The Moment Before the Jump: What Kenya Taught Me About Fear, Judgment, and Becoming

Kenya was beautiful. The energy of the place makes you believe in fresh starts and second chances. The food, the people, the character—everything felt alive in a way that made me remember why Samira and I dream of relocating there with our kids. For three weeks, I walked through Nairobi and Mombasa with my family, breathing in possibility and exhaling the stress of a challenging year.

But it was in a stairwell in Mombasa where I learned the most important lesson of the trip.

The Stairwell

Our Airbnb was on the fourth floor of a walk-up—good exercise, we joked every morning. One afternoon, I was coming back from the lobby of our apartment complex. I was happy, relaxed, still carrying that vacation feeling in my chest. Then I heard footsteps behind me.

A man with locs. Walking up behind me.

And instantly—I mean, in a fraction of a second—my body betrayed me.

My heart started racing. My hands started shaking. That old New York instinct kicked in, and I started walking faster. Trying to look casual but moving with purpose toward my apartment door. The footsteps kept coming. My mind was racing: Should I turn around? Should I say something? What if—

Then I reached my door. And the man behind me pulled out his keys, looked at me, and pointed to the apartment directly across from mine. His apartment. He nodded politely and went inside.

I stood there, key in hand, flooded with shame.

The Weight of Recognition

Here's what hit me in that moment: What I had just done to him—the fear, the judgment, the automatic assumption of threat—is exactly what has been done to me countless times. The clutched purses in elevators. The extra space people give me on the sidewalk. The subtle body language that says, "I see you as dangerous until proven otherwise."

I know that feeling. I've lived that feeling. I've written about that feeling.

And there I was, in beautiful Kenya, doing the exact same thing to someone who looked just like me.

I had brought my fear with me. Packed it right alongside my clothes and carried it over 8,000 miles to a place that didn't deserve it. To a person who didn't deserve it.

That evening, I told Samira what happened. We talked about it. She listened as I worked through the shame and the hypocrisy of it all. And in that conversation, something shifted. I realized I had a choice: I could carry this guilt around for the rest of the trip, or I could do something about it.

The next day, I saw him again. My heart was racing again—but this time for different reasons. This time, the fear was about vulnerability, not safety. I walked up to him and asked if we could talk.

We ended up having a long conversation. I apologized for how I'd acted in the stairwell. I told him about the times I've been on the receiving end of that same fear—the judgment, the assumptions, the way it makes you feel less than human. I told him that if I'd made him feel even a fraction of what those experiences made me feel, I was truly sorry.

He was gracious. More gracious than I deserved. We talked about what it's like to navigate the world in our skin, about the exhaustion of being viewed as a threat before being seen as a person. By the end of our conversation, we were laughing, exchanging stories about our families, finding connection where there had been distance.

That conversation changed something in me. It showed me that the path forward from fear isn't just acknowledgment—it's action. It's having the courage to make things right, even when it's uncomfortable. Especially when it's uncomfortable.

When Your Hands Stop Shaking

I've been thinking a lot about fear lately. About how it shows up. About what it costs us.

There's a concept I've been wrestling with: the moment before the jump. You know that instant right before someone takes a leap—whether it's literally jumping from a height or metaphorically jumping into something that terrifies them? Their hands are shaking. Their body is screaming at them to stop. Every fiber of their being is negotiating with fear.

And then something shifts.

Their hands stop shaking. Not because the fear is gone. Not because they suddenly feel confident or ready. But because they've made a decision. A decision to act despite the fear. To refuse to obey it anymore.

That's the moment I've been searching for in my own life. And that's the moment I missed in that stairwell.

The Fearless Myth

When my blog post "When Transformation Becomes a Warning Sign" went live a few weeks ago, people reached out, calling it fearless. They said the same thing about my Homeless For One Week project. About the vulnerability I've shown in my writing. About the stands I've taken.

But here's what I want you to know: I'm not fearless. Not even close.

I'm afraid all the time.

I'm afraid of failing my family. I'm afraid that going full-time with Hyphens and Spaces was a mistake. I'm afraid of the financial obligations that don't pause while I figure things out. I'm afraid that people won't see the value in what Samira and I are building. I'm afraid of judgment. I'm afraid of being seen as "other." I'm afraid of the guy behind me on the stairs.

The difference isn't the presence or absence of fear. The difference is the decision to act anyway.

What Fear Takes From Us

But what happens when we don't make that decision? When we let fear run the show?

We lose more than we realize:

We lose our capacity to see clearly. Fear puts everyone and everything through a distorted lens. That man in the stairwell wasn't a threat—he was a tired guy coming home after a long day. But fear made him something else in my mind.

We lose our connection to others. Every time we let fear dictate our actions, we build another brick in the wall between us and the people around us. Fear isolates. It divides. It tells us that safety means distance.

We lose our best selves. The version of me that I want to be—the one I'm working toward every day—doesn't clutch his keys and speed-walk away from his neighbors. That version leads with curiosity, not suspicion. With openness, not defense.

We lose our potential. Whether it's the business you don't start, the relationship you don't repair, the truth you don't speak, or the neighbor you don't get to know—fear costs us futures we can't even imagine.

The Path Forward: Confronting What Holds Us Back

So how do we move past it? How do we get our hands to stop shaking?

I don't have all the answers, but I'm learning. Here's what's helping me:

1. Name Your Fear Specifically

"I'm afraid" is too vague. "I'm afraid that if I'm vulnerable in my marketing, people will think I'm unprofessional" is specific. You can work with specific. General fear just floats around, making everything harder.

2. Ask: "Is This Fear Protecting Me or Limiting Me?"

Some fear is useful—it keeps us from walking into traffic. But most of our daily fears? They're just limiting us. They're keeping us small when we're meant to be expansive.

3. Make the Decision Before the Moment

You can't negotiate with fear in real-time—it's too fast, too primal. But you can decide ahead of time who you want to be. In my case, I can decide: "I'm the kind of person who assumes good intentions until proven otherwise." Then, when the moment comes, I already know what to do.

4. Act While Afraid

This is the key. Don't wait for the fear to go away. It won't. Take action, and your body will follow. Your hands stop shaking when you decide to jump—not before.

5. Chip Away at It Daily

Overcoming fear isn't a single heroic act. It's a daily practice. It's showing up to write the vulnerable blog post. It's having the difficult conversation. It's introducing yourself to the neighbor. Small actions, repeated, reshape who we are.

What This Means for Leaders

Here's where this connects to the work Samira and I do at Hyphens and Spaces, and why I'm so passionate about it:

Great organizational culture is built by leaders who have learned to act despite their fears.

Think about it. The leader who's afraid of conflict avoids the hard conversations—and dysfunction festers. The leader who's afraid of vulnerability never admits mistakes—and trust erodes. The leader who's afraid of change keeps doing what's comfortable—and the organization stagnates. The leader who's afraid of difference keeps hiring people just like them—and innovation dies.

Fear doesn't just limit us as individuals. When leaders carry unexamined fears into their organizations, those fears become cultural norms. They become "the way we do things here." They become the ceiling on what's possible.

I've seen it. I've worked under leaders who made fear-based decisions and watched talented people leave. I've also worked under leaders who pushed past their fears—who had the courage to be vulnerable, to admit mistakes, to embrace change, to champion difference. Those organizations felt different. They thrived.

The difference wasn't in the absence of fear—it was in the willingness to name it, examine it, and decide when it was protecting them versus when it was limiting them. It was in creating space for people to be human, imperfect, and still growing. It was in building teams that could navigate complexity together instead of avoiding it.

And here's what became clear to me in that Mombasa stairwell: The same choice I faced with my neighbor is the same choice leaders face every day. Will you let fear have the final word, or will you write what comes next?

The Aha

So here's what I want to leave you with—the thing that crystallized for me through this entire experience:

The person on the other side of your fear might be the exact thing you need.

That neighbor I was initially afraid of? When I finally found the courage to approach him, to be vulnerable, to apologize—he became exactly what I needed. Not just a pleasant conversation, but a mirror showing me who I could be. A reminder that connection is possible when we choose courage over comfort. A glimpse of the community I might build if we move to Kenya.

I almost missed it. I almost let that initial moment of fear be the end of the story.

But fear wrote the first chapter in that stairwell. I didn't let it write the second one. That chapter began the next day when I decided to act despite my discomfort. When I chose vulnerability over avoidance. When my body was trembling again—not from fear of him, but from fear of admitting my own humanity.

And on the other side of that fear? Connection. Understanding. The kind of conversation that reminds you why you're doing this work in the first place.

Think about how many opportunities we've all missed because we let fear write the story before it even began. How many connections, collaborations, and breakthroughs never happened because we stopped at the first uncomfortable moment instead of pushing through to the second one?

Your best self—the leader you're meant to be, the organization you're meant to build, the relationships you're meant to have, the life you're meant to live—exists on the other side of the decision to act despite your fear.

Not after the fear goes away. Not when you feel ready. Right now. In this moment.

I won't pretend I have this figured out. Every day, I'm still learning what it means to move toward what scares me—in my business, in my relationships, in the way I show up in the world. Some days I get it right. Many days, I don't.

But the stairwell in Mombasa taught me something essential: We don't get to choose whether fear writes the first chapter of our story. It will. That's part of being human. What we do get to choose is whether we let it write the last one.

That choice—that moment when you're still afraid but you decide to act anyway—is where transformation lives. It's where real connection happens. It's where we become the leaders, the partners, the humans we're meant to be.

So I'm asking you: What fears are writing chapters in your story right now? What would it look like to write a different ending? What conversation are you avoiding? What apology needs to be made? What truth needs to be spoken? And what would happen if you chose to act despite the fear—right now, in this moment?

Here's what we know from two decades in this work: The leaders who do their own inner work—who are willing to confront their fears, examine their biases, and act despite their discomfort—are the ones who build exceptional cultures. Not because they have it all figured out, but because they're willing to do the work.

That's exactly what makes our approach at Hyphens and Spaces different. We're not just consultants who prescribe solutions from the outside. Our team of specialists has done—and continues to do—this inner work ourselves. We know what it's like to choose vulnerability over avoidance. We understand the courage it takes to confront the fears that are limiting your organization's potential. And we have the expertise, frameworks, and experience to help you and your leadership team do the same.

If your organization is ready to do this work—the inner and outer work of transformation, confronting the fears that are limiting your potential and building something truly exceptional—we can help. Let's talk.