05/19/2026
Fear Was Present, But It Did Not Get to Lead
I thought I was climbing Rocca di Cefalù.
What I was really climbing was my own relationship with fear.
We came to Cefalù, Italy for a little two-day getaway while Mya was in Germany for soccer championships. From the moment we arrived, the town felt like something my heart needed. Charming. Ancient. Beautiful. Slow in the most nourishing way.
We walked through narrow cobblestone streets with our luggage, made our way to the coziest little Airbnb, and settled into a space that carried history dating back to the 1800s.
Living in Italy has continued to remind me how young America is. Here, so many things feel old in the best way. The buildings. The streets. The rituals. The rhythm of life. I have had to learn how to move through smaller spaces, both inside the home and out in the streets. I have had to confront how accustomed I had become to bigger, wider, more expansive spaces.
But there is something beautiful about the simplicity here.
People live more outside of the home. The streets, the piazzas, the cafés, the sea air, the conversations, the slow wandering — it all feels like part of daily life.
After we settled in, we wandered through the town, admired the ocean views, had cocktails overlooking the water, ate the most amazing pizza, visited the cathedral, had gelato, and let ourselves breathe.
It felt magical.
Sometimes I still look around and feel disbelief that I get to live on this beautiful island for the next few years. It feels like such a blessing.
The next morning, we woke up early, walked down to Piazza Duomo, and had caffè and croissants before beginning our hike up Rocca di Cefalù.
I was excited.
I wanted to see the town from the top of the huge rock that rises above Cefalù. I wanted the view. I wanted the pictures. I wanted the experience.
What I did not fully understand was how intense the climb would feel in my body.
It started easily enough. Stairs. Wider steps. A clear path.
Then the terrain changed.
The stairs became a rocky footpath. The path narrowed. The height became more noticeable. And while I would not describe myself as someone who is terrified of heights, I could feel something in me begin to shift.
My body felt less steady.
My mind got loud.
Worst-case scenarios started moving through my head. I had moments where I had to stop, breathe, and ground myself. I had to remind myself that I was strong. That I was fit. That I was capable. That I was not going to fall and plummet to my death.
That may sound extreme, but when anxiety enters the body, it can make everything feel like a do-or-die situation.
So I began leading myself differently.
I stopped looking too far ahead.
I stopped scanning the path above me, trying to figure out how much farther I had to go.
I stopped letting my mind climb the entire mountain before my body had taken the next step.
Instead, I focused on the step directly in front of me.
One foot.
Then the next.
Then the next.
And in that moment, I realized something I had never fully understood before:
Hiking forces presence.
Not the soft, romantic kind of presence we talk about when life feels calm and beautiful.
But the kind of presence that becomes necessary when the path is uneven, your body feels activated, and you know you cannot afford to abandon yourself.
I had to pay attention to where I placed my foot.
I had to slow down.
I had to listen to my body.
I had to stay connected to myself.
At different clearings, I would stop, slow my breathing, and stomp my feet gently against the ground. I was giving my body evidence: we are on solid ground. We are stable. We are safe.
Then I would keep going.
There were people around me moving faster. There were people moving slower. And I knew I could not make their pace my business.
My work was to stay with my path.
My pace.
My body.
My breath.
My next step.
And that is when the hike became something more than a hike.
It became a lesson in self-leadership.
Because this is exactly what happens in life and business.
You decide you want to grow. You decide you want to expand. You decide you want to become the version of yourself who can hold more — more visibility, more responsibility, more success, more power, more peace, more depth.
At first, the path can feel exciting.
You see the vision. You imagine the summit. You can feel what is possible.
Then the terrain changes.
The path becomes narrower.
Your nervous system starts speaking.
Your mind starts scanning for danger.
You notice other people moving faster than you.
You question whether you are capable.
You wonder if you should turn back.
And in that moment, the work is not to shame yourself for feeling fear.
The work is to decide who gets to lead.
Because fear may be present.
Nervousness may be present.
Doubt may be present.
But they do not have to be in charge.
That was the deepest lesson for me on that mountain.
I did not make my fear wrong. I did not pretend it was not there. I did not try to hype myself into some false version of confidence.
I simply chose to relate to the fear differently.
I chose to see it as information, not instruction.
I chose to stay with myself.
I chose to lead my mind and body in harmony with the outcome I desired.
That is Calm Authority.
Not chaos.
Not collapse.
Not urgency.
Not forcing.
Not spiraling.
Calm Authority is the grounded decision to stay present, steady, and conscious while you move toward what you desire.
It is not the absence of fear.
It is the refusal to let fear become the leader.
As I continued climbing, I kept reminding myself:
I am capable.
My body is strong.
I can trust my legs.
I can trust myself.
And step by step, I kept going.
Eventually, we made it to the top.
And the view was absolutely worth it.
The town. The sea. The coastline. The feeling of standing above the place I had just walked through. It was stunning.
But what felt even more powerful than the view was the evidence I had just given myself.
I had done the hard thing.
I had stayed with myself.
I had moved through fear without becoming fear.
I had led myself all the way to the top.
And every time we do that, we make a deposit into our self-trust.
We make a deposit into our self-leadership.
We give ourselves evidence that says, “I can do hard things. I can feel activated and still remain grounded. I can move slowly and still make progress. I can be afraid and still continue.”
The climb up taught me presence.
The way down taught me something else.
Coming down was quicker, but it required even more focus in some ways. I had to pay close attention so I did not slip. And I did slip twice.
But I got right back up and kept moving.
That felt like another lesson.
Because in life and business, we often think the climb is the hard part.
We think once we reach the summit, once we hit the goal, once we make the decision, once we get the result, the work is over.
But the descent matters too.
Integration matters.
How you come back down matters.
How you move after the breakthrough matters.
How you continue leading yourself after the big moment matters.
Sometimes you will slip.
Sometimes you will lose your footing.
Sometimes you will move faster than you should.
Sometimes you will need to pause, regain your balance, and continue.
That does not mean you failed.
It means you are human.
It means you are still on the path.
As I sit here reflecting on the experience, I feel proud of myself.
Not just because I made it to the top of Rocca di Cefalù.
But because I led myself there.
I did not let fear choose the path.
I did not let anxiety decide my capacity.
I did not collapse into the discomfort.
I stayed present.
I stayed steady.
I stayed with myself.
And that is the kind of woman I desire to keep becoming.
The woman who can climb.
The woman who can pause.
The woman who can breathe.
The woman who can honor her pace.
The woman who can feel fear without handing it the authority.
The woman who knows the next step is often the most important one.
The woman who leads herself all the way through.
Because in life, in business, in leadership, and in becoming, there will always be mountains.
There will always be moments when the terrain changes.
There will always be places where the path narrows and the mind gets loud.
But if you can stay present…
If you can return to your breath…
If you can focus on the next step…
If you can stop making everyone else’s pace your measurement…
If you can relate to fear as something to listen to, not something to obey…
You will reach heights you once thought were beyond you.
Not because the path was easy.
But because you became the woman who could lead herself through it.