Kaede was a cognitive neuroscientist who had spent years studying how the brain responds to uncertainty. She knew the science well: when people face something truly new, the amygdala — the brain’s threat detector — lights up, releasing stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline. This is natural. But what most people didn’t realize was how that initial fear isn’t a direct reaction to danger — it’s the brain’s protest against not knowing. It’s the nervous system begging for familiarity.
Kaede often quoted a phrase she coined in her lectures:
“Fear of newness is stress caused by the urge to become familiar with something new being blocked.”
In her lab at Sakura City University, she studied a unique approach called predictive processing theory — the idea that the brain is constantly making predictions about the world and updating them with experience. The fewer the predictions about something new, the stronger the fear response becomes. The uncertainty grows because the brain can’t simulate what comes next.
Kaede had seen this in everyone from first-year students to aging CEOs. But she also saw something else: fear begins to fade once the unfamiliar starts to make sense. As humans gather information, form expectations, and test those expectations against reality, something remarkable happens — the brain’s stress response quiets, replaced by curiosity.
One spring morning, Kaede began a new personal project: a vertical hydroponic garden on her apartment balcony. She had always admired the sleek futuristic towers in tech expos — plants grown in clean air with efficient nutrient systems — but she had never built one. The instructions were half in English, half in technical jargon, and the app that controlled the lighting used an unfamiliar interface.
For days, she stalled.
Her own concept of “fear of newness” showed up. She felt a psychological barrier. She wanted to build the garden — but she couldn’t yet predict the steps ahead. The urge to become familiar was blocked by the unknown.
But then she did something she taught her students: she chunked the unfamiliar into measurable steps.
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Learn one component at a time. First, the water reservoir. Then the nutrient solution. Then the LED lighting schedule.
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Set up mini-tests. What happens if you adjust pH? What if you change lighting from 14 hours to 16?
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Log outcomes. Track changes in plant growth, leaf hue, stem thickness — all measurable data.
As she engaged in this structured exploration, something shifted. The fear diminished. Her amygdala stopped buzzing. Each tiny success — a seed sprouting, a leaf unfurling — repainted her expectations.
Kaede realized that her fear had been a shadow cast by the urge to understand. Once she could predict even the small parts of the system, the stress evaporated.
By early summer, the balcony garden flourished — lettuce, basil, and tiny cherry tomatoes glowed under programmable LEDs synced to sunrise and sunset. Friends began asking her for tips.
One day, her student Riku came by, scrolling his phone anxiously. A global AI tool had just released a new feature that could auto-generate research summaries, and Riku was overwhelmed by the choices. “I don’t know where to start,” he confessed. “It feels like all these tools are moving too fast.”
Kaede saw the familiar pattern. She smiled and said, “Fear of new things isn’t because they’re bad…it’s because your urge to get familiar is stuck. You’re trying to run before you’ve walked.”
She walked with him through the steps she’d used for her garden: break it down, test it, update your expectations. Riku’s breathing eased as he realized his brain was simply craving predictability, not rejecting novelty.
By autumn, Riku was exploring the new AI features confidently and even teaching others how to harness them without stress.
And Kaede’s hydroponic garden? It became a metaphor — not just a tower of thriving greens but a living lesson in neuroscience: fear is temporary when curiosity and understanding take root.
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms
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