I'm terrified of bugs and I travel with sprays, lotions

Freema Agyeman speaks with striking honesty when she confesses: “I’m terrified of bugs and I travel with sprays, lotions, potions; the lot. I have to check the room before I go to sleep and if I come across a bug and fail to remove it I have to sleep in a separate room as I’m paranoid that I’ll be taken advantage of as I sleep.” These words, while on the surface a tale of fear, reveal something far deeper: the nature of human vulnerability, the anxieties that accompany us even in places of rest, and the unseen battles that shape our lives.

Her fear of bugs is symbolic. The bug, small and seemingly insignificant, becomes in her mind a giant enemy. This teaches us that it is not always the great lions of life that torment us, but often the smallest of creatures, the unseen irritations, the hidden shadows. It is a reminder that fear does not always match the size of its object; the power of fear lies not in the bug itself, but in the imagination that magnifies it. Thus, her words speak to the universal truth: each soul has its own battleground, its own terrors, invisible to others yet fierce within.

She arms herself with sprays, lotions, potions—all the weapons she can gather to wage war against her dread. This is the image of the human spirit preparing itself for survival. Just as the ancient warrior sharpened his sword and shielded his body, so she girds herself with remedies and protections. Though some may smile at the seeming triviality of such armor, the ancients would understand: courage often begins with preparation, and even fear can be lessened when the body feels defended. Her sprays and potions are not mockery, but talismans of strength.

The ritual of checking the room before sleep is rich with meaning. Sleep is the hour of surrender, when the body lays down its guard and the soul drifts into dreams. To one who fears the unseen, this surrender feels perilous. Her careful checking mirrors the ancient practice of placing sentries at the gates, or of a parent checking on their child before nightfall. It is the act of vigilance, the attempt to bring order to chaos, to ensure safety before entering the vulnerability of rest.

Her confession of paranoia—that she fears being “taken advantage of” as she sleeps—reveals a deeper truth about fear: that it is rarely about the object itself, but about the loss of control. The bug becomes a symbol of invasion, of helplessness in the face of the unknown. Here her honesty shines as wisdom: she shows us how fears, though irrational, spring from the deepest parts of the human heart, from our terror of being powerless when most defenseless.

History gives us many mirrors to this. Consider the great Roman general Scipio, who even in victory was said to sleep lightly, fearing betrayal from within his own camp. Though the enemies outside had been defeated, he still guarded himself against the unseen dangers of night. Just as Scipio placed watchmen, Freema places her sprays and her rituals. Both are born from the same root: the awareness that peace is fragile, and vigilance is the price of safety.

The lesson is profound: do not scorn the fears of others, for every soul fights its own hidden war. What may seem small to you may be a giant to another. And for yourself, know that fear often reveals where you feel powerless. To overcome it, arm yourself—whether with knowledge, preparation, or ritual—and seek to transform fear into awareness, paranoia into caution, and dread into resilience.

Practical counsel follows: examine your fears. Do not bury them, but name them as Freema does. Arm yourself with the tools that make you feel safe, but also seek to confront the root of your fear. Practice vigilance, but also learn the art of surrender, trusting that not every shadow hides an enemy. For peace comes not from the absence of bugs, but from the strengthening of the soul. And in this strengthening, you may one day find rest even in the darkest night.