Love or Fear?

I keep coming back to how simple it actually is.

Not easy — but simple.

When I strip away the noise, the rules, the endless commentary about how we’re supposed to survive this world, it always comes down to the same thing.

There are really only two choices.

Love.

Or fear.

Everything else is just a variation on those two themes.

Most days, I try to live from that simplicity. Not perfectly. Not consciously every moment. But enough that it has become familiar to return to.

When I’m present, the question isn’t lofty or spiritualized. It’s very plain:

What would love do here?

Who might need to be thought of?

Who could be helped?

Who could be spared a little weight?

And often, love doesn’t ask for anything dramatic.

The other day, a woman I didn’t know put a request out in a local community group asking if anyone had cake pans she could borrow to make herself a birthday cake. I responded that I had what she was looking for and told her I’d be happy to lend them.

I love birthdays. To me, they aren’t about getting older — they’re about the day a soul chose to be here, and that feels worth acknowledging.

I left the pans on our porch for easy pickup. When she messaged to say she was on her way, I felt a quiet nudge — nothing dramatic — and clipped a few cuttings from my pothos and creeping Jacob plants, put them in a mason jar, tied a bow, and tucked them into the pans as a small surprise.

A simple act of kindness.

She was happy.

I felt glad.

Love moved.

That was all.

This is what it often looks like.

Eggs shared.

A meal cooked quietly for someone whose mother is dying.

Giving a neighbor a ride to an appointment because you have the time.

Organizing help when someone asks because you know you can’t do it alone — and discovering that a whole community is willing to step forward.

None of this feels extraordinary while it’s happening. It just feels… right.

And here’s the thing I keep noticing:

When I’m living this way — choosing love in small, ordinary moments — life feels spacious.

Time doesn’t feel like an enemy. I’m not rushing or striving or trying to prove anything.

But the moment I put myself out there, fear tries to reassert itself.

I share an invitation.

I publish a piece of writing that came through in the middle of the night.

I reach out to begin something that wants to take form.

And then there’s a pause.

No immediate response.

No clear reflection.

And in that space, fear whispers.

Maybe I was wrong.

Maybe I should pull back.

Maybe this isn’t wanted.

Maybe I am too much.

It’s so easy, in those moments, to forget what’s actually true.

Nothing originates outside of us.

Not reassurance.

Not rejection.

Not momentum.

Not lack.

We are always creating — unceasingly — by the meaning we assign and the thoughts we choose.

And when I remember that, something loosens in my body.

Because if nothing originates outside of me, then a pause doesn’t mean failure. Silence doesn’t mean I misstepped. Waiting doesn’t mean love has disappeared.

It simply means I’m being invited — again — to choose.

Fear or love.

This isn’t something reserved for certain people. It isn’t about being generous or spiritual or “good.” I am not special. I am not doing anything inaccessible.

I am simply choosing love over fear — over and over again — sometimes clumsily, sometimes beautifully, always imperfectly.

And that choice is available to everyone.

We don’t need to complicate it with systems or techniques or worthiness tests.

We don’t need to earn it.

We don’t need to hustle for it.

Love is already here.

The only question — ever — is whether we are willing to abide in it.

And when I forget — as I do — I come back to the simplest truth I know:

There is only love and fear.

And in this moment, I get to choose again.