I Have Fear, I Have Faith
A reflection on the body, the moment, and the courage to rise…
I have fear.
and
I have faith.
Fear lives in the body. It contracts us.
It curls the breath inward, shortens the view, sends tremors through the nervous system.
It isolates. It disconnects.
It is the shadow side of our root chakra—our foundation—whispering lies that we do not belong, that we are not safe, that there is no ground to stand on.
And right now, many of us are living in a sustained state of fear.
Because we are witnessing the rise—again—of dangerous regimes and rhetoric.
Because we know what it means when leaders like Trump and his enablers stoke violence, promote intolerance, incite separation, and disregard human dignity and the sanctity of life.
Because we see the very systems meant to serve us twisted into tools of oppression.
Because we know this isn’t hypothetical—it is happening.
I fear for all those who are othered, weaponized against humanity, held in harm, and strangled by separation.
I fear for those who share my maiden name, Garcia—family and strangers alike—and the discrimination that spills from ancestry, ethnicity, skin tone, and culture.
I fear for those manipulated into believing in hierarchy, in the lie that some are superior while others are inferior, and the vast damage that belief creates and sustains.
I fear for our planet and the ways she is bypassed and abused—her body sacrificed to profit, her cries for protection ignored.
I fear for the children, and the apathy that robs their future while excusing our accountability.
I fear for the vulnerable, the forgotten—those for whom life has always been relentlessly hard and is now made even more unbearable under the weight of tariffs, tyranny, and unchecked cruelty.
I fear the inner noise that says I’m not doing enough.
I fear the conditioning that tells me to stay small, stay quiet, stay in line.
I fear that my privilege and proximity to ease will dull my diligence—that I will forget to stretch, forget to reach, forget to stay awake to the suffering of others.
I fear the speed of this world, how we rush past ourselves and each other.
How we don't give time to process, to pause, to integrate all we’ve endured.
I fear the numbness that has become survival for so many.
The fatigue that comes not just from fighting—but from trying to stay alive, to stay human, to stay whole.
And still—
I have faith.
I have faith in my body’s wisdom.
In the ancient memory stored in my cells.
In the divine intelligence that breathes me, holds me, and all that I carry with grace.
I have faith in my breath, in its rhythm and its resilience.
I have faith in my ability to feel fear without folding to it.
To name it without being led by it.
To let it soften me into courage, not harden me into despair.
I have faith in my dreams and visions—of a world where we are healed, held, and whole—even if I never see it in my lifetime.
I have faith that someone will.
I have faith in the people who feel this too and are using it—not to flee, not to freeze—but to forge something better.
I have faith in my heart’s capacity to hold both grief and gratitude, rage and reverence.
I have faith in my soul—her vast perception, her guidance, her clarity.
I have faith in the trees, the clovers, the animals, the insects—their dynamic interconnectedness, their unconditional love.
I have faith in the angels, seen and unseen, who walk with us in our loneliness, in our longing.
I have faith in faith itself—this sacred trust that lives not in the mind but in the marrow.
It is my faith that harbors my fear.
Never, ever the other way around.
Fear lives in the root. But so does our grounding.
Our belonging.
Our ability to regulate.
Our power to reclaim.
When we root into the earth, into each other, into truth—the truth that everyone is worthy of safety and care—we begin to remember.
We begin to rise.
And faith—it rises too.
From the gut, where our intuition stirs.
Through the heart, where compassion breathes.
To the crown, where grace opens us to greater vision.
Faith doesn’t mean we don’t feel fear—it means we don’t obey it.
It means we act from love, not from panic.
It means we use our privilege, our power, our proximity to access—not just for ourselves, but for those most targeted, most tired, most tender.
I have faith in those who are slowing down.
In those choosing presence over performance.
Truth over convenience.
Justice over comfort.
I have faith in those who resist the tide that says “go along to get along” while so many are being lost in that stream.
I have faith we can change the landscape—not only of our personal well-being, but of collective liberation.
I have faith that fear may visit, but it will not take root.
That when we hold our fear in the arms of our faith, something holy happens.
I fear I am not doing enough.
And I have faith that I am.
And that I will continue to.
If this reflection stirred something in you, I’d love for you to click the little heart ♡ at the top or bottom of the page, share it with someone you care about, or subscribe to walk this path with me. Each gesture—small as it may seem—helps this work reach further, reminds me I’m not alone in what I feel or offer, and nourishes the purpose behind every word I write. Thank you, truly, for being here exactly as you are, with me.