I was born fearless.

My earliest memory proves it. When I was 18 months old my family was visiting a local park with another family. I was with my dad, as I always was, because I preferred being with him. I think I must’ve preferred him because he let me explore instead of trying to keep me in his pocket and “safe.”

Well, his attitude on child-rearing on this particular day left me with a permanent memory that he swears is the root of my creativity.

I remember being on the dock overlooking the river. It was a lazy river, slowly meandering past the dock, little swirls forming around the pylon. I don’t remember jumping in.

As I open my eyes in my memory, I can see the flotsam passing gently, the sun filtering through the murky water, the wave of the plants striving to reach the surface. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t cold. I just remember being fascinated by this new underwater world.

I remember looking up and seeing the dark silhouette of my dad and his friend on the dock. He wasn’t panicked—he was smiling like he knew that I had discovered magic—a new world full of possibilities. His hand broke the surface of the water and reached for me. I reached back.

I can remember my mom yelling at him for not watching me and me holding tight to him, the deep even tone of his voice contrasted with the high-pitched panic in hers.

I was born fearless—but taught to fear.