When I started this blog, I was on the precipice of turning 50. Now, almost four years later, I’m approaching my mid-50s. Anyone past the age of 40 will tell you they feel no different than they did when they were 30 (wiser, perhaps). This is true. My psyche doesn’t feel middle-aged, whatever that’s supposed to feel like. I just feel like, well, me. That is until I went on a trip overseas.

I recently returned from a rather rigorous trip through central Europe. Four cities in four countries in 8 days. It was overzealous to say the least. Amsterdam, Berlin, Prague and Krakow. No more than a day and a half in any city. Lots of time spent on trains, trams, subways and planes. If anyone asked me, I would tell them I love to travel. Love seeing new places, trying new food, torturing a foreign language. Yet, this trip I was aware something was different. I was afraid.

Be aware that there was no moment in which we were in any danger. If we were lost, it was for a few minutes at most because my friend and I were both adept at figuring out transit systems and unafraid to ask for help (Note: never underestimate the value of good wayfinding signage). Yet, I was riddled with anxiety the entire time. How would we navigate the next leg? (we always did) How would we manage to talk to people who didn’t speak English? (we always managed) How would we manage?! (we more than managed). Naturally, the question I asked myself was, “What the hell’s wrong with me?”

And, while there are many things wrong with me, on this account one of the variables is surely age. I wonder…have I lost the confidence and surety that comes with youth? Has it been replaced with the self-doubt and fear of the unknown that comes with knowing too much about what’s possible. All I know is that I could barely get out of my own way to be in the present, to fully enjoy the experience. Each hotel became the new safe place.

And here I was with my fearless 63-year-old friend, who would be continuing on travelling by herself after I returned home from Poland. If she was afraid, she never let on. For her, each challenge was part of the adventure.

If I ever was adventurous, it seems to have left me. I’ve become cautious and careful. Serious and circumspect. Is this indeed “me?” Have I evolved or devolved into this Bilbo Baggins of a person who never wants to leave her Hobbit Home or venture beyond the Shire. Of course, Bilbo eventually did for fear life would pass him by. He adventured, in many respects, against his will. It was only in retrospect that he fully realized the value of being “there and back again.”

Perhaps I’m just out of practice. Are we like swords that simply dull from lack of brandishing? Does one adventure beget more adventures? Do we forget to live if we’re not paying attention. Do we mistake breathing for life itself?

What I know for sure is that fear is dreadful travelling companion. It’s best left at home with the bills and the taxes. But fear will stowaway in your luggage and your pockets uninvited if you’re not vigilant. Courage, on the other hand, sits politely waiting for the word to come aboard. There’s only room for one of them on the voyage. I will not leave courage languishing at home again.