what i know about kids

OK, the title of this post is a trick. I don't know anything about kids.

When I was deciding what I wanted to be when I grew up, I never really considered being a teacher. It just never jumped out at me. But now (as a teacher), I have to admit that my students are pretty awesome. I hope I look half this hip in real life.

me by Nina

what i know about acoustic guitars

Acoustic guitars. They still get me every time.

Since I was in high school, I've worshipped (so-to-speak) at the altar of Chris Carrabba. Like tons of other self-described "complex" and emo-ish teens already panicked about "finding" themselves during freshman year, I loved Dashboard Confessional's music from the beginning. It was one of the first times music had "clicked" and made me feel something or think something – or both. I would crank up the volume and use it to celebrate a great feeling, or turn a notch louder and scream along with it as a crutch to help me through what I was sure was an end-of-the-world problem. It could consume me and help me accomplish whatever kind of emotional release I needed at any given moment. I went so far as to research his previous bands and took quite a liking to Further Seems Forever because of the album that featured him singing. (For the record, FSF went downhill from there.) I felt this irrational connection to a complete stranger, but it gave me something to belong to. And that's all that mattered.

I saw him live several times. The first was in a pretty intimate venue compared with what he must play to now, which I've always been a little bit proud of. It was my first "cool" concert, and I was so excited that (as a too-cool-for-everything teenager) I even accepted my parents' condition for my attendance and dragged my mother across the state line and to the foot of the stage to belt out the lyrics with my friends and me. And we had a great time. I had T-shirts and stickers and even made my own memorabilia – bags, necklaces, notebooks, clothing ... Carrabba was "my" music, and I was (like faux musical elitists always are) crushed when he gave up his solo acoustic stint, took on a permanent band, and rapidly gained popularity. There's always something about a handsome man and a guitar, isn't there?

Because of this dramatic initial attachment, I've followed Dashboard Confessional since. I genuinely enjoy the music, but I think it's mostly out of nostalgia. Some might call it a "guilty pleasure." I own every album, even the ones I know are bad. I buy the ones I anticipate being bad, as well. I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I've previewed an album, cringed at the cheesiness of the lyrics, and bought it anyway. I even kept listening after I saw him pack a huge stadium at a state university and creepily appeal for "co-eds" to join him for "a good time" after the show. (He had been all over MTV and heard in a Spider-Man movie by then, after all.) I haven't been to one of his concerts in years, but apparently nothing will deter my fandom.

More important than my near-obsession are the friendships that grew from it. I can think of several people whom I still consider close friends who shared in my following. I remember gushing together while I watched their band practice in whatever spare room they could find to house a drum set, or speeding down a main street bonding over off-key renditions of Carrabba's "old stuff." Then, of course, those friendships blossomed beyond Dashboard Confessional and deepened. Those people are still special to me, and I imagine they always will be. It had always been about the music, but I hadn't yet figured out that it was more about the people.

I realized this week that Dashboard Confessional is celebrating the 10-year anniversary of Carrabba's first album. Ten years! It doesn't feel like 10 years since I started listening. (Whether that's because I'm still that close to a teenage mindset or because time goes by that quickly, I'm not certain, but ... surely I'm not that old!?) As I'm writing this, I realize that I'm actually wearing one of many Dashboard Confessional T-shirts that have piled up in my closet over the years. One made it all the way to Taiwan. I guess some things just stick.

what i know about fear

• Wow, it's December. Yikes.

It's been a full year. Let me tell you how I got here.

At some point, I found myself repeatedly refusing to learn to ride a bicycle. I don't remember much about why. It probably had something to do with not wanting to fall off and skin my knees. Most of what I know comes from stories my parents have told me over the years, mostly during reverse psychology-style pep talks about not giving up. Because of my persistent protests and whining, my parents eventually let me have it my way. This must have come as the greatest news to 4- or 5-year-old me. I didn't have to try. I could quit. I never learned to ride a bike. I let fear get the best of me, and my own personal sabotage had begun.

And it haunted me into my teens. I didn't want to hang out with the other kids on my street because ... Well, that's not true. I wanted to go out with them. I was just mortified that someone would suggest a bike ride to the gas station or to another friend's house one street over. I would eventually have to tell them that I didn't know how. That I couldn't go, I couldn't do it. I even went so far as to plant the seed that bike-riding was a "stupid" way to spend one's time, or that I'd rather be doing anything else than peddling around. What a "boring" pastime to choose.

Even after I'd known them for years, I'd still craft excuse after excuse to run away from the unlikely possibility that I'd have to face my insecurity – and the even more unlikely possibility that my own friends would think less of me for it. So staying inside and potentially being talked about as though I were a phantom or a freak instead often was the better alternative. ("What do you mean you have to go back home?" "I, uhh, I forgot my homework." "But it's Saturday." "Uhh ... See ya!") My friends eventually stopped protesting, and (although I'm sure they assumed I had a strange creature or condition to tend to at unpredictable times) I could rest easy most of the time. But no matter how great they were about my abrupt departures, I couldn't help but feel a little uneasy all the time over my fear. I felt as though it could pop up at any time and consume me again. I couldn't wait to get my driver's license not because it meant I could get around by myself, but because no one would want to ride a bike anywhere if someone had a car.

Fear causes us to do irrational things.

So I finally got (permission to borrow) a car, and the cause for panic mostly went by the wayside. Although certain settings would still make me quite nervous, I was no longer stifled by my fear, and I had a lot of great times. I finished high school. I went to college. I even tried riding a bike once on campus with three of my friends holding the handlebars in lieu of training wheels. I laughed too hard to care that other students were pointing and laughing themselves, speculating that I was drunk and had lost my motor skills in the middle of a weekday. I served a few internships between several side jobs during school, I worked hard, I graduated a year early, and I got a "real" job in my chosen field. The necessity of being able to ride a bike had faded and had been quickly replaced by other challenges.

But in my first years as a "real" adult, I found myself giving in to fear again. This time, the questions weren't about whether the neighbor kids would want to ride to the neighbors' house. The questions were whether I'd made the right decisions. My job, my city, my hours, my free time, my relationships: Were they right for me? Was the person I'd become right for me? Was this how I was supposed to be doing things? Was I saving enough money? Was I working hard enough? Was I standing up for myself enough? Was I likable enough? I'd landed in the suburbs, operating on the awkward sleep-most-of-the-day-stay-up-most-of-the-night schedule of a second-shift employee. I was hours away from everything and everyone I'd known, and I spent a lot of time analyzing and dissecting whether I knew who I was or what I wanted anymore. Or whether I ever did.

Fear causes us to question ourselves.

I felt myself fading away, all my energy being sucked into wrestling with a fear that I'd be stuck in the same office in the same room at the same desk forever and have nothing significant to show for it. Plenty of decent, successful individuals stay in one place their whole lives, and I admire those people. But was it right for me? I'd look at pictures from high school and college and feel more alive than I did when I was supposed to be living this on-track "adult" life. I was so busy worrying about these things that I missed out on (or at least devalued) a lot of opportunities.

My mom and I had taken a spring break trip to Paris during my last year of college, and those memories constantly teased me with the idea that there were worlds upon worlds out there that I didn't even know existed yet. What was I doing here, in the same state I was born in and had lived all my life? I was where I had worked to get. This is where I was "supposed" to be, but somehow I didn't feel all that satisfied. I wasn't entirely unhappy, but I didn't feel very accomplished, either. I was mostly squandering time and retreating inward, afraid to be too much myself because I felt as though it were too late to change anything if it weren't good enough – if I weren't good enough.

Fear causes us to do destructive things.

I'd think about Paris, where people seemed to spend their days doing no more and no less than exactly what they wanted, truly enjoying their beautiful city in their own ways. I'd think about Phoenix, where I realized that there are communities of people who are so passionate about the philosophies behind their eating habits that they would break into full-blown debates in the wine and cheese aisle and then retire to pita bars and compare quirky art and their respective bike routes to work. Who were these kinds of people? I'd think about Illinois and all the different parts I'd seen since I was a child. I'd think about how much I loved my family and friends, and how I'd always been proud of where I came from, ... but who were these people? If I stayed here, would I ever find out? That's when the real work started.

Fear causes us to realign our priorities.

A little more than two years after my debut into "adulthood," I found myself blissfully ignoring Valentine's Day. I mention this only because it would have been quite uncharacteristic of my previous self. I was on a one-way flight to Taiwan. I was sitting next to the man who has become my co-pilot, and I was thrilled that the international dateline allowed me to skip Feb. 14 and get a fresh start. I had always held an inkling of what I wanted deep inside, but most of the time, I had been too afraid to fully realize it. But there I was: Tens of thousands of feet in the air, tracking our tiny plane while it crossed the Pacific, discovering new levels on which to be terrified, elated and relieved all at once, I was realizing it. There had been a lot of setbacks, too, which nearly persuaded me to forget the whole thing. For nearly twenty-four long months, we battled delays and wrong turns and tragedy and red tape and miscommunication to get on this flight. It was more trouble than I care to recount. But I made it. We made it.

Fear causes us to fight back and find our strength.

So now, I find myself here, in my apartment on a beautiful, only slightly chilly December evening in a city of 1 million people on the subtropical island of Taiwan. I've been here for almost 10 months. It has not always been easy. As culture shock goes, there are good days and bad days. But it has been rewarding. I spend every day learning, experiencing, loving and being loved. There are times when I feel afraid, but I no longer harbor the kind of fear I battled with for so long. I've left behind that nervous, stifling, confidence-crushing fear of life. I've made it all the way here, in perfect time to start answering all of my own questions. Taiwan has offered me a fresh start. I'm learning to accept that – to embrace my life – and now I'm ready to share that again if you'll have me.

What's the first thing you should know? Now, I drive a scooter.

Fear causes us to set ourselves free.