My sweet little avoidance.

You've occupied my mind relentlessly this week — all because of one deceptively simple situation.

My recent post about overcoming stage fright wasn't actually about success; it was my desperate attempt to gather courage for an upcoming challenge.

Mandatory Group Training — lovingly arranged by the evil corporation that signs my paychecks.

For most, group training is just a boring formality. For me, it's a ticking time bomb of anxiety.

I thought writing about past victories would fuel my bravery. Spoiler alert: it didn’t.

The dreaded day arrived. Fifty anonymous avatars blinked to life in MS Teams. 

And from among them emerged my archnemesis, proudly turning the camera on.

The trainer.

She spoke loudly, with confidence:

Let’s find some volunteers.

Blood rushed through my veins. I felt as if I had locked eyes with some Lovecraftian horror.

Who would’ve guessed, this shaking guy was the same one who, only days earlier, wrote 1,400 words claiming stage fright was behind him?

The Comfort of Avoidance

So, how did I handle the trainer’s call for volunteers?

Naturally, I did what every sane person would do. I disconnected for ten minutes and hoped the danger would fade.

To keep myself entertained, I filled those 10 minutes with amusing activities like:

• Hyperventilating,
• Pacing from corner to corner,
• Watching the last scraps of my self-confidence fall apart.

Not my proudest moment. All because I was too afraid to speak through a small electronic device to people who probably weren't even paying attention.

You Escaped. Now What?

Thanks to my cowardly but clever reaction, I wasn’t picked as a volunteer.

The price?

Once again, I sacrificed my self-confidence to the hounds of fear lurking in my mind.

The worst part? I convinced myself that this loss of confidence was a fair price for temporary peace.

But how long can that safety last?

That was only the first day of the training. Sooner or later, I’ll be in the same spot.

Am I going to keep disconnecting?

At that moment I was sure I would. And regarding the training, I did.

The memory of past victories didn’t help.

I felt like all these battles hadn’t made me stronger. Only more tired.

I wished the world would simply adjust to my limitations: No more presentations. No more calls for volunteers. If you’re scared, you opt-out.

No questions. No shame.

The Harsh Reality

One thing became clear: I struggle because I was never meant for this.

Talking to the public?

Please. My ancestors were farmers and miners. I’m wired for raising corn and digging coal — not delivering charismatic speeches.

The worst part? My dreams aren't about coal and corn.

They’re about those speeches.

The Right Direction

At that stress-management training, the speaker said prolonged stress could lead straight to oncology.

He suggested that sometimes the healthiest thing isn’t to fight — it’s to remove the stressor entirely. Change the job. Skip the trigger.

I remember how it hit me. For a moment, it felt like there was no future for me. My stressors were tied to my career.

Eliminating them was impossible.

I went against the speaker words, and pushed through fear. I even got somewhat acceptable results.

But it was different then. I had hope. Now, not so much.

Maybe I'm just older. Or fighting the same enemy over and over has worn me down.

But there is one thing I'm sure. I must keep trying.

Not because of my dreams.

Because I know what awaits me if I stop. Selling my freedom, and ambition for safety will have consequences eventually.

It's a straight road to becoming a sad little man — no future, and a past too pathetic to look back on.

I once read a haunting story. A man encounters the most pathetic person imaginable and asks:

What did you do to end up this way?

Nothing, replied the pathetic man.

I think about it a lot.

Conclusion

It frightens me that something as trivial as a training session can trigger such a storm of negative emotions.

I'm ashamed of my reaction. Yet, it was still mine.

Carl Jung describes our shadow as the dark, suppressed part of ourselves. I always envisioned mine as malevolent, threatening, sinister.

But perhaps, in my case, it’s just a little kid — trembling with fear because too many eyes are staring at him.

Maybe acknowledging that fear openly is the first step toward genuine courage.

Thanks, and see you in the next post.