Radical Pleasure: How Embracing Joy Helped Me Overcome Fear

Open Secrets columnist Athena Dixon on stepping into the unknown by moving from her hometown to a new city and making a list of 76 individual acts of joy and experience

When I moved to Philadelphia in 2015, I knew two things. One, I was running and being in the city meant I was far enough away that no one could catch me. I’d packed my car, a tiny coupe, to capacity and drove the length of the Pennsylvania Turnpike that spring seeking a new beginning. I remember feeling sick to my stomach navigating the curves and tunnels of the road. It wasn’t because I was afraid of the steep drop-offs or the construction that seemed to take up so many of the miles. My stomach pitched and roiled because I was stepping into the unknown on a wing and a prayer.

The move was reckless. I didn’t have an apartment. I hadn’t planned anything other than a bed to crash in for a few weeks and knew that I wouldn’t starve by the time I finally found a place to settle. When I made my decision to relocate, I knew nothing about the cost of living, the area in which I wanted to concentrate my search, or even how to parallel park. I just knew I needed to be away from the version of me I felt no longer fit. I was running because I was so afraid that I would be trapped in my hometown. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to cut it in the “real” world.

There was some justification to that fear. I was a few years out from divorce. I’d been cheated on, lied to, gaslit, and treated like an emotional punching bag both publicly and privately. I’d moved back home to gather up the pieces of myself and put them back together under the watchful eyes of my family and friends. Just as reckless as that move that would occur three years after I slunk back into town was how I treated myself in the years before I decided to leap. I’d let the fear of being hurt again make me stand still. Yes, I’d pieced myself back together, but I felt like I’d break again with the slightest struggle.

There was so much I wanted to do, to prove to myself, but I couldn’t break away from the fear surrounding me. What would happen if I struck out into the world again and fell flat on my face? Could I survive another heartbreak, embarrassment, or failure? Did I have enough strength to pick myself up and try one more time? Fear, for so very long, told me the answer was no. What made me finally decide to leave? I can’t remember, but things moved quickly once all the pieces were in place and before I had a chance to talk myself out of it, I was packed tightly into that coupe heading away.

The second thing I knew about the move was that I could be a new person and no one would be the wiser. The Athena who was afraid of her own shadow at times could be shed, the tatters of her left along the turnpike. Sure, the fear would still be able to rear its head, but I could pretend that it was just nerves about trying something new. All I had to do was decide who I wanted to be and then be her.

That was easier said than done, though. For the first three months I was the great pretender. I joined dating apps and had a brief summer fling. I ran (really walked) two 5Ks. I met a friend who was also brand new to the city and we spent those months clinging to each other, living life loudly. Concerts. New foods. New hairstyles. Tattoos. Parties. And so much more as my one-year anniversary in the city rolled around. And then things fell apart.

The apartment I’d finally scored, in a beautiful area of the city, turned out to be illegal. I found myself in the harsh snows of February trying to move the trappings of my new life in a two-door coupe to that friend’s apartment on the outskirts of the city. Then I spent three months sleeping on her sofa until my world righted itself again.

The fear came back in spades. I was afraid I would have to admit I couldn’t survive on my own. I would have to once again show up on my parents’ doorstep a little broken and rebuild. But there was something different about the fear this time. I knew I could survive it. I had before and this time was no worse than the initial explosion. So, I came up with a plan. Step one was the simplest. I found a new place to live. I moved in with only a sofa and my clothes, but it was mine. It was legal and it was safe. Everything else I needed would come right on time. It eventually did.

Step two was to face the fear head on. The friendship that helped me navigate my first year in the city eventually faded. The calls stopped and soon it was just me responsible for my own happiness. I couldn’t hide because there was no longer someone else exploring a new version of her life, too. I couldn't allow myself to be so afraid that the initial joy I’d been experiencing came to a standstill. It didn’t have to. I just had to adjust.

Unlike the organic fun I had that first year living in the city, this new type of joy had to be much more intentional until it became habit. Left to my own devices, and old patterns, I would have stayed in my safe and legal apartment missing the buzzing opportunities around me. That’s where the list came in. Tacked to my refrigerator since 2016 is a list. 76 Reasons and Beyond it’s called. 76 individual acts of joy and experience I want to bring into my life. I named it that because the Pennsylvania Turnpike, the road that took me from my hometown to my adopted one, is Route 76. It seemed fitting that I honor that transition.

The list runs the gamut. From swimming in both oceans to taking a continuing education course to recording an album and so many other things that would bring me unbridled joy or contentment. To date, I’ve cleared 26. It’s been a slow pace, but there are so many experiences that I’ve been able to live because I’ve pushed myself to have a foundation for joy.

That list, one I see every single day, asks me to live joyfully and intentionally. If I hadn’t written down and lived the experience of being an extra in a movie, then I would have never had the courage to step onto a stage and belt my heart out at karaoke. Had I not made the decision I wanted to commission a piece of art, I would have never had the courage to believe that others wanted to pay me for my art, too. Sometimes I forget the list is there. I rarely consult it because when opportunities for new experiences land in my hands I say yes without overwhelming fear. The fear is still there at times, but it feels tucked away now. It feels more like a part of the experience and not the whole of it anymore.

Writing this made me check what I’d forgotten to catalog (getting a tattoo with my sister and reading 65 new books). I can’t remember the last time I looked at the list before this day because in some way it is ingrained into me now. Or maybe it's the idea of it. The expectation of joy pushing out the expectation of fear. Yes, I’m going to fail. I’m going to fall on my face. I’ve done both so many times. But I’ve survived. I’ve been enriched by that failure, too.

There is no need to pretend that everything is brightly lit. Nor is it all dark. The failure that eventually led me to the joy I hold so close to my heart now was necessary. Just as I was afraid driving across the turnpike almost a decade ago, I also drove with my windows down with the wind whipping against my skin. I sang at the top of my lungs in a fast car with my entire life piled up behind me in the rearview mirror. And even though I was leaving a lot behind, I was headed directly where I needed to be and into the joy that waited.

Athena Dixon is the author of essay collections The Incredible Shrinking Woman and The Loneliness Files and her work appears in publications such as Harper's Bazaar, Shenandoah, Grub Street, Narratively, and Lit Hub among others. She is a Consulting Editor for Fourth Genre and the Nonfiction/Hybrid Editor for Split/Lip Press.