Fear. F*@! It.

All of my adventures have, at some point, involved fear. Enough to stop a freight train. But, somehow, not enough to stop me.

The week before I left on my first real international adventure to Thailand, I would have done anything to get out of it. I had heart palpitations, I cried spontaneously, I constantly asked myself what the hell I was doing. I was so scared sitting at the airport waiting for boarding time, I thought I was going to throw up.

Sitting on a plane that was about to land in Ecuador cursing at myself. You don’t know anyone here! You don’t know anything about this country! You don’t know where you’re going! You don’t know how you’ll get around! You don’t even speak the language!

My most recent trek to Egypt (circa winter/spring 2012) was encased in fear – as one might imagine. No functioning government, millions of democracy-seeking rioters, heading to Africa/the Middle East as a white blond girl – oh, and travelling alone.

It was sheer stubbornness that got me through that one – don’t tell me not to do something! (One of my greatest talents is my ability to be a righteous idiot.)

But all of the gut-wrenching, hair-greying, stroke-enducing physical manifestations of fear aside, I would not give up a single moment of any of my travels, not one second.

The sights that would be unseen. The sounds that would still be unheard. All the friends that would have remained strangers. All the firsts that could be nevers.

Fear. F*@! It.