In a place I’m not familiar with, I stay around the edges, observing before stepping in, not wanting to seem like I don’t know what I’m doing. Alone, I am timid.

In a new situation, I watch first. It takes me time to jump in. I didn’t grow up in a city, so living in a more urban place has presented many puzzles for me to figure out, even the basics like parking, shopping, finding a bathroom or taking a bus were daunting. There is an unspoken way of doing everything, and people are quick to shove past and give a withering look when it’s done wrong.

There’s a cheese shop in town, The Cheese Board, that has hundreds of cheeses, as well as pastries and breads. I cruised into the shop to get pecan rolls or apricot muffins, but was intimidated by the cheese counter. Instead of numbers, they have playing cards hanging on a little stand, and when your card is called, it’s your turn. Then what?

It was probably three years of bread and muffins before I decided that I would take a chance, look dumb and get some cheese.  I took a card, and when my seven of clubs was called, I told the person behind the counter that it was my first visit, and I didn’t know what I wanted. She was kind and patient, giving me samples and helping me decide what to get.

You may be saying, “Of course! Don’t be so silly!” You must be a naturally bold person. You don’t realize there are people who are afraid to look dumb, afraid to make a wrong move and mess up, afraid of being laughed at. It’s not an idle fear. We are afraid of these things because they have happened.

Part of my problem is that I blush easily. The bold may be able to make a mistake or say something ridiculous and then adjust course and blend into the crowd. Not me. I turn a glowing shade of red, alerting everyone around me that something has gone wrong, something that deserves their attention, something that always leads someone to ask, “Why are you so red?”

It may be that they are concerned that I’m suffering from an urgent medical condition, but generally I think it should be obvious: I’m red because my very own blood vessels are betraying me and letting everyone know, beyond a doubt, that I feel stupid.

To dodge that terrible feeling, I have to avoid being singled out or caught off guard. So I do research before I try anything new, hoping to avoid the awkward and uncomfortable effects of being surprised or confused. Even so, my mantra in a new situation is, “I’ll only look stupid once,” or “Dumber people than me have done this.”

The root of my fear is that people will discover that I don’t know what I’m doing, that I’m not competent and strong and invincible, and judge me. They will find me lacking in intelligence and experience.  I know that feeling this way is, actually, dumb. It’s a complicated sense of insecurity. It’s layers and layers of insecurity.

I’ve gotten bolder about being intimidated–a small step at least. I decided to swim laps at the YMCA. First, I watched. What do people wear? Swim cap or not? Which lanes are slowest? I finally got my suit on and headed out to the pool–but I couldn’t find the door from the locker room to the pool. I persevered and asked another woman–the one blow-drying her hair naked, no less–how to get out there.

Once on the deck, it wasn’t obvious how to jump into the lanes with swimmers already in them. So, deep breath, I walked to the lifeguard stand and asked how the lane-sharing worked. “I’m glad you asked,” she said. “Most people just get in and mess everybody up.” A small sense relief–I had done the right thing by asking, and now I knew what to do.

If I’m in a new situation with someone I know, someone I can trust to help me and not laugh at me, my insecurity fades. We can laugh together. We can figure out together how to tackle the unknown.

It’s another experience altogether, though, when I’m with my children. We have tried many new things together, and when they were little, I was the one who had to know where we were going and get us all there and back safely. Not going, or hanging back until I figured it out, wasn’t an option with six little people trotting trustingly behind me, so I stepped up. I had to Be The Mom.

Being a mother made me brave.

Two things helped me leave my timid self behind. One is the protective, Mama Bear instinct that kicks in when I am with my kids. They need me to lead the way.

The other is the fact that taking kids anywhere will, at some point, result in total embarrassment. They will create a mess, say something–or scream it–that should not have been said, and generally undo any illusion of  having it all together.  For some reason, because it’s for them, I can endure it. I can laugh at it and shrug it off. In both cases, I lose my self-consciousness because I am focused on keeping my babies safe and happy.

A few years ago, I visited Paris with my husband, who was there for business. One day, I was on my own while he was in meetings. I wanted to venture out, take the Metro, and do some exploring. My timid self resisted. Maybe I would just stay in the beautiful hotel and enjoy some time to read and people watch, I told myself. As I was settling in with a book, I thought, “If my kids were here, I would go out exploring for them.” If I could do it with my kids, why not without them?

This trick of reasoning worked, and I headed out for a day of walking, taking the Metro, and visiting museums. I had a few embarrassing moments involving the ticket machine in the the Metro station, a tripping incident and a misunderstanding at lunch, but I managed. I laughed at myself, and I was proud of myself.

Now that my kids are adults, they are some of my favorite people to try new things with. Some of them are the naturally bold type, others are the more nervous type.  I don’t have to Be The Mom with them anymore. They have known me as their brave mom, but now they also know me as their sometimes-timid companion.