Choosing Strength Over Fear
- Oct 3, 2025
- 3 min read
By Angelique C. Hamane
I can talk. I can walk into a room full of strangers and start a conversation with just about anyone. I’m a lecturer for goodness sake. I’ve stood in front of more than a hundred students and talked for an hour straight. No problem.
But there’s one place where all of my confidence crumbles. I shrink. My voice shakes. My volume drops. My words turn into gibberish. I want to vomit.
And yet, I had no choice but to stand there . . . and talk.
When my mother died, my siblings and I were disinherited. We couldn’t afford an attorney, so we represented ourselves. As a lecturer, who “talked” for a living (I taught science research writing, activism, and environmental justice and used those same skills to draft a petition to invalidate the trust), I became the spokesperson.
Behind a keyboard, I am powerful. I am eloquent, clear, thorough. I could weave statutes and case law into persuasive arguments like I teach my students to support their facts with peer-reviewed journals. Our petition was persuasive enough to land us in front of a judge.
But standing in court was another story.
The opposing side filed a motion to dismiss, arguing we didn’t have the right to bring the case. Being disinherited, we had no standing. They cited the Barefoot case (Barefoot is the last name of someone who was ruled not to have standing. I thought it literally meant standing…barefoot!) to justify their position.
I prepared as best I could. I memorized probate codes. I practiced in front of the mirror. I rehearsed my lines until I could say them in my sleep. I was ready—like Elle Woods in Legally Blonde marching in with her pink briefcase.
But when the judge called on me, I froze.
My voice was barely audible. My rehearsed sentences broke into fragments.
The judge leaned forward, crossed his arms, and looked right at me. His expression wasn’t stern. It was encouraging. I could feel he truly felt bad for me (I felt bad for myself!). His eyes seemed to say, “Go on. You got this.”
I explained that under Probate Code §48, as biological children, we were “interested persons.” That if the trust was invalid, it should be treated as if it never existed, and intestacy (I stammered here because I couldn’t pronounce the word, but the court reporter smiled and winked at me) would apply. When the judge started to talk, I raised one finger (my meek attempt at raising my hand) and whispered, “Can I add one more thing?” All eyes on me (Oh my God!!). I cited the same Barefoot case the opposing counsel had used to discredit us. I explained that it went to the California Supreme Court, where they ruled Barefoot did have standing.
At least that’s what I said in my head. I don’t know what actually came out.
When it was over, the judge ruled in our favor.
As I walked out (not tall and proud because we’d won that little battle, but wobbly, blurry) into the hallway, my family rushed around me, excited. “You did great,” they told me, “rattling off all those numbers.”
They saw strength where I only felt fear (They said my shaky voice was perfect . . . endearing even).
That’s when I realized strength doesn’t always feel like confidence. It doesn’t always sound polished. And to be honest, I’m not sure I chose strength over fear. Maybe that fear was my strength.
Now, I don’t wait for fear to go away. I carry it with me.
Connect With Angelique
Comments