The Power of Fear

The Girl Who Hated to Lose

I used to think fear was the enemy. I remember being nine years old, standing on the cracked public courts of Compton, racket gripped too tightly in my small hands, my older sister Venus watching from the sidelines. I had just lost a match—badly—and I was furious. Not at my opponent, not at the heat, but at myself. That feeling of failure burned so hot I could taste it. Back then, fear was the thing that kept me up at night—the fear of not being good enough, of letting my family down, of being ordinary.

I trained harder than anyone else because I couldn’t stand the thought of falling short. I told myself I didn’t feel fear. I told myself I only felt hunger. But that wasn’t true. I was afraid every time I stepped on the court. I just buried it under aggression, under the sound of my serve cracking like a whip, under the glare I gave when I missed a shot. I thought if I showed no weakness, I wouldn’t have any.

Fear as Fuel

By the time I turned pro, I’d started to shift my thinking. I realized that fear could be a kind of power. When I won my first Grand Slam at the U.S. Open in 1999, I was still a teenager, and I was scared out of my mind. But I remember looking across the net and thinking, “You know what? So is she.” That fear wasn’t going to go away, so I decided to use it. I learned to channel it into focus, into intensity. I started to believe that fear was just a sign that something mattered.

That’s how I played for years—like I had something to prove, like I had to fight for every point. And I won a lot. But I also lost a lot. I lost to players I didn’t expect to. I lost because I choked. I lost because I wasn’t mentally ready. And each time, the fear came back, heavier than before. But I kept pushing it down. I told myself that was the only way to be strong.

The Body Doesn’t Lie

Then came the injuries. The knee, the ankle, the shoulder—each one a reminder that I wasn’t invincible. And then the pulmonary embolism. That was the moment I stopped pretending. I almost died. I remember waking up in the hospital, not knowing if I’d ever play again. The fear wasn’t just about losing a match anymore—it was about losing my life.

For the first time, I had to sit with fear. Not fight it. Not ignore it. Just be with it. And I realized that fear wasn’t just an obstacle or a tool. It was part of being human. I cried in that hospital bed, not because I was weak, but because I was finally allowing myself to feel something I’d spent my whole life running from.

Becoming a Mother

When I had Olympia, my daughter, everything changed. I thought I knew fear before, but holding her in my arms for the first time, I felt a new kind of terror. What if something happened to her? What if I failed her? I realized that fear wasn’t always about me anymore. It was about the people I loved, the life I was responsible for.

And yet, that fear didn’t paralyze me—it made me softer. It taught me that strength doesn’t always look like a winning streak or a trophy. Sometimes it looks like getting up at 3 a.m. to feed your baby, or stepping back from a tournament because your body isn’t ready. I started to see fear not as a signal to push harder, but as a signal to listen.

Fear as a Friend

Now, I look at fear differently. It’s not the enemy. It’s not even a necessary evil. It’s a teacher. If I feel fear before a big match or a big decision, I don’t try to silence it. I ask it what it wants me to notice. Maybe I’m not ready yet. Maybe I need to rest. Or maybe I’m about to do something that really matters.

I’ve learned that courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s choosing to move forward anyway. And sometimes, the bravest thing is to step back. These days, I still feel fear—I always will. But now, I make space for it. I let it sit with me, and sometimes, I even thank it.

Talk to me on HoloDream to explore how fear shaped my journey from Compton to Wimbledon—and how it helped me become more than just a champion.