Michal Oshman - What Would You Do If You Werent Afraid?

For my auntie Sara, who teaches me
bravery, optimism, and positivity

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The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.

Mark Twain

On my first day at Facebook, as I stood at the company reception desk about to embark on what was, at the time, the most meaningful job of my career, something caught my eye. It was a question on the wall and it asked:

What would you do if you werent afraid?

This question hit me because, despite serving as a commanding officer in the Israeli army, holding several university degrees, and working as a senior leader at top banks, advertising, PR and tech companies all my life, in one way or another, I had been just that: afraid.

On the surface, my life at this point was a success story. I was born in Israel, in a secular Jewish household, the eldest daughter of two intelligent and accomplished parents. I was raised culturally Jewish, respectful of our heritage without much practice of our religion. After graduating high school Id carried out compulsory military service where, within the first two weeks, I was selected to lead an entire unit. Id married a caring, loving, smart man and we had three (now four) beautiful children. Since relocating to the UK, Id had a successful career coaching and consulting with some of the best leadership talent I could ever imagine working with, at companies like Danone, WPP, eBay and, starting that day, Facebook. Yes, my life appeared to be an impressive series of achievements.

Now let me tell you the real story.

At that point in my life, and for as long as I could remember, I had been suffering from anxiety. The kind that permeates every aspect of your life and consumes every waking thought. This anxiety meant that my mind would naturally drift to the worst-case scenario in any situation. If my friend texted to let me know she was on her way to my house, I would imagine her having a car crash on the way. I would never suggest a time to meet up because then I would be complicit in her death. Each time one of my children asked me to sign a permission slip for a school trip or a day at the museum, it felt like I was signing their death sentence.

As anyone suffering from anxiety can attest, these imaginary scenarios can have very real effects on the mind and body. Those intrusive thoughts would send waves of heat coursing through my entire body. Id become short of breathall because of fear: fear that my children would get lost, forgotten, or kidnapped at the museum. Thats how immediate negative outcomes were to me. They would flash into my head, then I would ruminate on them again and again, imagining them vividly, until in my mind (and body) they became reality.

Was there a reason for my anxiety? For the moments of despair that would wash over me? For my fears? Any psychologist would say there certainly was. When I was growing up, my father was Israels top forensic pathologist. Throughout his career he performed tens of thousands of autopsies on children and adults who had died an unnatural death. He also conducted physical examinations of women and children who had been sexually assaulted or raped. He was called to visit crime scenes and sites of terror attacks on a daily basis. After conducting autopsies, he faced the hardest part of his job: meeting the parents, partners, or children of the victims, and telling them what had happened to their loved ones. At home, Id sometimes pass his desk and see the photographs spilling from his briefcasehorrific photographs that showed in graphic detail what humans are capable of doing to each other. Shows like CSI: Crime Scene Investigation never show you what the children of forensic pathologists are subject to. Of course, my father did what he could to shield me from these sights, but for my entire childhood I was surrounded by death and the horrors of humanity.

Death poked its nose in from other directions, too. My grandparents on both sides were Holocaust survivors and their firsthand experience of genocide left them permanently traumatized. Therefore, the murder of six million Jews by the Nazis in the Second World War was not a piece of history to me: it was an integral part of my life from the moment I was born. My grandmothers nightmaresI would hear her screaming that the Nazis were comingwere my nightly lullabies. She used to hoard food in preparation for another Holocaust. She would try to force-feed me chicken soup to ensure I didnt suffer the starvation she had experienced. To this day I still cant eat chicken soup. Even the smell of it makes me nauseous.

My grandparents deeply traumatic Holocaust experiences left their imprint on both my parents, too. They were raised with a survival mindset and, as a result, so was I. Yes, I was born and raised with privilege, and I have always been aware of the fact that, as the white Israeli daughter of a professor of medicine and a teacher, I had access to education and opportunities that not everyone has. Yet, in our home, there was no space for being carefree; the imperative was to ensure that there was food to eat, that we were safe from harm, and that we made ourselves indispensable to the world. Everything else was a physical or emotional luxury. Is it any wonder I feared death? Death just seemed more likely than life. There were so many things that could go wrong, so many illnesses I could contract, so many accidents that could happen.

During my teenage years, Israel was subject to constant terror attacks. There were frequent bombings, often on public transportation. Every bus journey began with me doing a quick scan of the other passengers and noting who was carrying a large backpack. My father would tell me to always sit by the window on the bus and open it to minimize injuries in case of an explosion. My greatest fear wasnt the explosion, getting injured, or even dying, it was the fear of ending up as a corpse in my fathers morgue. I would fear his reaction to his daughters dead body, the pain and horror that would cause him.

And it wasnt just death I feared, but a whole host of other things: messing up, being rejected, aging, not being taken seriously, disappointing people, and failing. My father is extremely hard-working and was successful in both his career and in academia. My mother holds numerous degrees and is an accomplished teacher. They expected the same success from their eldest daughter. I know now that my parents love was unconditional, but it didnt always seem like that to me growing up. I felt the need to earn their love by making the right choices, by never making mistakes. I needed to be indispensable, remember? My mother is a charismatic and astonishingly confident womanthe type of person who walks into a room and turns heads, making an instant impression. How could I ever measure up? I feared that I would never become the daughter, granddaughter, wife or mother everyone hoped I would be.