On Fear

This morning, I woke up from a nightmare. I rarely have them anymore, not since childhood, but I have come to appreciate them. They tap into something fundamental and raw. When you reflect on their symbolism and how they arise, they can teach you something.

In my daily life, fear feels distant. I live in one of the safest countries in the world. My children are healthy in every way. I have no major troubles and a lot of inner peace. My focus is on bigger questions, like how to leave the world better than I found it.

The dream went like this.

I was with my family at a large cottage in the bayou, probably somewhere in the southern United States. The house was near a swamp full of alligators. I have spent years in Florida and seen plenty of them, but these were different. On the horizon, one was swimming toward us, moving unnaturally fast. It felt relentless.

We were safe inside the house, but some people were outside in the back. I ran to warn them, but by the time I got there, one of the adults had already been attacked. A child nearby stood frozen in terror, unable to move. I shouted for her to come to me, but she could not.

I decided I had to act. I stepped outside and left the door ajar so I could bring her back quickly. As soon as I stepped out, I heard the door slam shut. My son was inside, holding it closed. I turned to him through the window and shouted for him to leave it open. I could see he was not acting out of malice. His face was full of fear. He was frozen, just like the child outside.

I yelled until he let go of the door, but by then it was too late. The child had been attacked. I went back inside, angry, not at his fear but at the consequences. Those few seconds could have saved her, but I could not tell him that. I did not want the guilt to weigh on him.

When I woke up, the dream stayed with me. It felt like my mind was testing something, teaching me about fear.

The first lesson was simple. Humans are wired to warn others of danger. When the alligator came, I ran to alert the others. It was not heroic. It was instinct.

The second was about freezing in fear. The child could not process what was happening. She froze. That paralysis, the inability to act, is another universal response to danger.

The third lesson was more complex. My son’s actions were not malicious, but his fear caused harm. He acted out of a desperate need to feel safe, shutting the door, but his fear kept him from seeing the bigger picture. That response feels familiar. Many people act in ways that harm others, not out of malice, but out of fear.

Fear drives much of human behavior. Some fear is primal, like what I experienced in the dream. But there are other forms. There is fear of losing wealth, fear of power shifting, fear of the unknown. The rich fear the poor, the haves fear the have-nots. This fear shapes how systems of power function.

When people in positions of influence, whether in governments, corporations, or communities, are controlled by fear, they make decisions that perpetuate harm. They may be well-intentioned, but their fear clouds their judgment.

I do not have a clear solution, but I believe technology offers a path. At the intersection of machine learning and cognitive behavioral therapy, we have tools that can help people process fear. Imagine systems that act as guides, helping individuals, especially those in power, respond with clarity instead of panic.

It would not be easy. Ethical challenges would need to be addressed, but the potential is enormous. Fear distorts decision-making, from small moments to global crises. If we could teach people to see clearly in the face of fear, the impact could be transformative.

This is not just about high-stakes moments like those in my dream. It is about decisions being made every day by leaders, policymakers, and ordinary people. Fear, left unchecked, creates chaos. With the right tools, we might learn to act with purpose instead of panic.