Last year, at 53, my husband and I quit our jobs in oil and gas and retired early to travel the world. Many friends assumed we were fearless — that anyone who leaves behind home, routines, and everything familiar must be chasing adventure
The truth? I’m not fearless. I’m a total scaredy-cat.
I didn’t grow up traveling. We didn’t hop on planes or dream about faraway places. Our family vacations were road trips to Ohio to visit relatives — reliable, predictable, safe. Most of my family still doesn’t have a passport.
If you’d asked me in my 20s whether I’d ever sell everything and move from country to country, I would’ve shaken my head no, probably while breaking out in a cold sweat. It sounded terrifying.
Turns out, it is terrifying sometimes. And I do it anyway.
Managing retirement risk
For years, I built my life around managing risk. Raising kids, climbing the corporate ladder, and running my own consulting business all required careful planning and staying one step ahead.
But nothing prepared me for the emotional risk of walking away from that life.
The moment my husband, Nigel, and I got serious about early retirement, the what-ifs flooded in: What if we ran out of money? What if something happened to our kids or grandkids while we’re gone? What if we hated it?
I’ve spent my life tuned in to everyone else: clients, kids, even my husband. Somewhere along the way, my empathy turned into a constant state of alert. I was always scanning for what might go wrong.
The idea of giving up control, dropping into unfamiliar places, and starting over again felt like a nightmare wrapped in an Instagram filter.
Learning that I didn’t have to be fearless and just needed a plan for the fear changed everything.
Putting the tool to work
I discovered fear-setting in 2022, and it’s the single most useful tool I’ve carried into this chapter of life. Instead of setting goals, you define the nightmare. Then you ask three questions:
- How could I prevent it?
- What would I do if it happened?
- What’s the cost of doing nothing?
That last one stopped me cold: What would it cost us to stay stuck, too scared to try?
It turns out I’d been using versions of fear-setting long before I even knew what to call them. I used them to calm my son after watching Hurricane Katrina coverage, walking him through every worst-case scenario. Later, I relied on them to manage my own spirals over work deadlines, breaking fear into manageable pieces.
Fear-setting works at any age — and for almost anything.
It’s simpler than it sounds. You don’t need a course or a coach. You just need a pen, a few quiet minutes, and the willingness to name what’s scaring you out loud.
I start by writing the absolute worst-case scenario at the top of the page, even if it feels dramatic. Then, I answer the three questions honestly. I learned that getting honest about the worst case doesn’t make it more likely, it makes it less terrifying.
Even now, after a year of traveling, every time we step off a plane into a new place, I still get anxious: Will I find my way back? Will I belong here?
It’s rarely the big things. It’s the tiny moments of unfamiliarity. It’s the ones no amount of planning or money can solve. Where’s the grocery store? Did we pick the wrong Airbnb? Will I meet anyone here, or will I feel completely alone?
Never feeling ready
I’m not fearless. I’m not naturally adventurous. I’m just someone who finally got tired of letting fear drive every decision.
Fear-setting gave me a way to name the scary stuff, stare it down, and ask: Is this really going to stop me?
If there’s one thing I wish people understood, it’s this: You’re not supposed to feel ready. You don’t need to wait until the fear goes away.
You just need to know that fear is part of the deal — and that you’re capable of walking through it.
It has been through managing fear — instead of waiting for it to disappear — that I’ve changed everything.
And that’s the real adventure.
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