I Lost My Scared Gene

I figured something out about myself recently.

I’m 69 years old. I’ve survived three cancers.

And somewhere along the way…

I lost my scared gene.

I don’t know where the hell it went.

Maybe they took it out with the prostate.

I don’t know.

Maybe the surgeon came out and said, “Good news, John. We got everything.”

Apparently he meant everything.

Cancer? Gone.

Prostate? Gone.

Fear?
“Yeah, that was attached. Sorry about that.”

Because I don’t get scared about things the way I used to.

I get excited.

Something completely unpredictable is about to happen and everybody else is going:

“Oh my God, what if this goes wrong?”

And I’m standing there going:

“Ooooh…this could be interesting.”

That’s probably not normal.

But after you’ve heard the word cancer three different times, regular problems start losing their production value.

Somebody says:

“John, aren’t you worried this might not work?”

Buddy, I’ve had Stage 4 cancer.

You’re going to have to bring me something stronger than a disappointing Tuesday.

Traffic?

Don’t care.

Somebody doesn’t like me?

I’ll recover.

I embarrass myself?

Please.

At 69, embarrassment has left the building.

That’s one of the great things nobody tells you about getting older.

When you’re 25, you’re terrified about what everybody thinks about you.

You’re standing at a party thinking:

“Do I look cool?”

At 69?

I’m thinking:

“Where’s the bathroom?”

That’s freedom.

I spent years worrying about the future.

What if this happens?

What if that happens?

What if I fail?

Then life finally said:

“Oh, you want something to worry about?

Here comes cancer.”

And then I survived it.

And cancer came back in another form.

Survived that.

Then another one showed up.

At that point I’m looking at the universe like:

“Are we dating now? Because you’re getting clingy.”

Three cancers.

Eventually fear runs out of material.

Now when something crazy comes along, my first instinct isn’t:

“What if something goes wrong?”

It’s:

“What if something amazing happens?”

That’s a completely different way to live.

Because think about how much of our lives are controlled by things that haven’t even happened.

We don’t talk to somebody because they might reject us.

We don’t start something because it might fail.

We don’t go somewhere because we might feel uncomfortable.

We don’t say what we’re thinking because somebody might not like it.

We spend half our lives obeying imaginary disasters.

And I’m done with that.

I don’t have enough runway left to spend it sitting at the gate.

I’m 69.

I’m taking off.

And yes, occasionally the flight attendant is going to say:

“Sir, please sit down.”

No.

I’ve been sitting down long enough.

Now, I don’t mean I’ve become reckless.

I’m not wrestling alligators.

I’m not jumping out of airplanes without a parachute.

I’m 69. I don’t even get out of a recliner without a strategic plan.

There’s a difference between being fearless and being stupid.

I still have the gene that says:

“Don’t pet the bear.”

That’s an excellent gene.

I’m keeping that one.

But the gene that says:

“Don’t try.”

“Don’t speak.”

“Don’t love.”

“Don’t risk looking foolish.”

“Don’t start something because you’re too old.”

That gene can kiss my ass.

Because the strangest thing happened when I stopped being afraid.

The world got bigger.

Strangers became interesting.

Failure became funny.

Rejection became survivable.

And uncertainty became exciting.

I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow.

For most of my life, that sentence would have scared me.

Today?

I fucking love it.

Because I finally understand something.

Nobody knows what’s going to happen tomorrow.

The 25-year-old doesn’t know.

The 45-year-old doesn’t know.

And the 69-year-old sure as hell doesn’t know.

The only difference is…

I finally stopped pretending I could control it.

I’ve survived things I never thought I’d have to face.

And I’m still here.

So whatever happens next?

Bring it.

Maybe I fall in love.

Maybe I make a complete fool of myself.

Maybe I start something that works.

Maybe I start something that crashes and burns spectacularly.

Fine.

At least I’ll have a story.

Because at 69, I’m not trying to make my life safer.

I’m trying to make sure I’m actually living it.

So yeah…

Somewhere along the way, I lost my scared gene.

And if anybody finds it…

don’t give the fucking thing back.