I was four years old when my father inadvertently introduced me to fear. It was a true Jacksonville, Florida summer day—hot, humid, sticky, and sunny. I begged my mother to let me play outside. She relented, limiting me to the front porch. “Honey—watch her, will you,” she kind of asked, kind of demanded. Sneaking behind me and swooping me up in his arms, my father led the way outdoors.

His slender arms held me tightly. He tickled me as we walked toward the front door. Placing me gently on my tricycle, he warned me to be careful. “Don’t go too fast,” he said, giving me an initial push.

I rode with pride while he trimmed bushes. I watched him through the dark gray screen that enclosed the porch as I rode around in circles that probably should have made me dizzy. He made funny faces every time I turned around the corner. Sweat rolled down his face as he watered the bushes. I continued riding.

Out of nowhere, sharp, stinging, icy cold water collided with my back. The mere shock of the moment took my breath away. Terrified, I closed my eyes, trying to stop the moment. The tricycle, not knowing any better, kept riding—straight through the screen, off the porch, and onto freshly cut bushes and exposed limbs.

Salty tears painted my face, and crimson red blood painted my left leg, pooling on top of my knee. My father, realizing the danger of his joke, repeated apologies like a hopeful vagabond, begging for forgiveness. He only wanted to splash me with a little water.

“I’m sorry. Oh my God, I’m so sorry, baby!” he reiterated.

“Call 911!” my mother exclaimed.

“I’m sorry,” my father said frozen in his apology. My mom rushed toward us, grabbing me out of his sweaty arms.

“It’s all right baby,” my mom said, comforting the both of us. The doctor confirmed the obvious: I would survive. The doctor applied pressure to stop the bleeding, but nothing stopped the fear from settling into my heart.

My father kept apologizing—all the way home and for plenty of days after the incident. The panicked sound of his voice and the sincerity of his apologies etched verbal reminders of his love into my young memory. Despite my parents’ love, the fear of getting hurt remained, showing up every time I was forced to face an unexpected challenge.

My parents’ divorce. Rejection. A failed engagement. A frightening lump. Unemployment. Grief. All of it has led to me where I am today. Healing. Blooming. Growing. Thriving.

The doctor who stitched me up that day was right. I would survive—that injury and so much more. And that’s what I tell myself when life tries to get me down. I will survive, grow, thrive, and bloom. Just like the bushes I fell into that day.