To the One who Worries

Dearest friend,

I know well the weight you carry right now. The constant hum beneath your ribs, the quiet rehearsal of every worst-case scenario looping in your mind like a soundtrack you never meant to play on repeat.

We call it preparation. Readiness. A safeguard. We believe if we run the numbers enough times, if we account for every possibility, we can stay ahead of loss, of failure, of regret.

Yet worry has never been a fortress. It is only a cage.

You have spent years perfecting this mechanism within yourself, believing that if you could just do things right, if you could avoid the misstep, the mess, the risk, the fallout, the moment of being seen as too much or not enough, then you would be safe.

But perfectionism is not the pursuit of excellence; it is the performance of worthiness.

It is an inheritance, a contract signed in childhood, when security and belonging was something you had to earn. You learned—early and often—that love or safety had terms. That to be included, to be chosen, to be enough, you had to be careful. You had to be pleasing. You had to vigilantly plan for every possible outcome. You had to anticipate the needs of those around you before they ever named them. And so, you became fluent in worry—worry felt like control. And control felt like the price of admission into love and safety.

But I really need you to hear this: Worry is not what keeps us safe. Worry is not what keeps us loved. Worry is not what saves our livelihood.

Worry binds us to the very things we fear.

No wonder you hesitate to let it go. Worry has become your companion, your watchtower, your way of proving to yourself and the world that you are good, that you are highly responsible, that you are trying. And yet, ask yourself:

Has it ever delivered what it promised?

Has worry ever made the future more certain? Has it ever built the kind of belonging and safety that feels like home?

You deserve more than a life spent bracing for impact. You are allowed to release the thought that if you stop worrying, everything will fall apart. You do not have to atone for your existence by being the one who always thinks ahead, who always smooths the edges, who always carries the unspoken fears of those around you. You do not have to prove your goodness by exhausting yourself in vigilance.

Even when the world around you says otherwise.

What if, instead of worry, we anchor ourselves in something deeper? What if, instead of preparing for the worst, you softened into trust—not blind trust, not naive optimism, not spiritual bypassing, but the kind of trust that knows you will meet yourself in every moment, no matter what comes?

This is not about denying our fears. This is about knowing that fear does not have to lead.

You are worthy of the kind of love that does not require you to be perfect. You are worthy of a belonging that does not demand you carve yourself down to fit. You are worthy of the kind of safety you build within yourself to shelter you within every kind of life weather. You are worthy of the abundance you cannot quite see just yet. You are worthy of peace—not because you have earned it, but because it was always yours.

So take a breath. And another. And one more. Let the knots of worry loosen, even just a little. I am doing the very same.

Yes—it’s hard. And we can do this part too.

The life you want is not built in the space between catastrophes or ever-shifting world events.

It is built in the space between breaths, between choices.

Always with you in this practice,

Practice Postscript

The Reflection:

Worry often feels like preparation, but it is actually an inheritance, especially one that may have served as a survival mechanism in childhood. What would it mean to acknowledge the role it once played while also recognizing that you no longer need it to create safety and belonging?

The Everyday Practice:

The next time you find yourself spiraling into worry, pause. Place one hand over your heart, the other over your belly. Breathe in deeply for four counts, hold for four, release for four. Ask yourself:

“What does this feeling want from me right now—attention, space, breath, or something else? And what is the kindest way I can show up for myself right now?”

Let your answer come from a place of self-trust rather than self-protection.

Living in the Questions:

“What would trusting myself in this moment look like—just a little more than before?”

“Where in my life have I walked through uncertainty before—and what did I find on the other side?”

“What if trust is the doorway and worry is the dead end?”

“How can I better show up for (and take care of) the parts of me who are scared, even as the questions remain?”

“What if I didn’t have to earn my belonging through vigilance?”