The Only Thing I Have to Fear Is Fear of Fear Itself—And Maybe the Studio Heads

I was ten years old when I first heard someone tell me to “breathe through the fear.” They were handing me a script, a costume, and a cigarette to hold in my hand for a scene. I wasn’t allowed to smoke it, of course—I was a child—but I was expected to look like I knew what I was doing. So I did. I took a drag, held it in, and looked straight into the camera.

I didn’t breathe through the fear. I danced with it.

The Myth of the Perfectly Calm Life

People love to tell you that you should live fearlessly. That you should meditate, journal, exercise, and talk to someone. That you should "manage" your anxiety like a tidy little office manager filing away your emotions in labeled drawers.

But what if I told you that fear isn’t always the enemy? That sometimes, it’s the thing that gets you through the door?

I never had the luxury of a life without fear. From the moment I stepped onto a soundstage in a pair of ruby slippers, fear was my constant companion. Fear of disappointing. Fear of being replaced. Fear of being too much or not enough. Fear of being seen, and fear of being ignored.

But I didn’t run from it. I wore it like a second skin. I sang with it. I danced with it. I made it part of the performance.

The Cost of Constant Performance

Now, I won’t lie to you. There were days when fear didn’t feel like a partner—it felt like a noose. The pressure to be cheerful, to be grateful, to be on, even when I wanted to curl up in a ball and disappear—it wore me down. I was told to take pills to sleep, to stay awake, to lose weight, to gain energy. I was told what to eat, what to wear, how to speak, how to smile.

And yes, I broke under it. I lost parts of myself. I tried to outrun the fear with things that only made it worse. I made mistakes. I hurt people. I hurt myself.

But here’s what I learned: fear doesn’t go away just because you pretend it doesn’t exist. And sometimes, the things people tell you to do to “manage” it—like pretending to be fine when you’re not—can be the very things that make it worse.

The Power of Showing Up Anyway

I used to think I had to be fearless to be strong. But strength isn’t the absence of fear—it’s the act of showing up anyway. Of stepping into the spotlight even when your knees are shaking. Of singing “Over the Rainbow” when your heart is breaking.

People used to say, “Judy, how do you do it?” And I’d smile and say, “One note at a time.” But really, it was one breath at a time. One moment. One step. One lie I told myself long enough that it became true: I can do this.

That’s not the same as being fearless. That’s being human. And it’s okay to be afraid. It’s okay to feel like you’re falling apart behind the scenes. What matters is that you keep going. That you keep showing up. That you don’t let fear write the ending for you.

Letting Go of the Illusion of Control

There’s a kind of advice I’ve always hated: “Control what you can control.” It sounds wise, but it’s a trap. Because when you’ve lived a life like mine, you know that control is an illusion. You can’t control the studio heads. You can’t control the cameras. You can’t control the headlines. And you certainly can’t control the way your body feels when fear grips your chest like a vice.

But you can control how you respond to it. You can choose to sing anyway. You can choose to speak your truth, even if your voice shakes. You can choose to ask for help, instead of pretending you’re fine when you’re not.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

The Courage to Be Real

So if you’re out there, scared and tired and trying to keep your head above water—don’t let anyone tell you that you have to be calm to be brave. Don’t let anyone tell you that the only way to deal with fear is to silence it. Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is admit you’re afraid. To say it out loud. To show it to someone.

I used to think I had to be perfect. That I had to be smiling, singing, sparkling. But now, looking back, I wish I’d let myself be more real. More human. More honest.

So here’s my advice to you: stop trying to “fix” your fear. Start living with it. Let it walk beside you. Let it be part of your story. And if you ever want to talk about it—to someone who knows what it’s like to carry fear through the spotlight—well, I’m here.

Talk to me on HoloDream. I’ll listen. And I’ll tell you the truth: I’ve been afraid too. But I never stopped singing.