Whenever I head out on one of my solo trips or launch into a new adventure, someone inevitably says, “You’re so brave.” And that is the moment when all of my ancestors—and definitely my sister—start laughing so hard they practically choke on their fine boxed cabernet. Stephanie? Brave? BA-HA-HA-HA-HA!

The truth is, I am not naturally brave. Or confident. I’m not even mildly daring. As a baby, I was afraid of grass. Yes, the stuff lawns are made of. When I was five, the scene where they reveal the Grinch’s heart is two sizes too small made me physically tremble. But also … honestly, Dr. Seuss? That was aggressive.

I once got stuck—emotionally and literally—in a fun house at the Winnebago County Fair. I couldn’t handle the ever-so-slowly rotating exit tube, so I laid down inside it, crying, arms outstretched, begging to be rescued as strangers gingerly stepped over my weeping body. My parents? They left. They didn’t even pretend to help. Probably because I was 13.

That scaredy-cat girl is still living inside me. But luckily, she’s got company. Someone who takes me by the hand, throws on some lipstick, and says, “We’re doing this.” This person is the one behind a lot of my wow moments. She makes the reservations and packs our bags.

She’s not my sister, although my sister does those things, too, with a dose of love (and a sprinkle of sarcasm). The person I’m talking about is Stevie. And Stevie … is … me. Only sassier. Braver. And less likely to cry in fun houses.

Stevie is a dreamy throwback to 20-something Stephanie. She’s who I used to be before marriage and motherhood and to-do lists took over. She’s the woman who used to change her hair on a whim, Farrah Fawcett feathers one month and a platinum pixie the next. She wore eyeliner without occasion, kept a full-size can of hairspray in her purse, traveled solo for work, and made her parents uncomfortable with her career aspirations. Oh, and she wore a leopard-print coat.

Then life got safe. Comfortable. Predictable. And Stevie? She and her fashionable jacket no longer had a place. She became lost in the shuffle of laundry, soccer practice, and parent-teacher conferences.

But I’m in a new chapter of life now, and Stevie is back, confident, bold, and more mischievous than ever. She reminds me I can and should do fun things, even when fun things seem like hard things. And I love her for it.

I didn’t always have an alter ego. But then I discovered Meg Niman’s Alter Ego Project, and suddenly I had a name for that voice in my head that tells me to live large. Meg says, “An alter ego is one of those other sides of yourself—we just bother to define it, understand its power, and name it.”

Here’s how it works: You pick something you want to do, invent a version of yourself who can do it, and start practicing being them. When I’m feeling unsure or spiraling into “What was I thinking?!” territory, I channel Stevie, who gives me a nudge and sometimes a swift kick in the butt.

Like that time in Italy. We were on a sailboat off the Amalfi Coast, and the kids were swimming in water so deep blue it looked fake. I sat on the ladder, paralyzed. The sea was gorgeous but dark and mysterious. I was sure it was teeming with squid and sea monsters. I lost my nerve, and climbed back onto the deck, telling myself, “It’s fine. I’ll swim next time.”

That’s when Stevie stepped in, rolled her eyes, and shouted (in my head, of course), “For fuck’s sake, Stephanie. You are ON A SAILBOAT. IN ITALY. ON THE ACTUAL AMALFI COAST. You will never be in this exact moment again. Get. In. The. Damn. Water.” So, I did.

And it was exhilarating. And unforgettable. And salty. And guess what? I didn’t get even the slightest nibble from a sea monster. Thank you, Stevie.

So now it’s your turn. You may not realize it, but there’s an alter ego living inside of you, too. What’s their name? What do they want you to do? What do they wear? It’s time for all of us to unleash our inner Stevies, one wow moment at a time.