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Thanks for stopping by. My name is Torre DeRoche and I’m a fearful adventurer …

You often hear about courageous humans who climb Everest without oxygen, who circle the world on a simple bicycle, or who swim the Bering Straight with nothing but a bathing suit, goggles, and extremely shrunken genitals. Conquerors. Pioneers. Fearless super heroes.

I am not one of them.

Rife with phobias, but unwilling to be stopped by fear, I engage in daring adventures, hopeful that I’ll one day be miraculously cured of anxiety. Meanwhile, I blog honest accounts of my journey and the realizations I have along the way. I hope to inspire others to face fears, follow dreams and proudly let their fear flags fly. Subscribe >>

I live in Melbourne, Australia, with a mini fox terrier cursed by small-dog syndrome and …

I have a book coming out! (News soon.)

Here’s how the story unfolded:

At age 24, I found myself bored with my safe, easy career life, so I packed my bags and left my Australian home for a year of independent fun in San Francisco.

I had no intention of getting myself into a relationship, but by mistake I fell for a 31-year old Argentinean man who had a humble sailboat and a dream to set off exploring the world.

Old 'Amazing Grace' – born before me in 1979

When he offered to chaperone me back to Australia on a year-long voyage, via a string of tropical islands, I said, “No way!” Terrified and prone to seasickness, I couldn’t imagine anything worse that crossing the world’s largest ocean on a tiny boat. But, eight months after our first fling after meeting in a bar, the time came for him to set off on his planned adventure, and I had two choices: head into watery oblivion with him, or watch the man I was in love with sail away forever.

Lured by the South Pacific islands – which would act as stepping stones between the US and Australia – I swallowed my fear and jumped aboard. I was 26 at that time. Somewhere mid-Pacific, I found myself adrift in a storm on a leaky sailboat struggling to keep an old boat, a new relationship, and my floundering sanity afloat …

And so, the Fearful Adventurer was born:

How to snorkel when you're afraid of sharks.

Trivia for your voyeuristic pleasure

Before I quit my day job to write my book, I ran my own graphic design and illustration business. I got to watch my graphics circle around Melbourne city on an iconic tram.

I have two passports. My Californian parents moved to Australia before I was born. My dad is a horror movie scriptwriter by profession, and my mum is a country and bluegrass singer with an obsession for babies and small (baby-sized) animals.

My bohemian parents raised their six daughters with the following recipe:

• A tiny pinch of 1950s Mad Men style tradition for good measure
• Four cups of 1960s – 1970s love, peace, leafy herbs, and liberation
• A mash-up of Americana, Mexicana, Australiana, and Cajun Louisiana
• One cup of Appalachian hillbilly (cue banjo)
• Two spoonfuls of white suburban domesticity
• A handful of musical abuse, mostly bluegrass in nature

Mum pregnant with her first baby at 18. Dad with his new surfboard baby.

Put in blender and set to high, while drizzling a steady flow of horror movies, a range of house pets, and an assortment of bizarre family friends that includes (but is not limited to) musicians, artists, writers, scammers, losers, mentally unstable freaks, hippies, vomiting party animals, straight-laced nurses, cross-dressers, undercover detectives, directors, Hollywood stars, and drug addicts.

Pour mixture into huge rustic childhood home that is constructed from cedar wood, gum trees, book towers, hand-crafted stain-glass windows, cigarette smoke, movie props, spilt beer, writer’s tension, loud music, love and happiness, and a thousand huntsman spiders holding hands.

Place in oven on high. Bake.

If you’ve followed the recipe, you should end up with a child who grows up to be neurotic, quirky, compassionate, mostly happy, somewhat confused, creatively inspired, daring, controlling, an explorer of life, a lover of whimsy, an obsessive perfectionist, and a sufferer of generalized anxiety disorder (with a vomit phobia).

Yep, that pretty much covers it.