If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d move to Norway.
I’d wake to mountains wrapped in mist,
walk beside fjords that mirrored the sky,
and learn that silence is not an enemy
but a companion.
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d not only see the world—
I’d learn it.
I’d taste spices in Morocco,
learn dances in Brazil,
drink red wine in Spain,
walk beneath the cherry blossoms in Japan,
stand in Iceland under skies that catch fire,
trace the ruins of Greece with my fingertips,
watch the sun rise over deserts in Morocco.
I’d wander through India’s colors,
breathe the sharp air of the Andes,
and sit quietly in the forests of Finland
until stillness felt like home.
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d dive into the Great Barrier Reef,
swim among colors brighter than anything I’ve written.
I’d climb mountains in Switzerland
and let my lungs burn with clean air.
I’d follow the rivers of Canada,
camp beneath skies so heavy with stars
they would drown out my doubts.
I’d stumble through words in languages not my own
and laugh at the mistakes.
I’d fill my passport with stamps
and my heart with places that felt like home
for a day, a week, or a lifetime.
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d tell people how I feel.
I’d say I miss you without shame,
I need you without fear,
I love you without hesitation.
I would trust that they could hold
both the light and the storm of me.
I would risk being known.
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d create without fear.
I’d paint without erasing,
write without deleting,
sing without lowering my voice.
I would publish my poems
and trust they might land
in someone else’s quiet night
like a lantern they didn’t know they needed.
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I would adopt a cat.
I’d let it curl against me in the evenings,
purring its small, steady rhythm
into the noise of my thoughts.
I’d adopt a dog too,
let its joy drag me outside,
pulling me toward sunlight and weather,
reminding me that life is meant to be walked through.
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d dance in the rain,
sing off-key in the shower,
fill notebooks without editing,
and dance badly but freely.
I’d stop waiting for the perfect moment,
and instead let imperfect moments
become my life.
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I would let myself dream of futures.
Not just days or weeks,
but years.
I’d imagine birthdays not yet celebrated,
friendships not yet found,
a life that stretches forward
instead of folding in.
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I would know what it feels like to be free.
Free from the weight of fear,
free from the urge to vanish,
free to step into the world
without asking permission.
I’d gather freedom piece by piece—
in laughter, in rain, in mountains, in love—
until it was mine to carry.
And maybe—
just maybe—
I’d stop circling the question of leaving,
and start writing a list of places to go,
people to hold,
stories to tell,
reasons to stay.