A little oil
I'm 5, and my grandmother is frying raspberry pancakes in a cast-iron pan as old as my parents. Between the pancakes, she adds a thick layer of sunflower oil to cover the pancake whole. I come closer to take a peek when she does it again. Suddenly, the raw dough in the oil starts an array of small explosions. Hot oil splashes everywhere. I scream in terror and run away.
"Grandma, I'm burnt!" I cry.
"Don't be silly, it's just a little oil," she replies and continues cooking while the oil cracks.
"My grandmom is the strongest person I know," I think.
I'm 23, and I'm FaceTiming my little sister while frying zucchini pancakes. When I add in the new portion of dough, the water-filled zucchini mixes with the hot olive oil and starts its regular explosions. The oil gets on my hands and arms, but I continue to add in the dough.
When I take a step back, I notice that my sister is covering her face in terror.
"You have to run!" she cries. "How are you not afraid?"
In this full-circle moment, I indeed questioned, how am I not afraid?
The situation did not become any less painful or dangerous. The oil is still hot, and getting it on my arms is still uncomfortable. But as a first-generation migrant alone in my apartment far away from friends and family, I cannot afford to be afraid of oil. In fact, I cannot afford to be afraid of many things. Spiders, thunderstorms, water splashing onto the electricity cords, or a stranger knocking on my door. Even if I am scared, no one will come to help out. So I'm just not.
As I grew up, so did my fears. What terrifies me now is not being financially independent. Becoming homeless. Losing touch with my friends. Getting sick. Never finding a partner (or finding a partner?). Having kids.
It seems that every inch I grow, my fears do, too. Not sure who does it quicker.
In this perspective, a little hot oil is nothing, just like my grandmother said. She's still the strongest person I know.
But so am I.