That one time I ran away from home.

At the age of twelve and in the seminary, we had been given permission to go home for confirmation, a rite of passage for Catholics.

That morning, I opened my eyes and jumped up with excitement, bathed, dressed, and sat wide-eyed in church, expectant of my homecoming.

The day passed by in a jiffy till I was throwing my legs on the long trail out of school, ducking my head below and behind, and taking extended strides that resembled forward lunges.

I remember crossing the big black gate and breathing the freedom of the road, the breeze of the evening tide teasing my face.

There were no cars, but I was not alone. At least nine other students were marching with me.

I hastened my legs to get away from the scratchy feeling of fear, but there are things you cannot run away from.

The school was hidden within a small village surrounded by thick evil forests, so for 5 kilometres, there were only half-completed empty houses and no sign of civilization.

When we reached the town, we sighted a representative of our school nearing us with a car.

Our hearts fell out of our mouths, and we dived inside the bushes and hid ourselves, holding hands together and shivering.

We continued our journey this way, crouching and peeking at intervals to see if some hidden foe had spotted us.

It was the first daredevil act I ever did, and it opened doors to other acts of similar fashion.

When it was time to return to school, I started shuffling with cold feet because the truth of my actions was banging in my brain.

My mum, with loving urgency and kindness in her voice, helped me pack my things.

“Go and bathe,” she said, “the car will come to pick you soon.”

I grumbled a word or two, opened the door, and strolled straight into the parlor, staring the hallway down.

Then I escaped through the back door and accelerated with no plan in mind, taking the first turn away from the road that I saw.

I had no idea where I was going. I just knew I had to abscond.

I pondered the people on the road and concluded they were watching my story. Every laugh I heard made me feel a little shame. Every loud-speaking voice seemed to judge me.

Nighttime approached, and I realized I had no money and was thirsty.

But I never stopped for a moment to sit down.

When it was too dark to see my hand in front of my face, I finally retraced my steps back home.

And It was not funny when I arrived. They glared at me, and asked if I was possessed, sat me down in the middle of what resembled King Arthur’s round table.

But when I returned to school, nobody punished me for anything.

At the end of the day, I had done nothing wrong. It was just my upbringing that frightened me.

I was too used to living in fear.

There are a lot of things our upbringing has taught us over the years. Made us develop automatic reflexes to particular triggers.

Rather than changing our mindset, we, first of all, do not acknowledge it and, as a result, do not even try to fix it.

I saw a tweet about the trauma that comes with fighting your way through life. About how you begin to see life as a struggle where there isn’t even one.

Everything becomes for us a conquest, and then life will take the same shape and become even more stressful.

You have to deliberately overcome this.

Embrace ease, and leave the war zone.

Separate yourself from denying your happiness by overlooking the things that make it so, or by clinging to the fear that is at the corner of your thoughts.

Don’t feel because you are used to having a bad life, that good things cannot happen to you.

Or because good things are happening to you, that bad things are hanging around the corner.

Your thoughts end up reflecting your life and can easily affect your actions.

So face each new day with the belief that you’ve got this and that no matter what happens, you will not live in fear.

It’s AprilCentaur once again, your forever best friend.

And remember, like me, that empathy will make life smoother.