There is a voice inside us, a ceaseless, urgent whisper, like dry leaves caught in the wind. It tells us to be careful, to be wary, to prepare for the worst. It masquerades as wisdom, but it is fear. And for many of us, it is the only voice we know.
This voice keeps us tethered to survival, to the illusion of control. It speaks in anxious warnings—Don’t trust too easily. Don’t risk too much. Don’t stray from the known path. It stifles courage before it can take its first breath. It convinces us that safety is the highest virtue, though in reality, it is merely the avoidance of life itself.
In yogic philosophy, the mind is often likened to a restless monkey—constantly leaping, grabbing, and chattering. The Upanishads call this mental noise chitta vritti, the fluctuations of the mind that keep us in a perpetual state of reaction. These fluctuations are largely driven by fear, and fear is rooted in avidya—ignorance of our true nature.
What is our true nature? The sages tell us that beyond the conditioned mind, beyond the small self, there is a vast awareness—pure consciousness, unshaken by circumstance. The Bhagavad Gita speaks of this stillness, where Krishna tells Arjuna that the yogi who is free from fear and desire abides in his own being, unmoved like a deep
ocean that does not ripple at the surface winds.
To still the fear-driven voice, we must first recognize it for what it is—a conditioned response, not an oracle of truth. It is a voice that has been passed down for generations, trained in the art of self-preservation but ignorant of self-realization.
Consider a man named Dev, a diligent worker, a father, a husband. He wakes each morning with a tightness in his chest, thinking of bills to be paid, his boss’s expectations, his children’s futures. He loves his family, but he rarely expresses it, fearing vulnerability. He takes the same route to work every day, eats the same lunch, avoids conversations that might stir conflict. He believes he is being responsible, but he is simply afraid.
Fear has built walls around him, disguised as discipline. His laughter is measured, his dreams are practical, his prayers are requests for security rather than revelations of truth. This is the existence so many of us accept—not because it is fulfilling, but because it feels safe.
Now, imagine Dev encountering something unexpected. A book. A teacher. A moment of stillness so profound that it disrupts the rhythm of his usual thoughts. He hears, perhaps for the first time, the silence beneath the noise.
Through yoga or meditation, he begins to witness his own mind, to separate himself from the voice that has dictated his life. He notices the patterns—how fear grips him before he even speaks, how it shapes his choices. He learns the practice of pratyahara, withdrawing from the constant stimulus of fear-driven thoughts, and dhyana, deep meditation, where he can sit in awareness rather than reaction.
One day, he takes a different route home. He tells his daughter a story from his childhood, unfiltered and unscripted. He stands outside at night and breathes in the sky without thinking about the next day. The walls begin to fall, brick by brick.
To live without the constant direction of fear does not mean to be reckless. It means to trust something deeper than the conditioned mind. It means moving from shakti—pure energy, creativity, and expression—rather than from old wounds and imagined catastrophes.
This is the gift of stilling our fear-driven voices: it returns us to the present moment. It allows us to love more freely, speak more honestly, and act from truth rather than protection. It is the difference between existing and living.
In the great Hindu epic, the Ramayana, Hanuman does not recognize his own power until he is reminded of it. So too, we are far greater than our small, fearful voices would have us believe. We have the capacity for vairagya, detachment from the illusions of fear, and for ananda, blissful awareness beyond the mind’s turmoil.
The question is—are we willing to listen to something deeper? To move toward the silence beneath the storm?
If we are, then fear will no longer be the author of our days. And in its place, we may finally hear the quiet, steady voice of our own soul
Hari Om Tat Sat
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