Fearlessness didn’t just start at the publication of my first novel at 24, experiencing my first plane ride at ten, or taking on a Managing Editor position for a local magazine at 21.

I’d say it started somewhere between eating my favorite cherry-flavored popsicle outside and deciding to climb onto the rooftop of my childhood home. Eighteen months. That’s the age I was introduced to fearlessness, as I left my four-year-old sister’s side, looked adventure in the face, and ultimately wanted to explore.

As my next door neighbor cut his grass, the constant buzz of the lawnmower seemed to hypnotize me, luring me onto uncharted territories, and to the edge of the rooftop where I peered down at him in curiosity.

“Libby! Where are you?” I heard my mother ask.

It had been less than a minute since she’d last checked on my sister and I. Then, I heard a gasp.

“Oh…my…goodness! Mark, come here!”

Giggling uncontrollably, I looked back at the door where my parents now stood in terror, unsure what to do next. I couldn’t understand why my mother was freaking out and my father was doing his best to calm her down. If they made a sudden move, I’d think it was time to play and run; so they gently called my name until my legs had a mind of their own, bringing me back down to safety in their awaiting arms.

Fearlessness—much like your decision in taking the first steps in sharing your story—starts with a desire to achieve and execute the unknown. I believed I could, so I did, and you can too.