What are you afraid of?

A few weeks ago, back in Florida, I found myself returning to a special stretch of wetlands nestled in the northernmost reaches of the original Everglades, not far from where I live.

I’m often drawn to certain places for reasons I can’t fully explain, as if the land itself is calling me—quietly, insistently, like a soft pull at my spirit. And so, I go, sometimes daily, answering this unspoken invitation to receive the medicine only this place can offer.

One afternoon, while wandering through the wetlands, I crossed paths with a man who seemed to carry the spirit of the land within him. He was one of the original landkeepers, so deeply connected to this place that he felt like an extension of it. His presence affirmed the quiet connection I had always felt and eased the lingering doubt in my mind. With just a few words, he assured me I wasn’t crazy for feeling what I felt here.

there is quiet peace here

Let’s call him James. I met him at the end of one of my hikes, though at first, he was just a distant shape at the trail’s edge. As I approached, his outline sharpened—an elderly man in his 80s, seated comfortably in a camping chair. Binoculars rested in his hands, and a large camera stood on a tripod beside him, as though he had been waiting for something, or perhaps someone, to arrive.

James greeted me with a warm smile. “Seen anything interesting today?” he asked.

“Mostly the usual,” I replied, listing the geckos darting across the path, wild birds gliding overhead, and an egret standing still by the water’s edge. I didn’t mention how, with every step, I silently asked the alligators to stay hidden.

He chuckled softly and gestured toward the quiet stretch of marsh behind me. “You just came down Alligator Lane,” he said, nodding at the swaying grasses. “There’s a big one that likes to cross over there. You’ve got to be patient with gators—they come and go when they please.”

no separation between land, critters, and people

He continued, talking about bobcats and raccoons as if naming old friends. His voice carried the kind of familiarity that comes from years of watching, listening, and being woven into the rhythm of the land.

By all logic, I should have been afraid. I had walked through territory shared with gators and wild creatures, knowing the risks all too well from countless nature documentaries. But strangely, I wasn’t. There was no rush of panic, no nervous pulse quickening in my chest. Instead, a deep calm settled over me.

The energy of the land felt pure, as though fear had no place here. Every creature seemed to move in quiet respect for the other, as though the boundaries between us had dissolved. It felt like we had slipped into an older, forgotten time—before fear, before separation—when humans lived in harmony with the world around them. The land seemed to remember what we had long forgotten: we are part of the same pulse, the same breath, woven into the same web of life.

I found myself drawn into James' stories, absorbing the peace he carried. Here was a man so rooted in the land that fear didn’t belong in his world. There was an unspoken understanding between him and this place, a shared knowing that the creatures we often fear are not to be feared here—not in this sacred space.

“I don’t know why,” I said, “but this place feels different. There’s a kind of magic here that I don’t feel anywhere else.”

James nodded, his eyes lighting up with familiarity. A Florida native, he had been coming to this very spot since he was a boy. He told me about how the land had changed—how the grass used to be lower, and the alligators would line the banks to sunbathe. “It’s different now,” he said with a hint of nostalgia, “but still, this place is special.”

He asked if I had seen the ancient cypress trees by the visitors' center, and I smiled, nodding. I told him I had, though words hardly seemed to do justice to their beauty, rooted in time like sentinels of another age.

As I said my goodbyes and began to walk away, I didn’t mention the real reason I had come that day. It felt unnecessary—almost as if James already knew. He, too, had felt the quiet magic of this land. My body had been unwell, and I knew, in some deep and unspoken way, that walking these trails would offer the medicine I needed. I trusted that this sacred space held the power to restore me, to bring me back to my truth—whole, as I had always been, and always would be.

What are you afraid of?

Do you question your fears? Are they truly yours, or do they belong to someone else—a story handed to you by others, by society?

What if your fears are illusions, barriers keeping you from experiencing the magic of living fully in the present?

Do your fears trap you in a future that may never come, pulling you away from the beauty unfolding right in front of you?

What fears could you now let go of to live more freely, with ease?

There is still sacred magic in this world. It hasn’t gone away. Sometimes, it just takes letting go of your deepest fears to finally experience it.