The Architecture of Fear
what a root canal taught me about coming home
Have you ever noticed how terror can be an extraordinary teacher?
Last week, I faced something that scared me more than the high seas, more than psychedelic ego death: a root canal.
Here's the thing—I'm no stranger to fear. I've been on multiple sinking boats. I've endured intense physical abuse. I've pulled through bouts with suicide. I was abandoned in a psychiatric ward at eight years old. I've sat with 5-MeO-DMT multiple times.
But this? This had me shaking.
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What fascinates me isn't the fear itself. It's what happens when we meet fear within the right container. Because what unfolded in that endodontist's office taught me something profound about safety, presence, and the journey home to ourselves.
Let me explain.
The moment I walked into that office for the preliminary exam, something shifted. The doctor who would soon drill deep holes into my tooth greeted me with sincere eye contact, humor, and genuine welcome. Immediate trust. The staff carried that same energy—a palpable mix of competence and care.
When I returned the next morning for the procedure, I joked with the anesthesiologist about whether she'd be the one sticking needles in my gums.
"I don't usually tell people that part," she said, slightly perplexed.
As my mouth went numb, we dove into conversations about snowboarding, raising kids, and MDMA. There I was, facing one of my deepest fears, having the time of my life.
What I witnessed next was artistry: The doctor and his assistant moved like expert dancers, completely in flow. She knew what he needed before he needed it. Tool transfers happened like a beautiful dance, all to the strange smell of burning teeth. Their teamwork was impeccable, communication clear, movements precise. Even as they ordered lunch and talked about holiday plans while working deep in my everything, I felt totally taken care of.
Even as the anesthetic wore off and the soreness set in, I remained amazed at the experience.
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Here's what I'm learning about fear:
Most men's work focuses on "turning toward the roar"—facing our fears head-on. And yes, that's vital in the heat of the moment. But it's only half the story.
The other half is about the container in which we face fear.
Most of us relate to fear by avoidance, procrastination, denial, or posturing.
What’s your most habitual method of relating to fear?
Think about it: When have you felt truly safe enough to be scared? To be vulnerable? To not know what's coming next?
Maybe it was:
In a men's circle where everyone just got it
With a therapist who saw beneath your story
In ceremony where the medicine met you exactly where you were
With a partner who loved you through your messiness
The container matters as much as the courage.
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Three Core Practices for Working with Fear:
Resource Inventory
Before facing any fear, pause and take stock:
What internal resources do you have? (breath, body wisdom, past experiences of courage)
What external resources are available? (trusted friends, professional support, safe spaces)
What spiritual resources can you draw on? (practices, beliefs, connections to something larger)
This isn't about positive thinking—it's about knowing what you're working with.
Assess the Container
When engaging a challenging situation, ask yourself:
What is the situation asking of me?
What can I offer the situation/people involved?
What would happen if I named my fear?
What would happen if I didn’t?
The Return Protocol
When fear hits and you notice yourself leaving:
Name it: "I'm noticing I'm disconnecting"
Track it: Where does your awareness go? Into your head? Into shutdown? A thousand miles away?
Choose one anchor: Your breath. The sound of your feet. The feeling of your hands.
Practice returning, again and again.
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The Deeper Territory
There's something profound about having a container within which to turn toward fear. A container that meets you, attunes to you, and says, "We're going to do this uncomfortable thing—together."
This could look like a 30-second conversation with yourself in the car, or an MDMA deep dive with your partner over the course of a day. Or an endodontist’s office, at it were.
Because here's what I've noticed in my work with men: There's often something beneath the immediate fear. Maybe it's a way we've been victimized. Maybe it's harm we've caused. Maybe it's a truth we've been too scared to face.
There comes a point when not looking at it becomes more painful than looking at it. That's often when men find their way to this work.
But sometimes being ready to look isn't enough. We need the right container—the men's group, the ceremony, the therapist, whatever it may be—that can hold us as we look.
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Let's talk about “safety.”
No one is ever truly safe. An airplane could fall on your head at any moment. The boat could sink. Humans succumb to being shitty to each other.
So maybe safety isn't about the absence of danger. Maybe it's about being resourced. Having resilience. Knowing how to come home to yourself when everything goes sideways.
When the boat's sinking, where are you? A thousand miles away, avoiding, dissociating, denying? Or present, scared but resourced, doing what needs to be done?
When the captain says, "Hey, I know our boat's sinking. I know this is scary. But I got you"—something shifts. No man is an island—remember that? Our relationships matter. When they’re intact, whether with each other or with the natural world, we become a little more capable of facing what's in front of us.
Of coming back to ourselves.
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Because that's really what this is all about.
We're not trying to get anywhere in this life. We're not trying to achieve some perfect state of fearlessness, enlightenment, mastery, or masculine prowess.
[Ed. note: If you—yes, you—are, in this moment, actually trying to get somewhere other than this moment, this body, this particular set of thoughts, emotions, sensations, memories, quirks, please report your progress in the comment section at the end of this post. We’d love to hear how that’s working out.]
We're just practicing coming back to ourselves. Again and again. So we can meet life in the next moment. And the next.
Sometimes that looks like facing a root canal. Sometimes it looks like sitting in circle with other men. Sometimes it looks like diving deep with plant medicines. Sometimes it looks like showing up for our partners when we'd rather run, shut down, or pretend everything is okay.
The container changes. The practice remains the same: Find your center. Feel the fear. Come home.
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Questions for Reflection:
What scares you most right now?
What would the ideal container look like to face that fear?
Who do you trust to hold space for your fear?
What's beneath the immediate fear?
How do you know when you've found the right container?
Where do you go when fear hits?
What brings you back?
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Practice for This Week:
Choose one small fear—nothing overwhelming. Notice what happens in your body when you think about it. Then ask yourself:
What resources do I have to face this?
What container would help me face it?
What's one small step I could take toward it?
Remember: The goal isn't to be fearless. The goal is to build capacity to stay present with fear, to know how to come home to ourselves, to trust that we can handle what comes.
Share your experiences in the comments. Your journey might light the way for another.
The medicine is in knowing we're not alone in this.