Amber Rae - Choose Wonder Over Worry: Move Beyond Fear and Doubt to Unlock Your Full Potential

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For my mom, who ignited my sense of wonder,

and for my love, Farhad, who held a container for my light to shine

As a writer, speaker, and artist, a question that Ive struggled with tirelessly in speaking my truthand a question that I became quite intimate with in writing this bookis What will they think of me?

What this question really means is What if they reject and abandon me?

As a ravenous consumer of vulnerable narratives, the stories that resonate with me most are the ones that reveal in vivid detail the journey of the author. Not the this-is-why-I-am-so-great-and-successful kind of vivid detail. But the this-is-how-I-fucked-everything-up-and-got-knocked-down-and-stood-back-up kind of vivid detail. For its in their revelation of themselves that I can see myself more clearly.

I held myself to that same ethos in writing this book: to tell stories so truthfully and so transparently, and to fill them with wildly uncomfortable yet honest details that have me feel as if I am standing naked before you with nothing to hide. My hope in doing this is not so that you can know me, but rather so that you can see you .

This process of revelationof turning myself inside outis terrifying and invigorating and mortifying and exhilarating. It evokes my deep-seated fears of rejection, and strikes the chord of my darkest worry: that I may not be worthy of love and connection. Writing this book has taken every ounce of everything I have inside of me, and its been a profound teacher for my commitment to living a life that is more strongly led by Wonder than Worry.

Every time Im about to say something too risqu or too edgy or too truthful, the good girl and people pleaser inside of me screams, You cant say that. They might judge you. You might let people down . Stopppp!!!! There were many times in the process of writing this book when I questioned myself, the writing, and whether or not I should tell this or that story. Its then that I considered my two options:

1.Write the safe bookthe one that wont ruffle any feathers or shake anything up.

2.Write the true bookthe one that might ruffle some feathers and shake some shit up.

And because Im committed to living a life that is true over one that is comfortable, I realized I had only one choice: to speak my wild truth.

My hope is that in reading this book, you will feel compelled to do the same.

Lets begin.

I was in the kitchen of my grandmothers house when the phone rang. Its your dad, she said, turning to me and handing over the phone. But please dont tell your mom, she whispered.

I was three years old.

Hi, Daddy, I said. Hi, sweetheart, he replied. I miss you. I know I havent been around much. Im going to be gone for a little while. Know that no matter whatIll always love you.

Even though I was only three, I remember the conversation like it was framed as a photograph in my mind. I can close my eyes and picture where I was standing in the kitchen, the coiled telephone wire I wrapped around my tiny fingers, and the way my grandmother looked at me when she said, Dont tell your mom about this, okay?

I knew something wasnt right here.

My father was a brilliant singer, songwriter, musician, and businessman. He was lead singer and played several instruments in a band called Dreamer. He used his financial savvy to give back to those in need. On his first date with my mom, he made quite the first impression when she tripped and almost fell into a puddle of mud wearing an all-white ensemble. Right before she made a splash, he swooped in to catch her. He had her, and every person he met, believe that the world revolved around them. When he was with you, he was with you.

But then he started running away. Between an abusive childhood and an addictive personality, the only way he knew how to handle his pain was through numbing. Cocaine. Rock and roll. Alcohol abuse. Cheating. Breaking into our home under the influence, taking me out from my crib, and driving eighty miles until my mom ferociously chased him down. You name it, he did it. He wasnt exactly winning at father of the year.

And then, just a few weeks after our chat, he took it too far.

Out for a bachelor party, and under the influence of who knows what, he decided to get behind the wheel. He fell asleep, drove off a highway overpass, and under a truck. The man in his passenger seat, who was getting married the next day, died instantly at the scene. My dad, who wasnt wearing a seat belt, was thrown to the backseat. He never regained full consciousness.

He spent the next year of his life in a coma, and the eight years after that with severe brain trauma in a care center. My momma, who wanted to protect me and the way I remembered him, kept me at a distance. That space dwindled when on a school field trip to a hospital in third grade, I asked, Is my dad here? I was curious to see the man who helped make me. I wanted to remember the way he would touch my hand and look at me. I wanted to remember being in his presence while he was still here. I was now nine years old, and Momma agreed to let me see him.

When we walked into his room at the care center, I saw a man I could hardly recognize. His face was swollen, and his mouth was connected to machines for breathing. An I.V. strung from his arm into bags of blood, and there were devices tracking his vitals. As I swallowed the harrowing scene I had walked into, my eyes opened widely when I noticed photos of me lining the walls at every age. My nose tickled as the sensation of tears began to well in my eyes.

I spent the next few hours with him, asking him questions he didnt have the capacity to answer, laughing at his goofy smile, and taking in the dose of Dad that Id craved my entire youth. When it was time to go, I squeezed his hand and wished him well. I wondered if Id ever see him again.

Every day after that, I thought of him and sent him peace. I wished for his misery to end, and for his life to begin anew. It was just a few days before Fathers Dayon my grandmothers birthdaywhen I received the news that he had died. I remember that moment vividlythe way my hair was brushed up in a ponytail, the crossed position of my legs, and the white and flowered journal I was writing inbecause in that moment, I felt the most profound sense of trust and relief. His suffering had gone on for too long, and now he could finally rest in peace.