At Parkwood Studios, we don’t exactly live in snake country. And thank goodness for that. In thirteen years, I’ve only encountered two — very different situations, but both met with the same reaction: pure, primordial, full-body fear.

In the moment, that kind of fear is unmistakable. It hits hard, fast, and without apology. But once the adrenaline settles, I find the whole thing curiously fascinating. Why do snakes tap so deeply into something ancient and instinctive within us?

Let me explain by way of two stories.

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Snake #1: The Suzuki Surprise

Thirteen years ago, our family SUV was a Suzuki XL7. Not a great vehicle, but it got the job done. We had just returned from a weeklong August beach trip, arriving home late and unloading in the dark.

The next morning, coffee brewing, I wandered out to finish clearing out the car — only to find the rear driver’s-side door wide open.

Break-in? Unlikely.
Overtired-parent error? Far more probable.

I leaned in to assess the situation. Humidity had crept into the leather seats. A candy wrapper sat in the footwell. And then I saw it — a long, slender reptile wedged between the seat and the doorframe, motionless, its glossy eyes fixed on mine.

Everything in me froze.

I backed away, grabbed the closest tool available — my old Ping Eye2 pitching wedge — and crept back toward the “intruder.” After a couple cautious taps, I managed to dislodge it onto the driveway.

It landed with a click. Strange.

That’s when I realized two things:
1. The snake was fake.
2. My fear was real.

It was a toy. A beach-shop souvenir. Complete with a detachable head that served as an ink pen.

I laughed — at myself, at the absurdity, and at the unmistakable relief that washed over me.

Sometimes the danger is fake, but the fear is genuine.

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Snake #2: The Espresso Encounter

Fast-forward thirteen years to another August morning. I was up early to take my daughter’s RAV4 in for an oil change. The espresso machine hummed its encouragement as I shuffled down the hallway.

Then I saw it.

A thick, black, very real snake stretched across the hardwood floor near the kitchen — slowly writhing and absolutely not invited.

My first reaction: absolutely not.
My second: still absolutely not.
My third: oh no — I’m barefoot.

Fear hit me like a lightning strike.

I knew two things immediately:
1. This snake had to go.
2. I had no time to retrieve tools without risking it disappearing into the house.

So, against every natural instinct I possess, I lunged down and grabbed its tail with my non-dominant hand.

Barefoot, half-awake, summer shorts, an old T-shirt — I dashed through the house with my arm fully extended, sprinting toward the garage. I hit the opener, burst into the morning light, dodged cars in the driveway, and executed an Olympic discus-style spin that sent the snake thirty yards into the woods.

I have no idea if snakes have GPS. I hope not.

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Two Snakes. One Truth.

What struck me afterward was how my body reacted the same way both times — even though one snake was fake and one was real.

Fear didn’t know the difference.

Fear doesn’t pause to analyze. It doesn’t offer nuance. It doesn’t say, “Hang on — let’s gather the facts.” Fear just reacts.

Sometimes that reaction protects us. Sometimes it misleads us. Often it does both.

And that’s exactly what I explored with Executive Leadership Coach Lindsay Yellin in my latest episode of The Main Thing Podcast.

We talked about fear — how it shows up, how it distorts our perception, and why choosing possibility is almost always the wiser path.

And for the record… Lindsay still doesn’t know about the snakes. Yet.