes is the first act of courage. Even if your voice shakes. Even if your palms sweat.

Especially then.

We live in a world now where the real sabertooths are inside our heads. The external threats have mostly been replaced by internal narratives. “I’m not good enough.” “They’ll laugh at me.” “What if I fail?” But the wild thing is, you’re still here. Even after that time you bombed. Even after the awkward pitch. Even after the messy attempt.

You survived.

And you probably grew a little.

That’s the actual trick. Once you face a fear and come out the other side, you become someone slightly different. Someone with more capacity. More proof. More data. And next time, it won’t hit as hard. Because you’ve seen the code behind the simulation. You know the monster isn’t real.

That doesn’t mean we ignore fear. It still has wisdom. Sometimes it’s keeping you from real harm. But most of the time? It’s just trying to protect you from discomfort. From risk. From change. And while that’s understandable, it’s not useful if you want to grow. Or lead. Or create.

The fact of the matter is that I haven’t gotten over that crippling fear mentioned earlier just yet. I still scared senseless, every single time, I have to present something for an audience. And… I do that a lot these days.

So here’s what I tell myself, and sometimes others: walk toward the bush.

Not blindly. Not recklessly. But deliberately. Ask what you’re really afraid of. Imagine the worst-case scenario. Then ask yourself, “Can I handle that?” Most of the time, you’ll find the answer is yes. Or at least, “I can figure it out.”

Your brain isn’t wrong for feeling fear. It’s just using outdated firmware.

But you? You can update. You can choose which signals to follow. You can train your nervous system to recognize the difference between “this will kill me” and “this will make me uncomfortable for a while.”

And if you do it often enough, fear stops being the boss.

It becomes a co-pilot.

A slightly overprotective one. But hey, even co-pilots have their place. Just don’t let them take the wheel.