Do We Ever Graduate from Our Fears?Yes - But Not the Way You Might Expect

There was a time I was so afraid of death that I couldn't talk to my own father about his.

So when this month's question asks whether we ever graduate from our fears, I come at it from a particular angle — because with this one, I think I actually have. Just not the way you'd expect.

Let me back up.

When my mom died, it was sudden — five weeks from diagnosis to her last breath. She'd never said what she wanted, and in the vacuum she left, my sisters and I, grieving and unsure, ended up at odds when we most needed each other. The guilt and the what-ifs followed me for years.

You'd think that would have made me brave.

Instead, years later, when my dad came through his own grief and began wanting to talk about his end of life, his wishes and plans, I changed the subject every time. I was still too raw from losing my mom to imagine losing him too.

I want to be honest about where I stood. When my dad died, I wasn't doing any of this work yet. I was simply his daughter, and I was scared. The only thread I could feel was a quiet pull toward spirituality; I'd started following the Seattle-based energy intuitive Marie Manuchehri, who would become one of my most important teachers. But I had no idea where it was leading.

Life made the decision for me. I became my dad's medical and financial advocate, and we finally had the conversations I'd been avoiding. They weren't morbid. They were some of the most honest, tender hours we ever spent together. When he died, the grief was clean — pure sorrow, with no remorse stitched into it.

Facing death at my dad's bedside didn't erase my fear of it. What eventually did was something I never went looking for — and it didn't arrive all at once.

It began two years later, and it caught me completely off guard. By then I had begun offering advance care planning services, and I was sitting with a client on Zoom when her late Uncle  Charlie spoke up. He would not quiet down until I told her he was there.

I didn't understand it as a calling that day. I didn't walk away certain of anything. It was simply the first time a soul reached through me like that — and it would be years, and a great deal of study and practice, before I'd call myself a medium, someone who hears from those who've died.

The fear didn't lift in that moment either. It lifted slowly, over the years that followed, as I turned toward this work and made it my whole focus. As I sat, again and again, with souls who had something to say to their people still here. Each time, I was shown the same thing: the connection doesn't end when the body does. Hear that once and you wonder. Be shown it a hundred times, and the fear quietly loosens its grip.

So — did I graduate from the fear of death? I think I did.

I'll be honest with you, though. I haven't graduated from all of it. I'm not eager to grow old, and I'm in no hurry to go. The aging part, the losing part — that's still tender. Both things are true at once.

And I'll say this plainly, and you can hold it however you like: I've come to believe the ending isn't the whole story. That something of us continues, and that the people we love are not as far away as the silence makes them seem.

You don't have to believe that to feel the relief in it.

Here's a small practice for the next time the fear comes. That’s often in the wee hours, around 3am, when the question arrives uninvited.

When the fear arrives, don't rush to push it away. Let it be there.

Then, gently, place one hand over your heart.

Ask yourself a different question: Who would be there?

Bring to mind one person you've lost — someone you trust would be glad to see you. Don't strain toward them. Just let them come.

Notice the love. Not the grief, but the love underneath it. Maybe there’s warmth in your chest. Maybe a softening somewhere.

And let yourself wonder, just for a moment, if they're closer than the dark would have you believe.

That's all. Notice what comes. Write it down if you like.

In peace, Johanna

P.S. Something may have stirred as you read this — a name you haven't said aloud in a while, a quiet wish to know they're okay, or simply your own curiosity about whether you could sense them yourself. That's worth listening to. A clarity call is a no-pressure place to start: 15 minutes, just the two of us, to talk through what you're hoping for and whether working together feels right. Book one with me here.

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