A reflection on fear, presence, and learning to just be
I find it difficult to live in the now.
Most of the time, I live in the future — tangled up in what-ifs, worst-case scenarios, and imaginary unravelings of a life I love. I think about all the things that could go wrong… all the fears that may never come true but still take up too much space in my mind.
Anxiety does that. It steals the present to pay for a future that hasn’t happened.
This is what anxiety feels like to me:
It feels like lying awake at night, your mind too busy to sleep.
It feels like every emotion is turned up too loud — happiness, sadness, anger — all amplified and relentless.
It feels like your brain won’t stop spinning: the next task, the next worry, the next imagined disaster.
It feels like being terrified of losing the very things you love most. Not because there’s reason to — just because the thought of loss sits there like a shadow.
It feels like never slowing down. Never breathing deep. Never letting yourself fully enjoy what is… because you’re already bracing for what might be.
It feels lonely. Even when you’re not alone.
And yet — even through the fog of worry — I’m still grateful. For my life. For the people in it. For the small, ordinary moments that make everything worthwhile.
I want more of those moments. The laughter, the lightness, the presence.
I want to laugh with my son on a random Saturday night. I want to sing lullabies and dance barefoot in the living room. I want to stop chasing disaster long enough to chase joy.
I want to be here. Not in the next worry. Not in the next what-if. But here. Now.
I don’t quite know how to just be.
But I’m learning.
And I’m trying.
Because if I don’t learn to be here now… I’ll miss everything I was so scared to lose.
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