We suffer more in imagination than in action.

I say this to almost everyone who writes to me in a state of silent panic.
"What if it fails?"
"What if I lose everything?"
"What if they laugh?"
"What if I am never taken seriously again?"

The questions arrive like rain. Sharp, fast, and relentless.
And behind each question is something gentle.
A fear of collapse. A fear of being seen trying. A fear of being seen failing.

And I understand it. I really do.
Because I rehearse failure more often than I rehearse love.
I lie awake on good nights, waiting for imaginary possibilities.
I prepare my voice for arguments that never happen.
I brace for rejection even while writing a love letter.
I say things like, "It's okay, I know what will happen," even before it happens.

This is what we’ve done to ourselves.

We have inherited fear like family property.
Passed down from generations that were punished for trying.
Told to be practical. Told to stay low. Told to avoid attention.

And this fear has history.
In ancient India, Brahmacharya was meant to prepare the mind.
Not just for celibacy. But for clarity.
It taught men and women to direct energy outward - into learning, into building, into creating.
But somewhere between invasions and insecurity, our energy turned inward.
We began imagining losses before they occurred.
We chose safety over expansion. Caution over courage.

Fear became our caste.
It did not ask for rituals.
It asked for hesitation.

Even in the Vedic age, Arjuna stood frozen in the middle of battle.
His hands trembled. His doubts consumed him.
And Krishna did not remove his fear.
He just reminded him that motion creates clarity.
"You were born to act," he said.
And Arjuna picked up his bow.

That is still true.

Most fear lives in the waiting.
The breath before the message.
The silence before the truth.
The second before the leap.

Once the step is taken, fear changes form.
It does not vanish. It adapts.
It shrinks into background noise.
Because the body remembers how to move.
And movement is proof that you are alive.

You will stumble.
You will forget lines.
You will face indifference.

But most of what you imagine will never arrive.

The room won’t fall silent.
The person won’t walk away.
The world won’t collapse.

And even when it does hurt, you will recover.
You always have.

So I tell them, and I tell myself -

Yes, you will suffer. But suffer when it becomes real.
Do not bleed for a future that hasn’t hurt you yet.
Do not give grief an invitation before it knocks.

Imagination is a gift.
But fear cannot be the only guest inside it.
Make room for surprise. For courage. For unexpected joy.

Because the hardest part of life is rarely the action.
It is the thousand imagined tragedies we carry before anything even begins.

So move. Write. Speak. Reach out.
Because even if your voice shakes, your truth will still land.
And your fear will lose its throne.

Notes:

1. Disclaimer:
   Smoking is injurious to health. It is a leading cause of preventable diseases such as lung cancer, heart disease, and chronic respiratory conditions. This content does not endorse or promote smoking or the use of tobacco in any form. I am a teetotaller and do not consume alcohol or tobacco. Any mention of such substances is solely for narrative, contextual, or illustrative purposes.

2. I used this picture because it visually represents the central idea of the post: how most suffering begins in the mind before anything real has occurred.
   
   The woman sitting beneath the lampshade, surrounded by darkness, reflects a state of introspection and imagined tension. The light above her head suggests thought or awareness, while the cigarette and her stillness evoke a quiet unease, mirroring the internal rehearsal of fear. This image captures that moment of suspended anticipation, when nothing has happened yet, but the mind is already bracing for impact.