Life Begins Where Fear Ends

So what is your “comfort zone”? And if you don’t know what I mean when I say “comfort zone”, it is…..

So what happens when you try to go beyond the boundaries of your comfort zone? What are the feelings that come up when you try to do this? What thoughts does it bring up for you? How does thinking those thoughts and feeling those feelings affect your behavior? What do you do as a result of having those thoughts and feelings?

Let’s compare your comfort zone boundaries to a fence or a wall. What do you do when you are confronted with the boundaries of your comfort zone? Do you try to jump over the “fence” or open the “gate” or crash through the “wall” somehow? If so, good for you and Procrastination is not necessarily a problem for you. However, if you get more and more anxiety or fear the more you try to penetrate these boundaries, you will have to address the underlying reasons for your anxiety or fear before you can move forward.

If you are having a problem with Procrastination you are probably not really attempting to penetrate the boundaries that are keeping you from addressing any anxiety, etc. that the boundaries represent.

Chat – Fear of Success Blog

When I look back, I can trace many of the struggles I’ve had with success to one moment in my childhood. I was eleven years old, and the school had just informed my parents that I was being placed in the honors program for seventh grade. For most kids, that would have been a moment of celebration. For me, it became the beginning of a long, tangled fear.

My mother looked at me with a kind of warning in her eyes and said, “You can be smart, but don’t be smarter than me.” At the time, I didn’t fully understand what she meant, but I felt the sting of it. It wasn’t encouragement—it was a ceiling. A message that if I grew too much, I’d leave her behind, and that wasn’t allowed.

My real father, a devout Jehovah’s Witness, had his own way of shutting the door on my potential. He told me, “If you use your intelligence, you’re going against God.”  (I found out later in life that this was not necessarily a belief of the Jehovah Witnesses but his own personal belief.) Imagine hearing that as a child, that the very part of you that lit up with curiosity and possibility was somehow sinful. Every time I wanted to read more, learn more, or shine in school, I felt torn between my natural drive and a looming fear that I was offending something sacred.

At home with my stepfather, things were no better. “Stupid” became my daily nickname, sometimes tossed at me five times a day in one form or another. My older brother joined in too, making jokes at my expense, mocking me for thinking I was “so smart.” And outside, in the working-class neighborhood, the more my intelligence set me apart, the more alienated I felt. I didn’t belong with the kids I grew up with, and I didn’t feel accepted at home either.

That cocktail of rejection—feeling abandoned by my parents, humiliated by my stepfather, mocked by my brother, shunned by peers—left a scar. Slowly, a belief took root in me, one I couldn’t name at the time but lived out for years: I must not outdo anyone.

Whenever opportunities for success came later in life, I found myself hesitating, sabotaging, or stepping back. The memory of those voices—*“don’t be smarter than me,” “you’re going against God,” “you’re stupid”—*echoed louder than my own. Success meant danger. Success meant losing love, or faith, or belonging.

It has taken years to unlearn that. To realize that the little boy who was silenced still lives inside me, but he doesn’t have to run the show anymore. The truth is, I wasn’t meant to stay small. None of us are.

How Childhood Messages Can Hold Us Back

When I was eleven years old, I received news that should have been a moment of pride and excitement: the school told my parents I was going to be placed in the honors program for seventh grade.

For most kids, this would have been a reason to celebrate—a chance to feel recognized and encouraged. But for me, it became the moment when a quiet, invisible wall went up inside.

The Early Messages That Shaped Me

I’ll never forget the way my mother looked at me when she heard the news. With a flatness in her voice, she said:
“You can be smart, but don’t be smarter than me.”

At that age, I couldn’t quite grasp the full weight of her words, but I understood enough. It wasn’t encouragement—it was a limit. It was permission to grow, but only so far.

My father, a devout Jehovah’s Witness, added his own message. He told me:
“If you use your intelligence, you’re going against God.”

As a boy, I took those words to heart. The very part of me that lit up with curiosity and potential suddenly felt dangerous. If I excelled, I wasn’t just being ambitious—I was betraying God.

Then came the constant barrage at home from my stepfather. “Stupid.” That word, or something close to it, was thrown at me almost daily—five times a day on some days. It became the soundtrack of my childhood. My older brother piled on too, mocking me, making fun of me for “thinking I was smart.”

Even outside the home, the alienation grew. I came from a working-class neighborhood where “being smart” often meant being different, and “different” meant being pushed away. I didn’t fit in at school, I didn’t feel safe at home, and the message that began to etch itself into my mind was painfully clear:

It’s not safe to succeed. It’s not safe to outshine. If you rise too high, you will lose love, belonging, or both.

The Hidden Belief That Followed Me

That belief didn’t just fade when I grew older—it followed me into adulthood, shaping decisions I didn’t even realize were connected to it.

Whenever I had opportunities for growth, advancement, or recognition, I would hesitate. A part of me felt pulled back, like I had an internal leash. I’d second-guess myself, procrastinate, or sabotage opportunities. Outwardly, I might tell myself I wasn’t ready or that it wasn’t the right time. But inwardly, the truth was simpler and sadder: I had been conditioned to believe I wasn’t allowed to outdo anybody.

And when you believe that at your core, success doesn’t feel like a reward—it feels like a betrayal.

Breaking Free from Old Stories

It has taken years to untangle that web of fear, shame, and false loyalty. Healing hasn’t been about erasing the past—it’s been about rewriting the meaning I gave it.

I’ve learned that:

• The voices of our parents, teachers, and peers often become our inner voice. If those voices were critical or shaming, they can live on inside us long after childhood.
• Beliefs form as survival strategies. As a boy, believing “I must not outdo anyone” helped me stay connected, or at least avoid more punishment. But as an adult, that belief only held me back.
• Success is not betrayal. Outgrowing the people around us doesn’t mean rejecting them—it means fulfilling the potential we were given.

For You, If You’ve Felt the Same

Maybe you, too, have felt blocked—not because you weren’t capable, but because of the stories you absorbed as a child. Maybe you’ve heard things like:

• “Don’t get too big for your britches.”
• “Who do you think you are?”
• “You’ll never amount to anything.”

And maybe, without realizing it, those words became a cage.

Here’s the truth I want to offer you: you don’t have to stay in that cage.

Success doesn’t mean you’re leaving people behind. It doesn’t mean you’re arrogant. It doesn’t mean you’re unsafe. Success simply means you’re stepping into the fullness of who you are.

The little boy inside me once thought success was dangerous. Today, I remind him—and myself—that it’s not only safe, it’s necessary.

And the same is true for you.

👉 Would you like me to frame this as the first entry in a series (like “Fear of Success, Part 1: The Childhood Roots” with future posts on “How Fear of Success Shows Up in Adulthood” and “Steps to Reclaim Your Power”)? That way it becomes part of a bigger journey for your blog.